“How do you like the show so far?” I asked Bubba.
“Um… how do you like it?” he asked, looking uncomfortable.
“I like it. But I’m not sure I understand it.”
He nodded vigorously. “It’s way worse than Game of Thrones. AIDS is scary and awful; I don’t like that Prius is sick; Louis is such a shitty partner he should be ashamed; and Roy… wow. What an asshole. I’m glad we don’t have to hide like that anymore.”
I grinned. “I’d say you followed it perfectly.”
Bubba smiled in pleasure, but it didn’t last long. He looked away. “I don’t really get it though. A lot of the speeches were… words? I mean, they said a whole lot of words that were just… wordy. And the end bit—the angel was cool, but was it supposed to be real or, like, a dream?”
“I have no idea. Let’s see.” I took out my phone and googled Angels in America meaning. I read off some of the most insightful passages to him.
He watched me with a frown. “You can just look up that kind of stuff? Like, what shit means?”
I gave him an incredulous look. “Bubba, you can look up anything. Welcome to the Borg.”
Bubba scratched his beard. “But…don’t you already know what it means? You’re so smart. I figured you got all of that. The play, I mean. Even when I was lost.”
He was close enough to me on the bench that it was easy to snuggle into his side and put an arm around his waist. “There are different types of intelligence. I’m good at science but not at social things and not particularly at art. Besides, I think a lot of art is intentionally obscure so that people can make a career out of deciphering it.”
Bubba chuckled. “Really?”
I nodded. “Half the time, I think even the creator doesn’t understand what it means. If you read an interview in which a director says he prefers to leave it up to the audience? That means he hasn’t got a clue what it means himself.”
That made Bubba laugh out loud. “How can you make something and not know what it means?”
I shrugged. “I think it’s easier to make something that seems mysterious than it is to actually figure out how it works, behind the curtains. It’s easier to make something illogical than logical. You can just make up anything and not bother explaining it, and people think you’re brilliant.” I smiled. “And then there are the critics. Critics can make up all kinds of complicated theories about something very simple.”
He still looked confused. “Like how? What do you mean?”
I sat up straight. “Okay, pretend you and I were in a film, as in a fictional account of our, um, romance. And a film critic wrote: the character of Bubba Merkofsky is often portrayed in sweats as a symbol of the labor class and of the nearly visceral, sweat-and-blood struggle of the modern American male coming to terms with adulthood.”
He blinked at me. “Um. I just wear them because they’re comfortable and convenient since I work out a lot.”
I grinned. “Exactly! A lot of the meaning of art is just bullshit anyway. Sometimes, sweats are just sweats. And an angel in a play is just an angel in a play.”
Bubba suddenly hugged me tight. He was warm in his sweater, and the scent of aftershave wafted over me. He smelled delicious.
When he let me go, I leaned back to get a look at his face, which was slightly flushed. “What was that for?”
His gaze was soft. “Thanks for bringing me to this. And thanks for making me not feel like a dummy. I was a little nervous about tonight. But I shoulda known—things are always okay with you.”
I wanted to tease him about okay not being high praise, but he was being so sincere, I didn’t want to make light. So I said, “It was the least I could do. You’ve shown me a lot in your world—the gym, flag football, making out—”
He gave me a sexy smile on that one.
“—so I wanted to show you something from my world. But if you don’t like the play, we can skip the second half and go back to campus. Maybe to your room.” I traced a finger on the back of his hand. “Do a little late-night shopping.” I looked up at him from under my eyelashes, trying for seductive.
Bubba traced my cheek, his eyes going dark. “Wow. Tempting. I’m gonna hold you to that. But after part two, okay? This is really cool, and I don’t want to bail. Besides, I wanna see how it ends.”
It was after eleven when we got back to campus. We’d discussed the play all the way home. Bubba seemed to enjoy it, even tearing up at the end. He was so much wiser than he gave himself credit for, and he was grounded in common sense. There was no pretense about him, no fake veneer put on for public consumption. I not only admired that, I realized I could never be with someone, trust someone, who wasn’t open in that way What he felt always showed on the surface. He’d never sneak around and have an affair, or plot to dump me while I went on thinking everything was fine. With Bubba, you saw it all on his face, all of his good, caring heart.
There were couples in the living room of the ALA house when we entered, making out or talking, but we didn’t want the company, so we stayed quiet and snuck upstairs. Bubba’s small room felt cozy and intimate. I loved how it forced us close together, and that avoided any awkward attempts at pretending that sex wasn’t what was on both our minds.
I dropped my coat and started to take off my sweater, but Bubba put his hand on my arm. “Wait.”
I raised my eyebrows in question.
He licked his lips. “So, I kind of wanted to try something new tonight. If you want.”
“Something from my list?” My heart rate picked up, and my belly swooped. So far, we’d only made out and masturbated each other. Which was great, but there was so much I wanted to try.
“I, um, liked going down on girls. And I’d like to try going down on you, if you don’t mind.”
From my research, I thought it likely no man, ever, had minded, but I nodded vigorously. “I want to try that too. I’ve been practicing.”
He frowned, and I hurried to reassure him. “On fruit! And sucking on my fingers. Dobbs suggested a banana, which I did practice on. But my fingers were more often readily available. So.”
A slow, wicked grin spread across Bubba’s face. “Your fingers, huh? I’d like to see that.”
My mouth dropped open at the thought of sucking my fingers in front of him. “No. It’s hardly dignified. But I’m happy to demonstrate on your actual penis. Or attempt to.”
Bubba laughed. “Okay. Okay, you can try it on my actual penis. But can I go first?”
I took a shuddery breath. “If you wish.”
“Oh, I wish.” He turned me slightly and moved me back a step, then pushed me down so I was sitting on the bed. He knelt between my knees, then pulled his black sweater over his head. “This has got to go. Feels like I’m in a girdle.”
I wasn’t going to complain about the uncovering of all that gorgeous skin and muscle or that lush chest hair.
“Should I take off my clothes?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nope. I want this pink sweater on. Just like this.”
It was amazing how deft his fingers were despite being so large and thick from weight lifting. He guided me to lean back on my hands on the bed, pushed up my pink sweater so my pale stomach with its little novice abs was revealed, and undid my fly. He tugged my new black pants and underwear down just enough to be able to display my penis and balls, which he pulled out of my underwear and laid on top of the fabric as though he were displaying jewelry. I was redheaded everywhere, and my orange pubic hair and pink-rosy penis and balls kind of went with the sweater too? Which was incredibly weird, and more than a little obscene.