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"I bet they won't do it," Marla says. She's a junior at St. Mary's, the same year as Sam, with long blond hair and sharp, sultry gray eyes. Every guy at Rockshire wants her; Sam's determined to get her.
"This game is so fucking eighth grade—" Ben starts.
"Dude, I got laid for the first time in eighth grade. Try fifth for this shit," Sam says.
"They're just scared," says Charlotte, Marla's best friend, who Ben's been sweating since they were freshmen, the fucking pussy. Marla's playing hard-to-get, and that's fine—it's part of the game—but Charlotte would jump into Ben's lap if he'd just get up the damn nerve. He's a good-looking guy, a lacrosse player like Sam—why he hasn't made a move yet, Sam can't fathom.
"That's not it!" Ben protests. "That's just not how it's supposed to go!"
"You spun," says Marla. "You got Sam. Now you kiss Sam." Her eyes make their leisurely way up and down Sam's body, pausing for a moment, evaluating, just below his waist. Just the look is making him hard. He'd be embarrassed, except she licks her lips delicately, and that just makes him harder. "Really," Marla adds, "you could do a lot worse."
"Ben's scared we won't think he's manly," Charlotte says, voice filled with sympathy. "That Big Bad Sam will turn him gay."
"That's not—" Ben starts again.
"I'd go gay for Sam," Marla says with another one of those long, appraising examinations. If they ever do get their clothes off, Sam thinks, it'll be redundant, because he's pretty sure she's already got him pictured naked in pretty elaborate detail. "If I was a guy, that is."
"I'm not scared to do it," Charlotte says. "I mean, I'd kiss you, Marla."
Ben makes some kind of glrmping noise.
"Hell yeah," agrees Marla. "Why not? People can kiss. It's fun."
Sam stretches, lets his shirt ride up a little, watches Marla's eyes fall to the cut of hip that the movement reveals. "I'll do it," Sam says. "Why the fuck not. I mean, unless Ben's really afraid that a few seconds with me will be hot enough to turn him homo for life."
Ben raises a middle finger at him.
"In your wet dreams, Allston," Sam says mildly.
"Go fuck yourself, Conover," Ben mutters.
But Ben gets up, slowly, and crosses the small, dimly lit space to where Sam is sitting on the other side of Marla's room. Except then he stands, awkwardly, and pauses, looking down but not meeting Sam's eyes. "How. Uh. How do we do this?"
"If you tell me you're a kissing virgin, I'm holding a fucking vigil in sympathy."
Ben manages a "shove it up your ass."
"Oh, for Christ's sake," says Sam, and he stands up and pushes Ben against the wall.
It's pretty much the same as kissing a girl, and also not: Ben's shorter than Sam, but only by a couple of inches, and his body feels completely different. There isn't the softness of breasts pressing against Sam's ribs, there aren't rounded hips to put his hands on—and there's a cock pressed against Sam's own. Even through the various layers of jeans and underwear, Sam can feel that Ben is urgently, immediately hard. Ben's hips are pushing against Sam's, just a little bit, probably not even enough for anyone to see—Ben probably doesn't even know he's doing it.
Sam's not sure how you're supposed to act when you're making out with a guy in front of both your prospective girlfriend and his, so he decides that it's probably not all that different from being with a girl. He spreads one hand across the back of Ben's head, fingers tangling in Ben's shaggy brown hair; the other one seems of its own accord to want to run up and down Ben's side, tracing the outlines of his body through his clothes and occasionally moving to stroke Ben's chest, though maybe that's just habit from girls.
Ben tastes like the Jack they've been drinking, and Sam licks it out of his mouth as their tongues find and explore each other. It is fun, like Marla said. (Sam has a moment of fantasy about Marla and Ben that he reminds himself to jerk off to later.) Sam realizes that Ben's making little whimpery noises into his mouth, so soft that the girls probably can't even hear them, and Sam gets harder, listening to those helpless sounds escape against his lips. Ben's gripping Sam's upper arms, fingers tight like one of them might float away.
"You guys going to save any of that for the rest of us?" asks a lazy female voice, and the boys break apart. Sam's grinning—if Marla finally gives it to him, he'll fuck her for days. Or, well, until he has to go back to Rockshire for breakfast check-in, anyway. If not, he'll have a hell of a time in the shower. Probably use up all the hot water in the entire school. Then do it all again.
Ben, though. Ben's face is flushed, his eyes wide and shocked and his lips swollen; his breathing is harsh and uneven and he's staring at Sam like they both just landed on another planet without warning and now God knows where they are. The shape of his erection is obvious in his jeans.
Something fairly uncomfortable—about Ben, and by extension Charlotte, and Ben's apparent heretofore kissing-virgin status—occurs to Sam.
Marla holds up an imaginary sign. "Nice work, boys. Perfect ten."