Page 27 of Taste Test

The southern end of Hamilton had always felt like home territory to me.

Glenview was one of those suburbs that straddled the line between city and country.

Close enough to town for convenience, far enough out that you could still see proper farmland from your back deck.

The highway to Taranaki cut right through here, which meant every trip home to visit my family took me past the road that led to Suzie’s street.

Her place was classic Kiwi suburbia. Weatherboard bungalow with a decent-sized section, the kind of house that had probably been built in the seventies and lovingly maintained ever since.

The back deck overlooked rolling paddocks where cows grazed in the afternoon sun, and on a clear day you could see Mt Pirongia in the distance.

“It’s so nice hanging out properly,” Suzie said, leaning back in her chair. “And not while you’re pulling espresso shots with some toddler yelling about his fluffie in the background.”

“Agreed,” I said. “It’s also nice not to see you all flustered and juggling textbooks.”

“Don’t talk to me about textbooks,” she groaned. “I’ve still got three chapters of Judith Butler to get through before Monday.”

“But are you enjoying having the house to yourself?”

“Oh, absolutely. Don’t get me wrong, I love my boys, but having a week without two hollow-legged teenagers thundering up and down the hallway? Bliss.”

I laughed. “Must be quiet.”

“It is. I keep expecting to hear the fridge door slam or the shower running for forty-five minutes while one of them sings off-key. I can hear the TV now instead of their gaming headsets blasting gunfire through the walls.”

“Living the dream.”

“Living the dream,” she repeated, and we clinked glasses. “Anyway, tell me about you. How’s work? Is Dash still being a knob?”

“He’s been really good lately.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. He’s stopped bossing me around and, miracle of miracles, he’s finally learned how to aim his piss into the actual toilet bowl.”

“Goodness. Next thing you’ll tell me is he’s been doing some real work for once.”

“He has, believe it or not. Turns up on time, finishes his tasks instead of dumping them on me, and hasn’t tried to make me do his side of the cleaning roster in weeks.”

“I wonder what brought all this on.”

Introducing him to Jared and sucking his cock.

Somehow both those things had recalibrated mine and Dash’s working relationship.

It was less hostile now. Almost friendly.

Functional, even. I’d been half-waiting for the sweaty-balled punk to get prickly about what we’d done together.

Some delayed straight-boy panic or a passive-aggressive slur slipped into conversation.

But aside from saying, twice, how “fucking good” it had been, he’d kept his mouth shut.

He hadn’t bragged. He hadn’t acted all grossed out. And, thank God, he hadn’t asked for a repeat.

Which was a relief. Not because I didn’t want to suck his dick but because I already felt like my plate (or cup, technically) was full. I could only handle drinking one man’s cum at a time. Even if it was served room temperature with a sexy smile.

We didn’t talk about any of that, of course. We just drank.

The bottle got lower. The shadows on the deck stretched longer until day became night and they disappeared entirely, replaced by the pretty glow of solar lights dotting Suzie’s garden like tiny beacons.

The porch lamp switched on automatically, casting a warm amber halo that drew a battalion of moths.

They swarmed in erratic spirals, bumping into each other like drunken uni students on a night out.

Suzie made a half-hearted attempt to bring up one of her assignments, then dropped the topic after two sips and a dramatic groan about Victorian patriarchy and sexual repression.

I told her about a customer who’d ordered an almond milk cappuccino and then asked if the milk had any “real almonds in it.” That story got a full-body wheeze from her and a near wine-spill.

At some point she brought out a packet of Tim Tams. We demolished them without shame, eating them straight from the tray like raccoons at a wine-soaked picnic. She confessed to hate-watching Married at First Sight NZ , and I admitted I’d wanked once to one of the contestants from season two.

By the time the bottle was empty, we were both a little buzzed. Warm, chatty, sprawled in our chairs like we’d melted into them. The sky had gone all lavender and gold behind the hills, and somewhere in the distance, a neighbour’s dog was losing its mind at absolutely nothing.

Then she said it.

The question I’d hoped she was politely ignoring but clearly had just been waiting until I was a few glasses deep to ask.

“Have you swallowed any more of the golden boy’s cum?”

My first instinct was to lie. But I’d just admitted to jerking off over a reality TV contestant who’d cried because his fake wife didn’t like hunting, so instead of dodging the question, I gave her the full update.

I told her how it had gone from being a one-time thing to becoming part of my daily routine. How Jared would ejaculate in the whisky glass I’d nicknamed the cum cup, pass it over like a milkshake, and I’d drain it down the hatch.

She listened without interrupting, wine glass dangling from her fingers as the last of the sunset faded behind the hills. By the time I’d finished sharing with her about my hot mess of a life, she looked equal parts horrified and delighted.

“You need to write a memoir,” she said. “I would read the absolute shit out of it.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking Flat Whites and Filth for the title.”

“ Milk Froth and Man Juice ,” she countered.

“ Grinding Beans and Getting Creamed ,” I shot back.

She laughed and clinked her glass to mine again. “To digestive resilience.”

“To poor life choices,” I said, and we drank.

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment and I found my mind wandering to this morning’s conversation with Jared about our looming graduations and different paths.

“Can I ask you something?” Suzie said eventually.

“Shoot.”

“Do you have a crush on him? On Jared?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know what you’re thinking. Classic gay stereotype, falling for the straight flatmate. But that’s not what this is.” I set my wine glass down harder than necessary. “I’m not that cliché.”

“It wouldn’t be cliché to have feelings for someone attractive who you live with and spend time with,” she said gently. “That’s just human nature.”

“Okay, fine. He’s hot. Obviously he’s hot. The man looks like he was carved by Michelangelo and then taught to play rugby. But that doesn’t mean I like him. Not in that way.”

“But you do think he’s attractive?”

“Of course I think he’s attractive. I’m not blind.

” I picked up my wine again, taking a larger sip than was probably wise.

“But his hotness is overridden by his self-centredness, his vanity, and the fact that he’s basically a giant toddler.

He leaves dirty dishes in the sink for weeks, uses all the hot water, eats my leftovers without asking, and thinks the laundry fairy magically makes his rugby kit clean itself.

He’s a messy pig who assumes the world revolves around him. ”

“And yet you live with him.”

“Because the rent’s cheap and the alternative was living in a shoebox with three other students who’d probably be just as bad.

Trust me, any romantic feelings get killed pretty quickly when you’re scraping someone’s protein powder explosions off the kitchen ceiling for the third time in a week.

And let’s not forget the awkwardness of being his guinea pig for his assignment. ”

“What assignment?”

Fuck. I’d overshared. Thanks a lot wine!

“Nothing,” I said. “Just… uni stuff.”

Suzie gave me that look. The one that said she wasn’t buying my deflection for a second. “Casey. What assignment?”

“It’s not important.”

“If it’s causing awkwardness between you two, it’s important. What kind of assignment?”

I squirmed in my chair, already regretting bringing it up. “He’s got this Sports Science paper. Human Movement and Recovery Techniques. Part of it involves demonstrating massage methods.”

“And?”

“And he needed someone to practice on.”

“Okay… and that’s awkward because?”

“Because it involves being naked. With just a towel. For modesty.”

Suzie’s eyebrows climbed towards her hairline. “He asked you to be his naked massage dummy?”

“It’s for educational purposes.”

“Oh, Casey.” She was trying not to laugh and failing. “That’s either very innocent or very not innocent.”

“It’s totally innocent.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because Jared is straight. Trust me, I know his dating history. He’s hooked up with half the cheerleading squad and most of the netball team.

Plus I accidentally saw his Pornhub watch history once when he left his laptop open.

” I gave an exaggerated shudder. “Let’s just say it was very educational about what straight men find appealing. ”

“Right, but—”

“I’m talking proper categories like ‘Big Tits MILF’ and ‘Teen Blonde Gets Railed.’ Not exactly the browsing habits of someone questioning his sexuality.”

She laughed. “Fair point. But you wouldn’t know for sure unless you made a move on him.”

“I know what you’re doing, woman,” I said, adopting my best Ron Swanson impersonation.

“What?”

“You’re trying to create some sort of gay romance that isn’t there. I’ve seen your Kindle library, Suzie. You’re obsessed with those ‘straight jock falls for his gay best friend’ novels.”

“Guilty as charged,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Someone’s porn habits don’t reveal everything about their sexuality. Maybe he just watches what he thinks he’s supposed to watch.”

“Or maybe he watches it because he likes women. Revolutionary concept, I know.”

“I’m just saying, don’t write off the possibility entirely. Maybe he just wants you to make a move and this massage is his way of giving you that opportunity.”

“Jared isn’t giving me an opportunity.”

“How can you be so certain?”

I hesitated for a moment, something tugging at the edge of my memory.

“Trust me, I just know. We’ve known each other since we were kids.

If there was ever going to be anything between us, it would have happened by now.

So can we please just drop this whole fantasy narrative of my flatmate having a secret hankering for cock. ”

Suzie laughed and held up her hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. The wine’s getting to me and I’m turning into a proper romantic meddler. You know your situation better than I do.”

I nodded.

“But yikes for you though,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ll be lying there naked while your drop-dead gorgeous flatmate runs his hands all over your body with massage oil. What happens if you pitch a tent mid-massage?”

“Oh, fuck. I hadn’t even thought of that.” I put my head in my hands. “What if I get hard? What if he notices? What if he thinks I’m some kind of pervert who agreed to this just to get my rocks off?”

“Exactly. Nothing creates awkward moments quite like an ill-timed boner.”

“Do you think I could tape it down?”

“Like a rogue fire hose? I don’t think that’s how anatomy works.”

“I could wear two towels.”

Suzie grinned. “Look, worst-case scenario, you get hard, he pretends not to notice, and you both die inside for ten minutes. Best-case scenario, he does notice and suddenly realises he’s been living in denial and wants to explore his sexuality with the one person who’s always been there for him.”

I stared at her.

“What?” she said. “I told you. I’m a romantic meddler.”

“You’re also a menace.”

“Thank you.”

She topped up our glasses like she was officiating a wedding. I took a long sip, trying to drown the image of Jared’s hands on my back and my dick betraying me mid-stroke.

“Have you seen that Ben Stiller movie, There’s Something About Mary ?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well, there’s this scene where his friend gives him some advice before a big date. Tells him to, you know, take care of business beforehand so he’s not all wound up and thinking with the wrong head.”

I blinked. “You’re suggesting I masturbate before the massage?”

“I’m suggesting you take the edge off so you can think clearly instead of spending an hour trying not to pop a boner while your hot flatmate oils up your spine.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it though? Or is it practical problem-solving?”

“It’s stupid, Suzie. End of discussion.”