Page 11 of Taste Test

“But you and Connor have been best friends since you moved here.”

“Yeah, well. Turns out our friendship wasn’t worth shit.

” He stabbed at his risotto like it had personally wronged him.

“I should’ve seen it coming. He always was a snakey fuck.

Even back in first year I knew he couldn’t be trusted, but I let it slide because he was a laugh.

You know, the kind of bloke who always had a story, always made nights out fun.

And even though I knew he was a sneaky maggot I never thought he’d actually do me dirty like that. ”

I’d never particularly liked Connor. Where Jared could be bro-ey and shallow but mostly harmless, Connor had always struck me as calculating. The kind of guy who smiled to your face while figuring out how to get what he wanted behind your back.

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I think you’re better off without both of them. You deserve better.”

“Thanks, Casey. That means a lot.”

There was a beat of quiet, Jared’s blue eyes holding mine across the table. He’d pushed his sleeves up while cooking, and I could see the corded muscle in his forearms, the light dusting of hair that caught the kitchen light. Even in a cheap apron, he looked like he belonged on a magazine cover.

“Though I have to say,” Jared said, that cocky grin spreading across his face, “someone with a crush on me would definitely say I deserve better.”

I rolled my eyes. “I do not have a crush on you.”

“Come on, admit it. You’ve always fancied me a little bit.”

“In your dreams, Sutherland.”

The teasing in his demeanour slipped away. “So what is your type then? What sort of guys were you into back at school?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious. I mean, we’ve been living together for ages and I don’t think you’ve ever told me about your conquests from back home.”

“Conquests? What am I, Napoleon?”

“You know what I mean. Your romantic history. Your sexual awakening. All that good stuff.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I said. “New Plymouth wasn’t exactly a hotbed of gay teen romance.”

“But there must have been someone,” Jared pressed. “Some secret crush or whatever.”

“Why are you so interested in my teenage love life?”

“Because you know all about mine! You’ve met my exes, you’ve heard every dumb hookup story I’ve got. It’s only fair I get some dirt on you.”

Annoyingly, he had a point. I’d been subjected to a full play-by-play of Jared’s romantic adventures ever since we’d started flatting.

“Fine,” I said. “I had a thing for Daniel Morrison.”

“You had the hots for Dipshit Danny?” He laughed. “Oh, bro. That’s tragic.”

“Don’t call him that. And it’s not tragic.”

“But he was so serious and boring. And always banging on about poetry and environmental activism and all that wanky stuff.”

“It wasn’t wanky. He cared about things that mattered.”

“He was pretentious as fuck, Casey. Remember when he tried to get the school to ban hot chips from the canteen?”

“That was a legitimate health concern.”

Jared snorted. “Half the rugby team wanted to murder him.”

“Maybe that says more about the rugby team than it does about Daniel.”

He shook his head, still smirking. “I can’t believe you fancied him. Of all the guys in our year, you went for the vegan poet with a saviour complex.”

“He wasn’t a poet.”

“He entered, like, five writing comps a year. He might as well have had a beret and a fountain pen.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. If you’re into that sort of thing. But seriously, you could’ve done way better.”

I scoffed. “I doubt it. Pretentious or not, he was still way out of my league.”

Jared let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking like you’re some kind of troll who should be grateful for scraps. Like any attention you get is a fluke.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You do this thing where you assume you’re not good enough before anyone else even gets to decide.”

“Maybe because experience has taught me to be realistic.”

“Experience?” Jared raised an eyebrow. “Mate, you barely put yourself out there.”

“I do put myself out there.”

“Swiping half-heartedly on dating apps doesn’t count.”

“Not all of us can just exist and have people throw themselves at us, Jared.”

“That’s not... look, can I say something without you getting all pissy?”

“Probably not. But go on.”

He looked right at me and said, “You’re good-looking, you know that? Like, legit. No homo, but you are.”

“You what?”

“For real. You’ve got that whole dark-haired, handsome vibe going on. Good jaw, decent eyes. You’re not a scarecrow anymore, you’ve filled out. Bit of muscle, even. And all that cycling has done wonders for your legs.”

I nearly dropped my fork when I felt his foot slide under the table and brush against my shin, nudging higher until it rested on the knee of my sweatpants.

“You should wear shorts more often,” he said around a mouthful of risotto. “I reckon all the gay dudes in town would gladly line up just to lick those hairy legs of yours.”

My brain stalled somewhere between mortification and heat, frozen until he finally pulled his foot back. He then shovelled in another bite of food, chewed noisily, and kept talking.

“You look a lot like your old man, actually. And Dad reckons your father was a proper looker back in the day. Said he tore up more than a few carpets before he met your mum.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, they used to call him Turbo Tongue. Apparently your dad was a legendary cunt muncher.”

“Don’t be grim. I do not want to hear about my father’s sexual exploits.”

“Why not? It’s impressive! Your old man was basically the campus Casanova. Dad said he had this technique with his tongue where he’d—”

“Stop!” I held up a hand, desperately trying not to picture my mild-mannered English teacher father going down on women with legendary skill. “I’m begging you to stop talking.”

“Fair enough. But my point stands, you’ve got the good Walmsley genes.”

The truth was, it was the Sutherland genes that were the real prize.

From what my dad had told me over the years, Jared’s old man had been the true campus Casanova, shagging his way across half the uni, allegedly pissing razor blades more than once during his degree thanks to his extracurriculars.

But now I wondered if both best mates had spent years simultaneously complimenting and taking the piss out of each other to their eldest sons.

“Thanks, Jared. I think.”

“Oi, I’m not done pumping up your tyres yet.” He pointed his fork at me again. “You’re also funny when you’re not busy tearing yourself down. And you’re smart. Like, proper smart. Not like Danny Morrison, who acted like being a dick made him deep.”

I felt my ears go red. I wasn’t used to this amount of compliments.

“And you know what?” Jared added, “more than one girl I know have asked me for your number.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “You should see their faces when I have to break it to them that you’re madly in love with my dick.”

“You better not have fucking said that!”

He laughed. “Nah, but they are pretty disappointed to find out you’re a devoted lover of cock.

Sarah from my physio class was particularly gutted.

Especially when I told her you’re hung like a porn star.

” He stared at me across the table. I’d forgotten how to chew.

The food lay on my tongue where my answer should have been.

I managed to swallow then choked out: “How would you know what my dick looks like?”

“Mate, I live with you. It’s impossible not to cop an eyeful when you’re shuffling to the loo half-asleep in your jocks. Some mornings it’s like you’re smuggling a cucumber down there.”

“Then what was all that about the other day? Asking me about my dick size and whether it was bigger than yours?”

“I wasn’t asking if you were big. I already knew you were packing. I was asking how big. I wanted to know if the goods matched the advertising.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“What? It’s a compliment! I’m saying you’ve got the full package. Face, body, brain, dick. You just need to stop acting like you don’t.”

“Can we please stop talking about my package?”

“Look, my point is you’re alright, Casey Walmsley. More than alright. Just give yourself some credit for once, aye?”

I stared down at my plate, pretending to be fascinated by the last grains of rice. Mostly I was just trying to hide the stupid smile he’d put on my face.

“That was really good,” I said, pushing my empty bowl aside. “Thanks.”

“No worries. My pleasure.” He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand. “Are you keen for dessert?”

“Look at you, going full domestic goddess.”

His grin grew wry, and there was something playful in the tilt of his brows. “Go set up Netflix. You can pick the show.”

That was a rare honour. Most nights we spent twenty minutes arguing over the remote. I headed into the lounge and flicked through the options until I found something suitably dumb, some American sitcom with a laugh track and minimal emotional investment required.

A few minutes later, Jared appeared in the doorway holding a very familiar small glass.

I stared at him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

“What? You said you wanted dessert.”

“I thought you meant ice cream. Or cake. Something normal people serve after dinner.”

“This is better than ice cream.”

“How is your bodily fluid better than ice cream?”

“It’s fresher. Made to order. Bespoke, you could say.” He held up the glass like he was examining fine wine. “Plus it’s got more protein than a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.”

“That’s not how nutrition works.”

“Isn’t it though? Think about it. This is pure, organic, locally sourced protein. Straight from the tap. Can’t get more farm-to-table than that.”

“You’re deranged.”

“I’m innovative. There’s a difference.” He stepped closer. “Besides, you said you wanted to try it warm.”

“I did not say that.”

“You kind of did. This morning. You said it’d probably be better not so cold.”

“That’s not the same as saying I wanted a fresh serving.”

“Close enough.”

I looked at the glass, then at Jared, and felt that same confused twist in my stomach I’d had this morning. Exasperation. Curiosity. A strange, reluctant kind of intimacy. He was offering it again, not as a joke, not really, but as something private. A gift.

And the worst part? I kind of wanted to accept.

“If I do this,” I said, “you have to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“This doesn’t become a regular thing. I’m not your personal cum disposal unit.”

“I know. This is a one-time dessert experience. Limited edition.”

“And after this, we go back to normal flatmate behaviour. No more gratitude dinners. No more spunking in cups.”

“Deal.”

“And absolutely no more talk about being cum brothers.”

He pulled a sad face. “Even if it’s kind of true?”

“Jared.”

“Alright, alright. Deal.”

I reached for the glass, and he handed it over with way too much ceremony, like I was about to chug holy water instead of semen. It was warm in my hand and it looked fresher, somehow cleaner, than this morning’s batch. Another generous serving too. Clearly Jared had been saving up all day.

“Cheers.” I lifted the glass as if to make a toast, then tipped it back and swallowed the lot.

And yeah... it was better. Smoother. Less jarring. The taste was cleaner, more natural. Like it belonged in me. Which was an insane thing to think, but there it was.

“Better?” Jared asked, eyes locked on mine.

“Way better,” I admitted before I could stop myself.

“I knew it. Temperature makes all the difference.”

“Don’t get ideas.”

“Too late. I’ve got several already. Though if you want seconds, you’ll have to give me ten minutes to restock the kitchen.” He cupped his balls with zero shame. “Takes time to get the ingredients ready, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re a menace,” I said, setting the empty glass on the coffee table and grabbing the remote. “Right. Mindless comedy it is, then.”

“Perfect. My brain’s fried anyway.”

Jared flopped down on the couch next to me, closer than usual, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever this was becoming, it was definitely getting weirder by the day .