I’m lying here in Dante’s crappy single bed in the crappy weatherboard room he’s lived in all his life. And I feel like I’ve been here my whole life. I also feel like this never happened.
“This” being the gay-ass shenanigans we just got up to for no apparent reason apart from we were both sitting on the bed and a little drunk and more than a little bored and a fuck of a lot sexually deprived, I don’t think either of us had been laid in months. Probably years for him.
He looks pretty confused, but it’s not like he’s panicking at the thought of where his mouth has just been - or where my hand has. So I’m not too worried.
In fact I’m not worried at all. I’m so not worried that I could have been sleeping with the guy for the last 15 years, instead of just hanging out with him. And I’m not trying to say it wasn’t good – it really fucking was – but I also feel like we’ll probably never do this again, or even talk about it.
But we’re best friends. So long as we know that, nothing else really matters.