It's my first year of grad school and I've signed up to be a Residence Advisor, an "RA." Basically, I get to stay in residence for free in return for resolving disputes, offering advice, and coordinating events. I can see how taking care of a bunch of freshmen would get hectic, but my floor's just for graduate students and it's mainly a bunch of single-person suites with people in their mid-twenties like me. Not too many disputes to resolve. Anyways, one of my duties at the start of the semester is to check in with all the new residents, make sure they're settling in okay, invite them to chat if anything's on their mind. It all goes well until I make a real idiot out of myself talking to Mark, the guy in the room across the hall.
He's one of those guys that practically seems to reach into your chest and squeeze your heart when they grin, with a powerful jawline, short black hair that won't lie flat, dark smiling eyes, and light brown skin. But it's impossible to keep my eyes from following the sloping lines of his broad neck down to his massively pumped up body—great slabs of pecs, biceps riddled with veins bulging out below the stretched arms of his T-shirt, which also clings tight enough to his abs to let me see every—
"My eyes are up here, you know."
"Huh?" Oh fuck, he totally caught that. My face instantly starts burning up. "Right, sorry. Sorry. I was staring, I admit it. That was totally rude of me. I've never seen—I mean, your body's—"
He chuckles, and I'm relieved to see he's not at all offended. "I'll take it as a compliment," he says. "When you spend as much time as I do in the gym, you expect some stares." And thankfully that's an opening to get back to the comfort of my spiel with the whole "Let me tell you about the hours for the exercise room" thing, feeling the blood thud through my ears and my heart pound. I manage to get out everything I need to say, stumbling when I reach the usual line about always being available if he needs to talk. That makes me feel like a real moron; as if he'd come to the guy who was ogling him for advice.
Over the next few weeks I can't help bumping into him occasionally, being across the hall. Having embarrassed myself so much, though, I quickly rush past with just a quick greeting. Maybe I'm coming across as cold, but I think it's necessary to overcorrect. I crossed a line the first time I talked with him, so I'd better step well back. If he'd gotten the impression I was trying to flirt with him and reported it, I would've lost my position. I'm just a student like him, but there are rules nonetheless.
About a month into the semester I'm returning pretty late in the evening. I've got my key in the lock when I hear Mark's door open behind me and the friendly rumble of his voice: "Hey, you're back!" He actually sounds HAPPY about it. I know he's just being friendly like usual, but it makes my heart start throbbing uncomfortably at once. To hear that man sound happy to see ME. And it only gets worse when he continues, "You said we could chat sometime, right? I was just sitting here and I thought..."
"O-Of course! I mean, uh, that's what I'm here for!" I manage to blurt out, before accidentally re-locking my door, unlocking it again, trying to pull it open even though I've been living here for HOW long, and then finally pushing my way inside. Soon I'm in a chair across from Mark where he's practically crushing my couch. I can't help noticing his dark blue T-shirt shows off the massive bulges of his muscular body to perfection, and his sweatpants stretch across his broad thighs.
"I just wanted to make sure everything was okay," he starts off, and my stomach gives a sickening drop. "I've noticed you kind of rush away when I see you—but maybe you're just busy? I wanted to make sure it wasn't me, anyways."
"No! No, you did nothing wrong!" I rush to tell him, utterly mortified that I've let my own issues make him feel bad.
"Great, that's a relief," he says, rubbing one hand self-consciously up the bristly hair on the back of his head. The underside of his herculean arm flares widely. "It's just, sometimes people are pretty intimidated by me, but they shouldn't be. If they just got a chance to talk with me, find out why I look the way I do..."
He seems kind of embarrassed, so I rush to assure him, "I'd love to talk with you about whatever you want. Anything that's bothering you. It's what I'm here for, but even beyond that, I'd be happy to get to know you. I mean," quickly rushing to cover up the fact that I almost said too much, "why don't you tell me? What you were talking about. Uh, why you look the way you do."
"You mean that?" He grins, making my stomach ache. But I can be professional and remember my role and the fact that it's impossible for anything to happen between us anyways. He continues, "So it started in high school. There were all these rumours, snide comments about me, saying I was gay. I mean, when I was too young to even know who I was into. It's just fucked up, you know? People making comments about you 'cause they think you're gay, when you don't even know if you are. I had this dumb thought, if I start working out, nobody'll think that. Nobody'd think a guy with muscle's queer. I was young at the time, okay. That's just how I saw it. And the thing is, it worked for the most part. The way people think is pretty shitty sometimes, hey? But anyways, it was addicting. I liked working out, I liked feeling strong and confident and not feeling intimidated anymore.
"I escaped the rumours and insults, but the really screwed up thing was that I was still just kind of running away. From the things they'd been saying about me, I mean. And to be honest, I was starting to wonder too. You probably won't believe this, but I didn't have the hots for anyone till I got into college. I mean, there were signs, but I saw my friends get obsessed over girls and I never felt that way about anyone—male or female. There were girls that approached me, but I always found some excuse, so they eventually stopped bothering. The old rumours were probably still there, but nobody had the guts to talk about it to my face."
"But since then, you've—I mean, you understand yourself better now, right? What you want."
"Oh, I know what I want now. At least, I dated a couple of girls after starting college and I thought I knew what I wanted. Until there was this... But you don't want to hear about that. It's pretty graphic. I shouldn't tell you that."
I'm no psychiatrist, but I think the operative word there is "shouldn't." Implying that he wouldn't mind talking about it, but he's afraid it's inappropriate. "Seriously, you can tell me anything."
