Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
My cheeks flame. We have a lot more in common. Like how our brothers are both exactly ten-years younger than us. But I don’t voice this because I’m positive Oscar is just playing around.
“Anyway,” I say. “My favorite porn star, Benji Strong, had one.” I regret the words as soon as they escape. “So yeah…” I clear my throat. “That’s how I know about dydoe piercings. I’m not an expert.” My endnote clearly relays a closing of this conversation.
I examine my camera.
But I feel Oscar frowning. Confused at my change in tone.
That’s a good thing. It means he’s not aware that Benji Strong has mostly been in gay porn.
During my cool-vibes teenage years in sunny SoCal, I used to watch gay porn all the time. Never once did I question my sexuality.
Maybe it was because two of my guy friends told me they also watch gay porn and they were straight, too. Maybe it was because my parents have always been so inclusive and open, and there wasn’t a moment in my life that I thought I could be gay just because I liked gay porn.
It just wasn’t a big deal, and I hate that I’m making it a big deal in my head now. Because it shouldn’t be. I’m just confused about everything.
Am I straight?
Being honest with myself, I don’t even know anymore.
I want someone to just appear out of thin air and tell me what I am. Gay. Straight. Bi. Pan. Somewhere in between. I’d be happy with any of them.
But no, I have to figure this answer out on my own, and it sucks knowing that even when I come to a decision, I still may not be a hundred percent certain.
For fuck’s sake, I planned out my whole life when I was twelve.
I want my binder back. I want to be twelve again and look into the future and rewrite this part of my life out, so I wouldn’t have to face these questions. I’d already know the answers.
Smoothly, I excuse myself from Oscar and go grab a water from the bar’s mini-fridge. His eyes are on me, then on the double-doors that swing open.
“Fuck,” Oscar curses, charging for the door but he slows as he recognizes the nineteen-year-old girl in a Thrashers sweatshirt.
Luna Hale.
I smile in greeting. “Hey, Luna.” She must be here for Tom, her best friend. I’ve filmed segments with Luna and her brother Maximoff before, and I know things about Luna that she’s wanted to keep off air.
A Secret about Luna Hale: at 13, a boy left a note in her locker that said, close your legs, slut.
Sometimes I feel like I’m their therapist listening to their darkest days and thoughts, but I’m not even close to being a licensed professional. It’d be a lie to say that it’s not hard on me. I’m a filmmaker, a producer, a guy with a dream, but I don’t want to profit off their pain.
What makes it okay for me is knowing I can be a friendly, familiar safe place when they need one.
Luna waves at me. “Hey. Hi. Heidi. Ho. Howdy.” Purple feathers poke from her light-brown hair. And glitter is painted on her arms like a kindergarten class played arts and crafts on her body.
“Like the hair. Looking cool as ever.”
She smiles, about to reply.
“Luna from Planet Thebula,” Tom calls, using the microphone on stage. “Get up here. Gotta fill you in.”
She waves a second time. “Nice to make contact again.” And then she slinks to the stage.
I conclude fast that Luna Hale’s entrance wasn’t on Oscar’s radar. He stares down her 24/7 bodyguard, who happens to be his twenty-two-year-old brother Quinn.
Quinn is busy shutting the double-doors. Tall and muscled, his floral shirt is tucked in olive-green pants, making him look like he stepped out of a PacSun catalogue. It’s a stark difference from the casual east coast look of his older brother.
But they both have tiny scars on their faces from boxing blows.
“What?” Quinn asks him.
“A heads up would’ve been nice, little bro,” Oscar says lightly. He mimes picking up a phone. “Hey, big bro, I’m on my way with Luna to the same venue you’re at. Thanks, Oscar, bye. Click.” He hangs up the imaginary phone.
I smile and immediately want to film Oscar—for no one but me. Quinn isn’t as amused by him.
He fixes his earpiece. “Bro, you’re not the lead. I don’t need to inform you where I’m going.”
“So you told Thatcher you’d be here?” Oscar wonders.
“God, stop nagging me.” He watches Luna while he speaks. “That’s all you do lately.”
Oscar holds up his hands. “I’m legitimately just trying to talk to you.”
Quinn scratches his jaw. “It doesn’t feel like you are.”
“I’m telling you I am.”
Quinn shakes his head, his eyes downcast. “I’m on-duty, so…” He mutters something in Portuguese and then walks away. Leaving a motionless Oscar in his wake.