Social Intercourse - Hardcover

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Greg Howard was born and raised in the South Carolina Lowcountry, where his love of words and stories blossomed at a young age. Originally set on becoming a songwriter, Greg followed that dream to the bright lights of Nashville, Tennessee, and spent years producing the music of others before eventually returning to his childhood passion of writing stories. Greg writes YA and middle grade novels focusing on LGBTQ characters and issues. He has an unhealthy obsession with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and currently resides in Nashville with his three rescued fur babies—Molly, Toby, and Riley.

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Social Intercourse

CHAPTER ONE

Beckett

If I’d known losing my virginity would be so nerve-racking, I would’ve stayed home and watched the Golden Girls marathon with my dad. That’s some quality father-son time I’m missing right there. He even made a cheesecake. Instead, here I am, with my heart racing around in my chest like a horde of drag queens at a Filene’s Basement clearance sale.

Easing my death grip on the steering wheel, I lower the window a few inches. Magnolia-scented night air spills into the car accompanied by a sharp, underlying odor that singes my nostril hair. Magnolia-scented dog shit is more like it. But that’s what I get for choosing a city park as the setting for my transition from virginal gay ingenue to bossy power bottom.

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, which only redirects my thoughts back to Dad. Even though we’ve already seen all 180 episodes at least five times each, he was visibly disappointed when I told him I had an audition for the Florence Community Playhouse production of Steel Magnolias. He didn’t even blink. I mean, come on. Any serious purveyor of American theater knows there are no male roles in that play. But not Dad. He’s a Rose—sweet and lovable, but not the sharpest tool in the shed. I, as Dad likes to remind me almost daily, am a Dorothy. Cranky, snarky, and a bit bossy. Or to use Dad’s word, “bitchy.” I prefer “responsible” and “pragmatic.” Besides, someone’s got to be the Dorothy. She’s the glue. And since Mom left us, that’s what I am to Dad—the last bit of glue holding his shattered world together.

I could’ve just told him about my plans tonight. It’s not like he would’ve tried to stop me. He might have pelted me with condoms as I ran serpentine patterns around the living room and out the front door. I can’t leave the house these days without him yelling, “Don’t forget your raincoat!” That’s what he calls them. I guess he assumes I’m a whore just because I’m queer, which is really gaycist of him. He means well. He’s just always been a little overenthusiastic when it comes to my gayness. Like he’s trying to march in two spots in the Pride parade of my life—his and Mom’s. However, I seriously doubt he would’ve approved of my partner-selection methods tonight.

But if I’m ever going to make the leap from exploratory, sexual toe dipping to bona fide slut, I have to spend time with people my own age. Hot, horny guys my own age, to be precise. Honestly, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind for my first time either. I’ve always fantasized about a hayloft on a humid summer afternoon—minus the mosquitoes and the stench of horseshit, of course.

I can visualize the whole thing so clearly. Somehow the hay is soft like Egyptian cotton and not prickly on my bare ass. My hot, imaginary farm boy lowers me down onto it—sweat glistening on his hairless, muscled chest. But he wouldn’t just screw me—not my sweet farm boy. No, my future husband, and the father of our adopted Cambodian twins, makes love to me slow and gentle in that hayloft. With my ankles locked around his neck, I wrap my arms around his thirty-two-inch waist and hold on for dear life as he expertly brings us to the most mind-blowing simultaneous climax in the history of gay sex. The image is so beautiful, it actually brings a tear to my eye.

But Shelby says I can kiss that fantasy good-bye. She says the first time is going to hurt like a motherfucker. That it’ll be awkward and messy, and that I’ll probably shoot my load within the first thirty seconds of penetration. According to Shelby, the first time is always a disaster. She convinced me that I need lots of practice before I become solid boyfriend material—a good senior year full of practice—so I can hit the ground running my freshman year of college. Shelby’s even the one who installed the Bangr app on my phone. She was more than a little shocked and disappointed that I’d never heard of it.

“It’s a hookup app for horny gays,” she said, incredulous, like she wanted to revoke my pink card right there on the spot. I don’t think Shelby has that kind of authority, but you never know with that girl.

“Hooking up with complete strangers?” I asked, clutching the invisible string of pearls around my neck. “How am I supposed to find a boyfriend like that?”

That’s what I really want. A boyfriend. I can’t help it. I’m an out gay, but a closet romantic. And I’m a little lonely, if I’m being honest. Dad and Shelby are great and all, but I want someone to hold me. To kiss me. To make googly eyes at me and do all that shit they do in the movies. And I definitely want that someone to have a penis. I was lucky enough to figure that out ages ago. I swear, I probably came out of my mom’s vagina wearing a tiara, swaddled in a rainbow flag, and belting out “It’s Raining Men” at the top of my gay baby lungs.

“You don’t want a boyfriend for your first time,” Shelby had scolded me. “Any nameless, faceless dick will do.”

Shelby’s my best friend and she usually knows about these kinds of things, so here I am. About to meet the nameless, faceless dick I found on Bangr last night. CockyInSC will have the distinct honor of being the first to enter my pearly gates. He seemed like as good a choice as any, but I can’t deny that a little hindsight apprehension is kicking in. Probably just nerves.

“Shake it off, girl,” I mutter, quoting the Dalai Lama of my generation.

At the end of the road I guide my Prius into the dimly lit parking lot by the duck pond. The gravel crunching under my tires is louder than the engine itself, otherwise I could have made a more ninja-like entrance. My headlights momentarily illuminate a half dozen or so vehicles, and a shiver of excitement runs the length of my body. I didn’t think it was possible for my nipples to get any harder, but they’re about to slice right through my cotton shirt. At least I’m not the only perv out tonight. There’s a small tribe of us and we’re all in this together, throwing caution and my virginity to the wind. But the imagined camaraderie does little to settle my nerves, or my nipples, as I ease down the row of cars.

Exhaling all of my Dorothy Zbornak anxiety out through my nostrils in one long, steady stream, I inhale and channel my inner Blanche Devereaux. Well, as much as any gay, seventeen-year-old boy can channel Blanche Devereaux. Which, now that I think about it, is actually quite a lot. The Dorothy side of my stomach is in knots. Like acid-reflux-inducing knots. The Blanche side of my stomach, however, flutters with what must be a swarm of horny-ass butterflies, finger-banging each other with their rock-hard taste receptors, because they haven’t settled down since I got into the car.

I scan each rear bumper in search of my mark. All the cars face the duck pond, with just enough space between each to provide adequate privacy. The steam of human sex tints the windows, and the dim glow of the streetlamps overhead enhances the seedy effect of the scene. It’s like a Motel 6 campground on the banks of Lake Semen. All that’s missing is a serial killer...