Home is Where the Heart is

Adam walks Fiona home and she invites him in for a drink. Where will their conversations lead them now?

"So this is where you live," I say in awe as Fiona leads me in the front door to her apartment. The place is right out of a magazine. But lifesize, with a lifesized dose of intimidation.

She shrugs. "Yeah. It's all right."

"I'm almost afraid to sit on this couch," I continue, smoothing my hand over the plush, and obviously expensive, cushions.

"Why, because you might bleed through?" she teases.

I gulp. Hadn't thought of that. Shit. "Uh, yeah."

Fiona laughs whole-heartedly, and swings her arm around my shoulder. "Let me grab you a drink. And don't worry about the couch. It's been through a lot."

"It looks immaculate," I protest, and plop myself on the wood-panelled floor.

"A little champagne, good sir?" she calls from what I presume must be the kitchen.

"Are you kidding?"

She reappears in the archway leading to the next room. "Not at all. I'd say our newfound friendship requires a little celebration. Wouldn't you?"

"Of course, but –"

"Tut, tut!" And before I know it, a glass of champagne is flourished before me. I hold stem of the flute awkwardly, feeling as though my hands are as big as an ape's. The glass perched in Fiona's hand looks so natural it might have been attached to her at birth. This thought makes me blush with shame. It sounds mean. Like silver spoon in the mouth. Which I'm sure someone at some point has said to this fine young lady, by someone who didn't see her for so much more than her parents' money and privilege. Not like me. Not like how I see her.

Still, being in this model flat is slightly more than out of the ordinary for Plain Jane...Plain Dwayne?...me. I sip quietly at the bubbles until Fiona speaks up. She relates light-heartedly a story of how a cousin once told her that "queer" means when a guy has boobs or a girl has balls. And then launches into a tirade against factory-farmed animals that are stuffed with hormones that in some cases have been known to make guys "queer" as such.

I titter a little. But then I say: "You know, Fiona, we can talk about something other than anything related to the whole trans thing. Queerness, our periods, force-fed chickens...there's got to be something else we have in common."

"You're right, you're right, you're right," she quickly replies. "So do you think it's okay for a girl to have sex while she's bleeding?"

I roll my eyes, wanting to slam down the champagne flute for a moment. But I quickly check myself and just place it gently on a marble coaster seated on the coffee table. "Fi – this is what I was talking about. Something else, please?"

"Why, isn't it okay?" she asks with a bit of a whine. "Honestly, Adam, you're not just the first guy I could talk to about these things. I've never really talked about them to girls, either! When I first got my period, I was so excited to tell my best friends at the time. I spilled the news as soon as I got to school. But one said, 'God, what is wrong with you; I've had mine for two years already' and the other told me to keep it in my pants. And no one laughed harder than my sworn enemy – also a girl – when I bled through for the first time."

I almost choke on my current sip of champagne. "First time?" I repeat.

"Well, yeah, it happened a couple of times," she admits. "That's partly where the whole Drama Queen thing comes from. People started thinking I did it on purpose, for attention. Especially after the time I just go so fed up that I didn't even bother to run and hide and change my clothes. It was just a little brown spot, nothing big and red and sopping. But my reputation would never be the same..."

I laughed, but got the feeling she was bending the truth a little. "Fiona, you're incorrigible," I say, to please her.

"It was the talk of the Women's Club for months. So you see, to me it feels like periods are something girls use against each other. Or maybe some of them just hate their own period so much that they hate other girls for having them, too. So, you wanted to talk about something else?"

I did, but the implications of the question she had asked me right after I requested she change the subject are starting to dawn on me: do you think it's okay for a girl to have sex while she's bleeding? Was she...coming on to me? Like, in a big way?

"Whatever you want," I mumble vaguely, wiping what feels like a trace of sweat off my forehead.

And now she's off and chattering about her family's lakeside cottage, which by the sounds of it is more likely an immodest mansion, and all I can think is, Wow! How did this happen? One day we're barely friends, and the next...likely lovers...? I swoon at the thought.

Then I interrupt. "Yeah, I think it's more than okay."

"What?"

"You asked me, do you think it's okay for a girl to have sex while she's bleeding. So I said, yeah, it's more than okay."

"Oh...oh! We're back on that." I notice that Fiona's second glass is drained and mine is still full from the first go-round. She leans forward and droops her head upside-down right beside mine. "Most guys wouldn't think so," she points out, drawing a finger along the curve of my chin.

I shiver in response. "I'm not...most guys..." I trail off.

"So...messy!, they'd say," she declares, snapping her head back upside-right and pouring herself another glass. "So...icky. Revolting. Unnatural. But we know otherwise, don't we?" She lowers her voice at these last words, as though sharing a big secret.

And maybe it is a big secret. My body is absolutely pulsing, wanting her. My only hesitation now is the alcohol that she's poured down her hatch; could it be affecting what she's saying?

"You've been drinking..." I point out pathetically.

"Psssh!" she replies, then corrects me. "We've been celebrating! Now hold me, won't you dear?" And as she splays her body across mine, head over my shoulder, and her once-more empty champagne flute rolls away, I don't know whether to be delighted or concerned.

When I hear the slight snore, I know. Concerned. She's out.

I sigh. I guess Fiona has her own demons, too. But I don't care. I'm willing to take on anything, for her. But will she do the same for me, or am I just a novelty? I fear the latter, thinking of how she can't stop talking about our shared periods, etc. But she is a girl, after all, and I'm a guy, and maybe for a girl she's just into that. Fine, I can be, too. Like I said. I'll take on anything. As long as it's not just an indication that I'm a play-thing for her.

My thoughts are interrupted when the beautiful woman in my arms stirs. "Adam..." comes the little groan of a voice.

"I'm here," I reply.

"Thanks for walking me home."