09/04: Male romance options

You thumb through the male options, remembering what you can of your past life.

Aaron: He’s your brother. Not by blood, but by every metric that matters. A lovable, comic-book-obsessed best friend who uses humor as a shield. You see his easy grin, the rich, dark chocolate of his skin, and his close-cropped black hair. He’s tall and solid, with broad shoulders from playing trombone and a surprisingly athletic frame. The memory shifts, and you’re back in his basement, both of you a little drunk on cheap beer. You make a pact, hatched from a fit of dorky, adolescent panic: if neither of you has a date by senior prom, you’ll go together and 'take care of the virginity problem.' Even then, you can't help but notice the solid set of his thighs in his jeans, the noticeable weight between them as he talks. But he finds a girlfriend a month before the dance. You don't. The memory sours. You know now that you let that bond wither under the weight of your own shame.

Ryan: A 6'5" football jock who ruled the school through charisma and cruelty. You remember his frame filling doorways, with broad shoulders and powerful, corded arms. He was the apex predator of Northwood High, a physical specimen built for domination, from his thick neck to his tree-trunk thighs. He was the archetypal jock with a chiseled jaw and a condescending smirk. The clearest memory is from sophomore year when he and his friends cornered you, shoving you against the lockers. You remember the feeling of his heavy hand on your chest, the smell of his cologne, and the sheer, helpless humiliation of being so utterly overpowered, your eyes level with his thick, powerful neck. His physical presence was an intimidation tactic all on its own, a constant reminder of your own weakness. That memory is the core of your regret.

Leo: Mr. Student Council President. Polished, charismatic, and projecting an image of effortless success. You remember his perfectly styled dark hair that contrasted with his warm skin, a hint of his Lebanese-American heritage. His features were strong and defined, and he looked effortlessly good in a button-down shirt that stretched just right across a lean, toned chest. You saw him once, late after school, after losing the election for junior class president. He was sitting alone in a classroom, his perfect mask gone, his tie loosened, looking utterly defeated. It was a rare crack in his polished armor. You just walked by, glad to see him fail. You regret not seeing the person then, not noticing the subtle tension in his shoulders that spoke of a pressure you couldn't imagine.

Slim: A cynical skater punk with unkempt hair, sharp cheekbones, and a sneer. He had a lean, wiry build—a classic twink physique of sharp angles and hidden, tensile strength, his pale white skin a canvas for the faded, intricate tattoos peeking out from his collar and sleeves. The memory from eighth grade is still sharp and shameful. Some older kids were pressuring you behind the gym, and you panicked when a teacher rounded the corner. Your pointing finger landed on Slim, who was just skating nearby. He took the fall, getting detention for something he didn't do. You let it happen, and you remember being acutely aware of him in the hallways after that, noticing the lean, hard lines of his body under his tight, worn-out jeans. You just knew he hated you, and you spent years avoiding him.

Jacques: The sophisticated charmer. He arrived from Haiti your junior year, a transfer from a wealthy family with deep ties to both Port-Au-Prince and Paris. You remember his smooth, deep brown skin, high cheekbones, and dark, soulful eyes. He had a dancer's lean and muscular physique, moving with an effortless grace that was captivating. You remember him in French class, answering a question in that fluid, formal Parisian accent, a product of his privileged upbringing. The entire class, including the teacher, was mesmerized. You felt clumsy and hopelessly suburban in his presence, your eyes drawn to the way his fashionable, tight-fitting trousers accentuated every line of his dancer's physique, including the generous bulge that promised a power far less refined than his accent.

Caleb: The quiet musician. An introvert who found social interaction draining and communicated almost exclusively through his music. You have a vague memory of him on stage, his shaggy, dark blond hair and calm blue eyes a striking contrast against the warm, golden undertones of his Latino skin. He had a slender, sensitive build, with long, dexterous fingers that moved over his guitar with hypnotic grace. You remember seeing him at a school assembly once, playing a solo piece, his focus absolute. But other than that, he was almost completely unknown to you.