Cute
It's cute.
Malachi stared at the wall, the words tumbling over and over in his head, replayed like the lyrics and melody of an unwelcome song without the decency to stop after only a few dozen repeats. Except worse, because in this case, the melody was about Malachi, and, more specifically, his first real attempt at sexual banter. And even more specifically, it was about his penis.
It's cute.
Really, as far as backhanded compliments went, this one barely even mustered the strength to smack him across the face. Like all self-effacing individuals, however, this did not stop him from lowering his head, presenting his cheek, and even running into the limp-wristed verbal smack for good measure. Indeed, he had made such a habit out of stepping into the path of bullets dodged by others that he should have won a prize, except that they didn't make a prize for accidentally and continuously finding yourself in the middle of awkward situations. In fact, after twenty-two years of being awkward, the otter had begun to instead count the non-awkward spaces between the normal egg-on-face, foot-in-mouth feelings that pervaded him from waking by falling out of bed, to falling asleep on his face and forgetting to brush his fur. He called them normal moments, or "noments". He didn't have very many of them, and so he always tried to treasure them whenever he happened to stumble across one.
He had nearly had one yesterday, actually, in the form of a scene apparently fallen straight from a romance novel or slash fan fiction (he really only read the latter, but assumed it and the former were more or less identical). He was in the bedroom with his could-have-been-at-one-time-but-things-happen-and-people-who-aren't-you-move-on boyfriend, and they were naked together, and in the incredibly hot position that tends to happen just post-messiness where their dicks were touching, and both were a little sticky and had pleasant tastes in their mouths. Aaron, also an otter, had kissed him solidly on the mouth, and then started one of those conversations about insecurities wherein neither party is expected to tell the truth, and the majority of the talking involves a refutation of some ridiculous point or other. For example, if one partner says, "I don't like my hair, it's ugly," it is then the duty of the other to reply with something along the lines of, "Why, that's outrageous! I find shocking pink with black highlights is one of my favorite looks."
It was that conversation, except what Aaron had said was, "I think my penis looks weird."
Malachi, who styled himself a purveyor of the finer erotic works of literature and certain parts of the internet, nearly asphyxiated when he realized that he had been delivered a perfect situational line--and that he had the perfect line in response. He had reached down, taken Aaron's flesh in his hand and felt its warmth, described its shaped with his palm, and said, "I think you have a great cock." All right, so it wasn't going to win any Woodies for originality. Still, it was solid.
Aaron laughed and kissed him, and said Thanks, and that's when Malachi's luck became like the awkward he was used to, when he added, "Mine, on the other hand, looks all kinds of weird."
And Aaron had looked at him with that earnest fake seriousness, grabbed his cheeks, and said, "Aw, no it's not. It's cute."
Cute.
The thought on his mind as he stared at the wall was, How many guys ever get told their cock is cute? Does that mean it's not hot?
He looked at the door, on which a full-length mirror had been hung with command strips. Malachi had installed it in a bout of body-consciousness, right before he had resolved to visit the gym at least twice a week. (He had resolved to do this on seven separate occasions throughout the semester. Unfortunately, the mirror, which was placed at the foot of his bed, was less inspiring and more insidious in that it showed him, perversely, exactly what he looked like now, which was a little pudgy, and not at all like the people he normally associated with gyms, who were all buff and cut from granite. Upon seeing this hideously accurate representation of himself he invariably lost the will to be seen shirtless in public, and somehow the gym thing just never seemed to materialize.)
From his current orientation on the edge of his bed, his thigh blocked any view he had of his penis. It was probably a good thing. He wasn't feeling too well disposed towards it just now.
He walked to the window and looked out at the flat brick face of the high-rise dormitory next door. His window faced west, which meant that in the mornings he got a spectacular view of the sun's utter failure to douse the shadow of his own, much taller high-rise dorm building. Sometimes he stared out at it from his bed and tried to make a metaphor for his life, but the words never came, though sometimes the okapi athlete on the 17th floor did, and would stare accusingly back at him until Malachi slunk back around the wall to hide from view.
As he looked out at the perpetually-shadowed wall, the okapi crossed in front of his window, caught Malachi looking, and stared back.
For a long moment Malachi tried to defiantly hold the okapi's gaze, though his eyes kept sliding off to one side or the other. But he forced himself to look, telling himself, no, I will not be cowed from across a friggin' street! And by an okapi, no less. It's not even like they eat meat! And with that thought bolstering his resolve, he forced his gaze to meet the okapi, who was gesturing down at something. It took Malachi a moment to realize he was gesturing at his crotch. Malachi's ear twitched in frustration.
He flicked his middle finger at the okapi, who paused, and then bent out of the window frame. He returned with a notebook and a marker, with which he wrote, and then held against the window: CUTE.
And then, both ears twitched when he realized what the okapi meant by the gesture. He quickly ducked around the wall, hands instinctively covering his own crotch, which was otherwise completely naked.
Prophets damn it. Gonna be a fan_tastic_ day.