“What can you tell me about Jordan Kasher?”
That’s when the interview went off the rails.
It’d been great up until then. Okay, not great maybe, but fine, normal, whatever. The usual bullshit questions about the team, the season; the usual bullshit answers about how he was just taking it one game at a time.
And then, that question from left field, the one that he didn’t even quite understand at first because he never thought he’d have to answer it: “What can you tell me about Jordan Kasher?” He knew he should’ve just shrugged, said “Jordan who?” and broken two hearts at once, one word for each. He knew he could’ve said “nothing,” which would have been true—there wasn’t anything he could tell the smirking and smug and snot-nosed interviewer from the campus daily about Jordan. He thought of all the things he couldn’t say—all of the things that were none of the guy’s damn business, no one’s business, that were just theirs, alone. The way Jordan sucked his dick, like Jordan had been born to it the way he’d been born to football; like Jordan had been training for it his whole life. The way Jordan got hard blowing him, the way his smell alone was enough to get to Jordan, to shut off something inside his head; the way that that fact alone—seeing Jordan just pause with his nose in his junk, like he could stay that way forever, like he would, like he was going to—shut off something in his own head, turned off all the parts of him that weren’t primal and basic and geared toward the relentless motion of his muscled hips. That night over the summer, though, when he and Jordan were both completely trashed and Jordan smiled, shyly, and said he wanted to fuck him, just once. Who smiles like that, nervously and at the edges of his mouth, his eyes not meeting yours, his bangs hanging in front of his face, when he says he wants to put their dick inside you? Who actually manages to look bashful while he’s doing it, like he’s been given this gift he’s deathly afraid he’ll break or something? Manages to look like he’s the one being fucked, deeper than ever before, even as he slides into you and his mouth curls into a soft ‘o’ and that’s all he says, quietly, like a sigh: “oh.”
What could he tell you about Jordan Kasher? Not a fucking thing. So he just stood there, silent, and listened to to the soft clicks of the tape spooling in the recorder.
