“Deeper feelings,” I said, trying to salvage the situation. “Like, deeper than I thought.” And that technically wasn’t a lie, because any feelings at all would be deeper than I thought. It made sense in my head. Mostly.
“Do you love him?” Paul demanded.
“What? Gross. No!”
“Oh boy,” Paul said. “Because that’s an age-appropriate response to have. And what the hell is causing you to freak out about this? Did he slow-bone you? Oh my god, he did, didn’t he? I bet that’s it. I bet he slow-boned you and now you’re freaking. Was it good? Was it a good slow-bone and now you’re having all these feelings?”
“Do I even want to know what a slow-bone is?”
“You know, looking deep into your eyes while he fucks you all slow like. Like your two souls are becoming one, your hearts beating at the same time, your breaths mingling as he thrusts his penis into your fluttering hole and makes your skin come alive with the fire of a thousand suns and you just know at that moment that he’ll hold you forever in his arms and everything will be just fine. And then you both orgasm at the same time because your bodies know what you need from each other and you’re just so in sync and in love and everything is wonderful. And afterwards, you lie in each other’s juices and just bask in the scents of your lovemaking until it’s dried into your skin and then you go and giggle in the shower before you go make bacon or go out for fro-yo. You know. Slow-bone.”
“That’s not even a real fucking thing!” I snapped at him.
“It’s a thing,” he insisted. “Everyone knows that. There are reputable articles on it and everything in Cosmo and on BuzzFeed. I’ve read them. It helps you achieve a higher state of being when you slow your bone.”
“I hate to break it to you, but BuzzFeed should not have the word reputable coming before it unless it’s sarcastic. They have lists on there where they try and guess your age based upon the type of music you listen to. It’s fucking stupid.”
“Yeah, I took that quiz. It said I was one hundred and forty years old. I think I did it wrong.”
“Maybe you should stop listening to music played by topshuurs. You are not Mongolian, no matter what Nana says.”
“We saw a monk play a topshuur in Asia,” Paul said. “Vince said it was life changing. And then we got drunk and accidentally insulted someone’s grandma. It was awkward. White people are terrible. It’s cool. We still have the slow-bone.”
“Please tell me you and Vince don’t do that,” I begged. “And also, please find out a way to send me back in time so I never have to hear you describe the term slow-bone to me ever again. If I had to list the top five traumatizing things that have ever happened to me, that would be number four. At least.”
“Oh please,” Paul said with a sniff. “You mock because it’s never happened to you. Trust me, once you feel the power of the slow-bone, you won’t ever feel the same way again.”
“Stop saying slow-bone,” I hissed at him.
“It’s a magical thing,” Paul said. “One day, you’re going to call me and say, ‘Hey, Paul. You were right. Darren just slow-boned my butthole and I never should have doubted you. I’m so in touch with my feelings, you don’t even know.’ And I’ll say, ‘Of course I know, dear friend. I too am in touch with my slow-bone feelings. Let us have feelings together.’ And then we will. And probably also eat some pie. Pecan, preferably. No whip cream, though, because people that put whip cream on pecan pie should be dragged out into the streets and shot.”
“Paul.”
“Right. Sorry. I got distracted again. There was a commercial on TV for a cheese grater and that led me to think about mice and that led to chipmunks who store nuts for the winter and pecans are nuts and there you go.”
“Sometimes, I don’t think people quite understand the depths that you go to to find some way to confound me.”
“Slow-bone depths,” he whispered into the phone.
“Paul!”
“I really don’t understand what the big deal is,” he said. “So you like him. More than you thought. That’s what supposed to happen in relationships. The longer you’re together, the more the feelings grow.”
“I’m not ready for him to know,” I said, trying to find some sliver of truth to give him.
“Okay. Well shit.”
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“What?”
“Uh, you’re not exactly good at hiding feelings when you have them. In fact, you get downright awkward. I was wondering when that was going to happen with Darren. I was surprised it hadn’t happened already.”
“Says you,” I retorted. “I’m the Meryl Streep of masking feelings, you motherfucker. And I don’t have an awkward bone in my body.”
“Okay. Tenth grade. Sam Haversford. You had a crush on him and every time he tried to talk to you afterward, you would squeak, turn red, and then laugh that really high-pitched fake laugh before running away.”
“Okay. So. One time.”