“That’s why they call it a gym, my boy.”
* * * *
I believed him straight, relishing women over men. It was his eyebrows: they were not groomed and willy-nilly in shape and size. Something told me that he had never kissed a boy or man before, and mostly dated women of his own age. In truth, it was the bad boy look in his daring eyes that confirmed bluntly that the pool boy enjoyed the company of females: an intense brown, unyielding, so serious. I couldn’t help myself from asking him, “Do you have a girlfriend here in West End?”
“No. Not currently.”
“But you have had one, right?” I was being completely selfish, rude, nothing more than an old bitchy queen. How easy I found my game, and how intoxicating to pry answers out of him about his life, treating him like prey. How distasteful, but it felt sweet to me, rewarding.
He nodded. “I did have a girl back in Cali. A beautiful ginger.”
“Cali?”
“California. It’s what some people call the state.”