Yesterday (McLennon)

Chapter Three: 1965

But as the week progresses, John’s words continue to ring around in my head.  Would kissing him be all that different from kissing a girl?  Would it give me the same type of thrill as a drug, something forbidden and yet potent, powerful enough to cause a high, a different sort of sensation, entirely different from what I’m used to?  But no.  I shake the thoughts.  It’s just a kiss.  A kiss that would go against any sense of “normal” I still cherish.

But curiosity simply doesn’t go away.  It wanes sometimes, but it also festers subconsciously, until it comes back one day, full force, gnawing, bothersome, unable to deny.  And, like my opinion on drugs, my opinion on this kiss has changed since I first told John “no.”  Now, I can imagine it happening, and not feel guilty about simply entertaining such an idea.  And yet now, I’m sure it’s too late.

 John and I have been avoided being alone in the studio together for a few weeks now.  I think he feels embarrassed, something which rarely happens.  Maybe he feels ashamed for asking me at all.  But today, I come in to work on a song early, only to find John already fooling around on his guitar, writing song lyrics down, scribbling furiously, crossing things out, adding new things in, until I see a mess of lyrics scattered around the page.  

John doesn’t even notice me watching him until I say, “What’re you working on?”

I can tell he is slightly startled, although he doesn’t really let on.  I’m so used to reading John that I can tell just by the look in his eyes when he looks up.

“Nothing,” he snaps, far too quickly, putting the song sheet away.

It’s odd.  John is never one to hide his songs from me; he likes to show off.  We stand awkwardly, practically staring each other down.  I hate the tension that has come between us in the past few weeks, and I wish I could tell him, wish I could say I’ve changed my mind.

We start talking at the same time.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –” John starts, while I say, “I was wrong.”

John looks at me, eyes wide.  “What do you mean?”

Suddenly, I’m shaking.  My heart is pounding in my ears, and I feel a pressure in my diaphragm.  

“John, I mean . . . I wanna try it . . .” I say quickly, without thinking, before I can stop myself.

I let out a breath, but the tension throughout my entire body doesn’t go away.  Especially when he stands up, staring at me, trying to determine if I’m lying or being completely honest.  At first, I swear he’s angry that I’m taking his offer now, after I embarrassed him, after weeks of not getting much good work done, but then I see that, in actuality, it’s more desperation, hurt, and something else, buried there.

“Why now?” he asks.  “Do you just want to screw around with my feelings?”

“Are there even feelings in question?” I ask levelly, and John swallows, saying nothing.

I look at him steadily, try to absorb myself in his face, try to forget he’s a male, that someone could walk in the studio at any moment.  But I just can’t.  His face is too angular, too thin.  And yet . . . It’s a beautiful face.  Eyes I have memorized, lips I could draw in my sleep, a chin that’s rested on my shoulder plenty of times, looking over my shoulder at something, posing in a photograph.  He takes my hands, squeezes it.

“Hey, Paul, it’s alright,” he says.  “It’s just a kiss.”

I nod, swallow hard, and close my eyes.  

I can feel his face close to mine, feel my lips tingling apprehensively, and suddenly, all the feeling in my body tunnels to my lips.  And then his lips were against mine, just for a second, a quick brush, but a tingle swept through my entire body, demanding more.  Suddenly, I felt warmth throughout every nerve.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.  “That was better than kissing any bird.”

John looks at me, holding my hand in his.  “You think?” he asks.  

“Yeah,” I whisper, and then John pulls me in again.

This time, the kiss is longer, more fervent.  I reach to John’s hair and run my fingers through it.  He holds my face in his hands delicately.  I can feel the calluses on his fingers, the hardness of the skin from the constant guitar-playing, one set of fingers harder than the other.  It’s funny how I marvel over John’s fingers now, when I never paid much attention to them.  They were, after all, simply fingers.  No one pays much attention to them.

But now, there’s something between us.  It’s not merely the physical touch connecting us, but something else, something that is making even the slow kisses seem as if they’re on fire.  Now, I notice his fingers, notice the way he feels so close to me, notice the pounding of my heart like I just ingested too much caffeine.  I feel alert, awake, my senses heightened and yet tunneled, all focused on John.

“I agree,” John says.  Pulling away gently, letting go of my hand.

Now that his touch is missing, I feel less complete, like I just lost something I barely realized I had, something I took advantage of.  But I can’t voice this feeling; it feels wrong to do so when I’m not even certain of it.  Am I queer?  Do I . . . want John?  But it doesn’t seem possible.  I’ve liked girls before, really liked them.  I’ve never liked a guy before.  Is it because I love John as a friend?  But I’ve kissed girl friends before, and it never felt like this when I kissed them.  So . . . What’s going on with me?