Any Normal Person Might
Sam's face on the television is almost too much to bear. Sam's face, Sam's smooth, pale, pretty face and the strong curve of his jaw (as though even in his sleep he is jutting out his chin in pretentious disapproval) and his rimless glasses that are both hip and sophisticated at the same time and make his face look like it's made of finely cut glass.
Sam's voice, which straddles every line; a mixture between naiveté' and power, between stern surety and endearing confusion, between political correctness and just yelling that you're so fucking wrong. Between gay, and straight as an arrow. It is almost too much to bear. Because he's up there and he's strong and quick and sure in that complete, all encompassing way that makes you feel calm, but he's also everything else. He's also yours, in a way. A little piece of him is also yours.
You never know what you're going to get when you get Sam. Hell, you never even know until the last second if you're going to get Sam Seaborn at all.
When he shows up at your front door after the show tonight, and he has a bottle of champagne ("this is how we always do it, isn't it?") and a smile that is so quick and sure that nothing gets in the way, he is definitely a little bit yours.
"We kicked some real ass tonight, Josh."
"No, you kicked some PC, superficial ass tonight, Sam."
"Well who the fuck cares, I'm drunk."
No, Sam, you're not. You're just sober enough to not be drunk, and that's why this works. Because you're always sober. Always sober enough to say you're drunk and believe it a little. All you need is a little.
All you need is the space between where you're buddy-buddy in the hall (grabs your shoulder pats your back one armed hug), to where you're kissing ten feet away against the kitchen wall (aftershave travel-toothpaste not that it tastes different regret sex), to where you're taking off his shirt five feet from there to the doorway (sweat six-pack half-closed eyes maybe you can pretend your with a woman), from where you're undoing your belt next to the bed only seven feet from the doorway (try pretending now) and then it's just skin and sweet lies lies lies and nobody cares because you already know what you're going to say in the morning.
You let him pretend to believe you have a hangover and you take an aspirin or two, a cup of coffee to go and then it never happened. That is until the next time it happens, because next time, just like this time, it will happen like clockwork, like you've been practicing, like you could set your watch.
You're almost to the kitchen wall. He tells you that he's drunk and you're almost to the kitchen wall where it all starts.
"You're going to do this again Sam."
"Is that bad?" His face, his pretty pretty face is so near and he smells like Crest toothpaste and chlorine, somehow in a good way.
"You're going to do this again."
"So are you."
And then he's kissing you and it's the same as it always is; perfect. He will be gone before seven tomorrow, but for now it's just perfect. Just enough to allow you to play the game, dance the dance and pretend it's all fresh and innocent.
You are usually on top but tonight you aren't. He senses that you're uneasy and he takes the moment to be that other Sam, that Sam that will tell you to roll over and take it. You do and you wonder if he's spending his time telling that to anyone else.
The sex is hard, as they say, and it hurts and feels great at the same time, just like it's supposed to, and you have to jack yourself off, which is the cold, simple way it always is with Sam.
Sam Seaborn. Sam Seaborn is just one big, walking jack off, in the most literal sense of the phrase.
Josh can feel that way at 1:42 in the morning when Mr. Off is already asleep, seven minutes after climax.
Josh can think that Sam means only heat and sex and a pretty face when the bed is still wet with the two of them and he sleeps anyway, when Josh realizes that the last thing Sam said to him before he fell asleep was, "Roll over and take it."
When he feels so utterly *fucked* that it hurts in every way possible. When he feels so fucked that he can motivate himself to stand up, naked above his waist (which Sam would say wasn't really naked at all just asking to be naked) and go lay down on the couch.
When Josh Lyman can feel so utterly fucked that he actually allows a tear or two to come before he falls asleep cursing himself and Sam alternately and tasting Crest toothpaste that he doesn't own.
But he can't feel that way when he wakes up with a comforter wrapped around him warmly. Or when he smells eggs being cooked. Or when he hears quiet, slow humming of Simon and Garfunkel's "America" coming from the kitchen. Or when he gets up and realizes his sheets are changed and the washer is going and there's an apologetic crease between Sam's eyebrows that can mean anything Josh decides it should. Or when he glances nonchalantly at the clock to see that it is 7:01am and Sam is just handing him a plate.
Josh smiles. "Did you bring eggs with you?"
"What?"
"I don't own eggs. You made eggs. Did you bring eggs with you last night?"
"Why must you second guess everything Joshua Lyman. Why must all good things be second guessed by you?"
"I'm saying, I know I don't have eggs. I am firstly guessing that you brought them with you, and I'm wondering how you don't find that funny."
Sam smiles. "I bought them this morning while you were asleep."
Josh waits a moment, smiles wider. "That's pretty good."
Sam's eyes are like diamonds and they shine from every angle. "It's okay."
"Any normal person might take the fact that I don't own eggs as a tell-tale sign that I don't like eggs."
"But not me."
"But not you." Josh waits another moment, because this is the light, easy kind of conversation they have all the time. Because this is what they are, why ruin it? "Any normal person might take that for a kind of romantic gesture, I guess." He says without being too offhanded.
Sam smiles through his insecurity and smiles as though they are still teasing. "Yeah, I guess any normal person might."
fin
Sam's face on the television is almost too much to bear. Sam's face, Sam's smooth, pale, pretty face and the strong curve of his jaw (as though even in his sleep he is jutting out his chin in pretentious disapproval) and his rimless glasses that are both hip and sophisticated at the same time and make his face look like it's made of finely cut glass.
Sam's voice, which straddles every line; a mixture between naiveté' and power, between stern surety and endearing confusion, between political correctness and just yelling that you're so fucking wrong. Between gay, and straight as an arrow. It is almost too much to bear. Because he's up there and he's strong and quick and sure in that complete, all encompassing way that makes you feel calm, but he's also everything else. He's also yours, in a way. A little piece of him is also yours.
You never know what you're going to get when you get Sam. Hell, you never even know until the last second if you're going to get Sam Seaborn at all.
When he shows up at your front door after the show tonight, and he has a bottle of champagne ("this is how we always do it, isn't it?") and a smile that is so quick and sure that nothing gets in the way, he is definitely a little bit yours.
"We kicked some real ass tonight, Josh."
"No, you kicked some PC, superficial ass tonight, Sam."
"Well who the fuck cares, I'm drunk."
No, Sam, you're not. You're just sober enough to not be drunk, and that's why this works. Because you're always sober. Always sober enough to say you're drunk and believe it a little. All you need is a little.
All you need is the space between where you're buddy-buddy in the hall (grabs your shoulder pats your back one armed hug), to where you're kissing ten feet away against the kitchen wall (aftershave travel-toothpaste not that it tastes different regret sex), to where you're taking off his shirt five feet from there to the doorway (sweat six-pack half-closed eyes maybe you can pretend your with a woman), from where you're undoing your belt next to the bed only seven feet from the doorway (try pretending now) and then it's just skin and sweet lies lies lies and nobody cares because you already know what you're going to say in the morning.
You let him pretend to believe you have a hangover and you take an aspirin or two, a cup of coffee to go and then it never happened. That is until the next time it happens, because next time, just like this time, it will happen like clockwork, like you've been practicing, like you could set your watch.
You're almost to the kitchen wall. He tells you that he's drunk and you're almost to the kitchen wall where it all starts.
"You're going to do this again Sam."
"Is that bad?" His face, his pretty pretty face is so near and he smells like Crest toothpaste and chlorine, somehow in a good way.
"You're going to do this again."
"So are you."
And then he's kissing you and it's the same as it always is; perfect. He will be gone before seven tomorrow, but for now it's just perfect. Just enough to allow you to play the game, dance the dance and pretend it's all fresh and innocent.
You are usually on top but tonight you aren't. He senses that you're uneasy and he takes the moment to be that other Sam, that Sam that will tell you to roll over and take it. You do and you wonder if he's spending his time telling that to anyone else.
The sex is hard, as they say, and it hurts and feels great at the same time, just like it's supposed to, and you have to jack yourself off, which is the cold, simple way it always is with Sam.
Sam Seaborn. Sam Seaborn is just one big, walking jack off, in the most literal sense of the phrase.
Josh can feel that way at 1:42 in the morning when Mr. Off is already asleep, seven minutes after climax.
Josh can think that Sam means only heat and sex and a pretty face when the bed is still wet with the two of them and he sleeps anyway, when Josh realizes that the last thing Sam said to him before he fell asleep was, "Roll over and take it."
When he feels so utterly *fucked* that it hurts in every way possible. When he feels so fucked that he can motivate himself to stand up, naked above his waist (which Sam would say wasn't really naked at all just asking to be naked) and go lay down on the couch.
When Josh Lyman can feel so utterly fucked that he actually allows a tear or two to come before he falls asleep cursing himself and Sam alternately and tasting Crest toothpaste that he doesn't own.
But he can't feel that way when he wakes up with a comforter wrapped around him warmly. Or when he smells eggs being cooked. Or when he hears quiet, slow humming of Simon and Garfunkel's "America" coming from the kitchen. Or when he gets up and realizes his sheets are changed and the washer is going and there's an apologetic crease between Sam's eyebrows that can mean anything Josh decides it should. Or when he glances nonchalantly at the clock to see that it is 7:01am and Sam is just handing him a plate.
Josh smiles. "Did you bring eggs with you?"
"What?"
"I don't own eggs. You made eggs. Did you bring eggs with you last night?"
"Why must you second guess everything Joshua Lyman. Why must all good things be second guessed by you?"
"I'm saying, I know I don't have eggs. I am firstly guessing that you brought them with you, and I'm wondering how you don't find that funny."
Sam smiles. "I bought them this morning while you were asleep."
Josh waits a moment, smiles wider. "That's pretty good."
Sam's eyes are like diamonds and they shine from every angle. "It's okay."
"Any normal person might take the fact that I don't own eggs as a tell-tale sign that I don't like eggs."
"But not me."
"But not you." Josh waits another moment, because this is the light, easy kind of conversation they have all the time. Because this is what they are, why ruin it? "Any normal person might take that for a kind of romantic gesture, I guess." He says without being too offhanded.
Sam smiles through his insecurity and smiles as though they are still teasing. "Yeah, I guess any normal person might."
fin