‘No.’ Rodrigo paused after peeling my trousers off. He sat back on his haunches, both of us down to our underwear, and looked over my body with sadness, like a doctor preparing to deliver tough news. ‘You are not hot enough.’
I propped myself up. ‘What?’
‘I cannot — continue with this.’ He gestured with his sculptural arm at my soft, pale torso. ‘You are not hot enough.’
‘But — what? But your cock’s hard! Rodrigo! Listen to your cock!’
He shook his head gloomily, as if the sizeable bulge in his underwear mattered not.
‘We can still — this can still happen!’
‘No.’ He held up a palm as he stepped back off the bed, wiping a strand of jaw-length black hair behind one ear. He had a body like a prime Chris Hemsworth and a face like a latinx Paul Mescal (a Paul Mezcal? Sorry.) He was, in other words, out of my league. But since he’d finally invited me over after weeks of on-and-off chat, I did think it was within reason to expect sex. I’d starved myself since the morning and douched and obsessed over my outfit and hair and amount of deodorant applied, and all for this?
I stood to find my trousers and fumbled with turning them right side out again. He crossed his arms – those arms! That chest! – and waited for me to get dressed.
‘I don’t understand,’ I muttered, putting on my jeans, picking my t-shirt off the floor. ‘Sure, I’m not as gorgeous as you, I’ll never be, but it’s not like the hotness police are gonna jump out and arrest you for fucking me, right? Like, no one needs to know! It can just be our… dirty little secret. Okay, that sounds creepy, but you know what I mean. Like, a hole’s a hole, and I’m just a hole, standing in front of a boy, asking him to… ‘
As I attempted to coyly wrap my arms around him, he raised his palm again and pressed me back. ‘No.’
I nodded, pursing my lips. ‘All right. I get it. I understand consent. It’s cool… ‘
So I left Rodrigo’s flat that day under a grey February sky, feeling like an angel banished from heaven, if heaven were a cramped Bethnal Green flat with black mould in the corners of the ceiling.
***
That spring I began a concerted effort to become hot. Hot enough for Rodrigo, which would mean hot enough for all the other regulars of the Graveyard (as I’d started referring to Grindr) of which he was the hottest, the unquestionable, untouchable king. In retrospect, it seemed outrageous that he’d even deigned to reply to my initial hello, and not ignored me like every other guy seemed to (causing me to come up with more and more unhinged, no-fucks-given opening lines, from beep beep boop commencing flirtation to Good sir, I beseech you, give speedy response!) I suppose Rodrigo had always seemed kind of ambivalent in his messages, requiring a lot of clarification and affirmation on certain basic matters before he would consider inviting me over (Are your balls full today? was a frequent question, as was is your ass clean? One time I had responded I mean, I *think* so? and received an immediate no.)
Still, I’d made it all the way there!Into his flat!And still the sex hadn’t happened. That stung. It was all right to be rejected in the virtual space of an app, I was used to that — we’re all used to that — but being rejected when physically at your hook-up’s place, when you might as well both go through with it, hot-blooded lizard-brain men that we are… the indignity. A reasonable person would have taken this as the insult it was, would have forgotten about Rodrigo and moved on, but not I. I took it as motivation to get hotter.
Too bad I hadn’t asked him what part of me dragged down my overall hotness. If only I’d had a survey ready to hand over. Was it my chest? My arms? My haircut? The dry skin on my face? My belly? Any of these could be the culprit. All must be dealt with.
I joined a gym. I’d joined gyms before, usually for no longer than six-month periods before I got sick of it, but this time I went about my workout scrupulously, looking up an exercise schedule online. I entered a world of leg days, upper body days, rest days (God, I loved the rest days.) What I’d found in the past was that, if I worked my upper body for a couple of days in a row, my chest would begin to expand, but once left alone it would deflate like a leaky air mattress. This time, with the help of my rigorous schedule, I gave it — and my thighs and arms and back — no chance to let me down.
I started doing protein shakes. I went to a pharmacy and got the fanciest-looking skincare products that were still within my budget. I applied them every evening, even did a clay mask once a week (Aoife couldn’t stop laughing when she walked into the living room and found me ‘looking like Barbara Cartland at the spa.’) I examined which haircut was statistically the most prominent among gay Instagram models and pornstars, and opted for that (shaved sides, quiff at the front.) My body steadily attained more definition each time I came back from the gym – I had pecs! And shoulders! But still one thing bugged me.
‘I don’t know what to do about this,’ I muttered one evening, stood at the window, rubbing my gently rounded belly with both hands as if pregnant.
‘What?’ Aoife looked up from her laptop and removed her headphones. ‘Oh, you’re body-shaming yourself. Okay.’
‘I even changed my diet! I’ve been cutting out anything sugary, I’ve been going all in on vegetables and shit. And still, this fucking stomach.’
‘I think that’s just, like, your intestines. You can’t get rid of those.’
‘But loads of guys have six-packs! What’s their secret?’
‘Uh, they work out so intensively and constantly that their life’s not enjoyable at all?’
‘Oh. Okay.’ I slumped down beside her. ‘I just want to be so hot that I can look in the mirror and go… yep. That’s all perfect. Nothing for anyone to complain about there.’
‘Who’s gonna complain?‘
‘Guys like Rodrigo!’
‘Oh — this is all still for that guy? Mal!’ Aoife paused her Netflix show and looked at me. ‘You are attractive. I don’t know why I have to tell you this. Loads of guys would be thrilled to jump into bed with you.’
‘Yeah, but never the guys I want… ‘
‘Mal! A few decades from now, you will be looking back at this time and kicking yourself for not realising how fit you were.’
‘Oh yeah. I forget that it’s all downhill from here… ‘
‘That’s not the point!’ She gave an incredulous laugh. Setting her laptop on the table, she turned to face me. ‘Look, I used to have serious body issues. In my teens and early twenties, I was in a… fuckin’ miserable state about my body. Then I met Theo, and they made me feel like I was really sexy, and beautiful, and for, yeah, probably the first time in my life, I really felt that and believed that about myself.’
‘Well, you should. You’re stunning.’
‘Thank you! I know! But the point is, people can tell you all kinds of shit. Only you get to choose what to believe about yourself. Right now, you’re choosing to believe this douchebag Roberto… ‘
‘Rodrigo.’
‘… and I don’t know why you would! I really don’t.’
‘I guess because I don’t have a Theo.’
‘Well, you don’t need a Theo. You can just… love yourself.’
I nodded. She was right.
I still wanted Rodrigo to fuck me though.
***
One morning in June after a visit to the gym, I liked the look of myself in the mirror and sent a picture of my taut upper body to Rodrigo, with the message hey what’s up? I’ve been working out. I didn’t receive a reply till later in the afternoon, when I’d all but forgotten and was at a lively, boozy picnic in Victoria Park with Aoife and Theo and their friends. Rodrigo had simply sent back two pictures of his own body, one of his cock, and one of his sexily scowling face. He’d sent me these before. Did he think I’d forgotten what he looked like? Or did he not remember me?
We met already, I texted back. I’m Malte, remember? I came over one time.
No need to dredge up the particulars of what had happened.
A few minutes passed, during which I helped Aoife mix a jug of Pimm’s.
Rodrigo’s reply came: I know.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Come over now.
I made my excuses and left. Walking across the park toward Bethnal Green in my sweat-sticky t-shirt and shorts, I texted him to remind me of his exact address, full of a fluttering feeling somewhere between anxiety and lust.
When I arrived, he was already shirtless, godlike as ever. Limited conversation followed, before I found myself back in his bedroom, with him pulling off my underwear, except that this time the film kept playing past the point where it had frozen before. He sucked me off a little, in a perfunctory way; I sucked him off more generously; he rolled over and got lube out of the dresser. He asked me which position was better for me ‘to take in.’ Oh, on my back, I said, which I already was. He applied lube to himself and my hole. And then it was happening, he was pushing inside, that familiar threshold of pain, and me whispering to go slow, fuck, ah — okay, yeah. Okay? Yeah.
He fucked me in just the one position. Kneeling between my thighs, grabbing my ankles, holding them apart, then together, over his shoulder, focusing on my arse like it was a difficult problem that needed solving. I stared at his beautiful body and jerked myself off, and yet it felt, as most things do when you’ve been imagining them for a while, slightly underwhelming. Not intense — I mean, physically, yes, since my arse hadn’t seen any action for a long time — but pleasantly remote. A show being put on for my viewing pleasure.
Finally he grunted that he was going to come. I said, okay and took my cue to make myself come too, which wasn’t hard at this point, even as his thrusting increased to a pace that was barely anything other than painful. He gave a shout, face contorted, and at the same time I spurted all over myself, so, in theory, good sex, right? Came at the same time, check. An energetic top, check. I was a good bottom, check. He fell on top of me, sweat-slick, and kissed the crook of my neck and lay there, catching his breath. I enjoyed that more than the sex, I think. But it didn’t last long. He took a shower, then allowed me to take mine. Not much small talk before I found myself leaving. I tried to suggest that we could do this again sometime, and he scowled and said: ‘Yes, maybe it is possible. But now you should go.’
***
I texted Aoife to ask if they were still in the park. She replied that they’d all gone back to our flat, but that the party was still going strong, come!! It was a long walk back to Hackney Wick, but I enjoyed meandering through the sunset-golden streets. Scattered echoes of cheerful talk carried on the breeze. Tree crowns whispered. My hair was still wet from Rodrigo’s shower. Would I see him again? Probably not. Did I want to? Nah. Had the hook-up been worth it, all things considered? Jury still out.
When I locked myself into the flat, I heard chatter and music from the living room. It made me smile. For now, though, I went straight to the bathroom for a post-bottoming shit, grateful for the pounding music drowning out any sound.
Afterwards, I joined the party, poured myself a glass of Pimm’s and found Aoife on the sofa. The last rays of sun hit us through the shifting bodies of people dancing and talking.
‘So? How was it?’
‘Good.’ I paused. ‘I mean… it was just sex. It wasn’t disappointing, but… I mean, I don’t know what I was expecting.’
Aoife shrugged. ‘You’re right. Sex is just sex. I don’t know why you cared so much whether this guy would put his dick in you.’
‘I know, it really didn’t matter! And I left our picnic for it, when I was having a perfectly good time there. I shouldn’t have left for that… ‘
‘Mal.’ Aoife laughed. ‘You’re here now. You only missed an hour’s worth of partying. I’m sure you can catch up.’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s all good.’
I looked over at her and smiled, sipping my drink. ‘Yeah. You’re right. It is all good.’
Aoife smiled back.
The music changed to a nineties house track, one of our favourites. Aoife got to her feet and extended her hands to pull me up. ‘Come on. Let’s fuckin’ dance.’
I nodded, set my drink down and joined her.
