portrait of the goaltender as a young teen
[note: this was written for my own entertainment and posted here only for archiving purposes. it was left screened while the official mbh jose was active to avoid confusion or misunderstanding, and unscreened only after the official mbh jose vacated the journal.]
"Where did you get this?" I ask Patrice, lifting the bottle to my mouth and trying not to choke as I take a stinging gulp.
"Marie Benoit's dad's liquor cabinet," Patrice says. "We went to her house after school and made out."
"Liar," I said. "You never even kissed a girl."
"Well...okay," Patrice admits. "But she did show me her bra. It had bows on it."
"Cool," I say. Patrice is lying wildly, but I let it go. "Let's climb up here," I tell him, pointing to a fire escape that leads to the roof of a pawn shop.
"You ever kiss a girl?" Patrice asks as he sits down next to me, taking a drink before passing the whiskey bottle to me. I take a sip and feel my body begin to get warm and heavy.
"Sure," I tell him, "loads of them."
"Haven't either," Patrice says. "I bet you haven't kissed anyone."
"I have so. I've probably kissed a hundred girls. I kissed Elene Kai way back in fourth year. And her sister Aimee who's two years ahead of us, besides." I can feel myself getting drunker by the minute, the lies getting more outrageous. "I bet I've kissed everyone in our whole school."
"Even the guys?" Patrice asks, giggling, and I flush hard, covering it with another pull from the bottle.
"Only fags kiss other guys," I tell him scornfully.
"That's not true," Patrice says. "My mom says lots of people do, and it isn't bad."
"That's 'cause your mom's a presbyterian," I explain to him, passing the bottle over. "Father Claude says if you kiss guys you're gay and you'll go to Hell."
Patrice regards me very intently for a moment, until my face begins to heat up. "What?" I finally snap.
"Have you ever?" he asks quietly.
I think about my uncle. I never really thought of it as the same thing, but I guess it is. I look at Patrice, and I don't know what it is, but I feel like I can tell him. Maybe I've just needed to tell someone for so long.
"Yeah, I have," I tell him, trying to keep my voice even, not panicked. "Have you?"
Patrice narrows him eyes at me, then smiles, and I groan, knowing what's coming.
"Nope," he says. "Only gays do that. That makes you gay! Jose's gay!" he shouts, laughing and pointing at me.
"Shut up!" I hiss. "You asshole, keep your voice down!" But he continues to sing-song it, getting louder as I yell, until finally I lunge and knock him down, kissing him hard.
It's not at all like kissing a girl, or even uncle Michel. Patrice is my size, not small and delicate, not broad and overpowering. It's pretty obvious he's never kissed anyone before. Once he gets over his shock and unfreezes, he throws everything he has into making out. His tongue tastes like whiskey as it moves against mine, and it's a little familiar, but there's something different in the way he tastes me so carefully, the way his hands fumble awkwardly over my back. I feel him start to get hard under me and I pull back, watching his face turn pink in the cold air.
"You tell anyone what I told you and I'll tell everyone you kissed me," I tell Patrice. "And I'll have my brothers beat you up."
"I won't tell anyone. I promise," Patrice swears.
"Okay." I press my mouth back against his and spend the rest of the afternoon exploring this new thing I've found.