Dallas liked Sylvia. He wasn't in love with her or anything, he wasn't in love with anybody, but she was real good-looking and alright company. They were on-again, off-again, and they knew their relationship wasn't going anywhere, but they sure could give each other a good time. He thought that was why they stayed together even when they were cheating and lying—neither one of them was concerned with love. It was just fun to be in a relationship, and they didn't need a reason why.
He and Sylvia would do just about anything together, not worried about getting into trouble, not even with the fuzz. They'd sneak into the drive-in, sit in the back, and get up things that no one really wanted to see, and it was fun, it was exciting. Dallas liked the way his hands fit around her waist and the way her lips felt against his. He liked opening his eyes and seeing that crazy smile of hers, and he would always smile back because she seemed like she was really enjoying herself. He liked her dark eyes and her matching hair, too; everything about her was beautiful.
Dallas liked Sylvia, he really did, and he liked other girls too. He liked greaser girls and Soc girls, even if he knew he didn't have a chance with them. There was no harm in looking, no harm at all. He liked those middle-class girls too, who seemed to be the most content with their lives. He never really went after them, just for that reason, just because he thought they shouldn't get wrapped up with the greasers and the Socs and the like. He thought they were real nice-looking, though. He did.
That's why it took him so long to realize he liked boys in that same way, and even longer for it to really sink in. He'd never had a crush on a boy, but he'd never had a crush on a girl either, not really. Dallas Winston didn't do crushes. He just looked at girls and decided whether or not he thought they were attractive, and if they were, then well he would try his best to get them into bed with him. That's what he did, with his smile and that dirty-talk.
The first time he'd ever thought of a boy that way, he was fifteen years old. Dallas had never seen him before, and he didn't look like a greaser or a Soc or even like someone who belonged in Tulsa at all. He had to have been visiting someone. He was just walking down the street, but he had these deep brown eyes, black hair, and tanned skin that made Dallas look at him for a couple seconds too long. The boy saw him staring, and it must have scared him because he looked down at his feet and walked a little faster. Smart, but Dallas wasn't staring with the intention to start a fight.
Dallas had actually been thinking about having him in bed instead of a broad, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Guys don't mess around with other guys. Sure, he'd met a few that did back in New York, but even there, most of the people he knew thought it was disgusting. He'd seen a guy get jumped for that, and they'd roughed him up real good. He didn't need to think too hard to know what would happen to guys like that in Tulsa. He didn't have to, anyway, because he wasn't one of them. It was just his hormones, that's all. He'd get over it.
He pushed it to the back of his mind, but he started having thoughts like that more and more. After a while, whenever he saw a real good-looking guy, he'd pick a fight. He wasn't sure why, but it made him feel a hell of a lot better. He won most of those fights, and he never saw any of those guys again. Dallas didn't know if it was by chance or if they were making an effort to steer clear of him. He did know that he wasn't actually into those guys, though, he just had bad thoughts sometimes. He was always having bad thoughts, those were just some of them, that's all. He'd get over it.
A couple months after he had turned sixteen, he'd picked a fight with Tim Shepard. They had been friends for a while, and Dallas had never had any bad thoughts—that's was he was calling them now—about him before. They were just sitting there one day, and Dallas was looking at Tim, who laughing at some dumb joke, and Dallas thought he would have liked to kiss him. He almost threw a punch right then and there, but he had a little bit of self-control. A little bit, but not a lot, and he was tipsy.
"Tim," he said, getting up off the couch, "I wanna blow off some steam. Let's fight, come on."
That confused Tim. "Dally, what the hell are you on about? Your ribs are still broken from the last time we fought, man, sit down. Drink some more, or somethin'."
"I'll be fine. I'll be fine, I've had worse, Tim, c'mon. I wanna fight."
"You're crazy," Tim said, and he threw the first punch.
Dallas lost that fight. His ribs hurt like hell, but he didn't regret it. He was lying on the floor, and so was Tim, because they were both pretty beat. Tim was the first to get up.
"Want a drink?" He asked, and Dallas just nodded.
Tim handed him a bottle of something, and Dallas was too tired to read the label before bringing it to his lips. He didn't stop drinking until he'd downed about half of it. He got off the floor eventually and sat down beside Tim again, but he didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say, and it's not like he was about to tell him what that fight was all about. It's not like he could.
After a few hours, tipsy had turned into drunk, and Dallas really couldn't keep his good thoughts and bad thoughts straight anymore. Maybe that was why when he thought about kissing Tim for about the fourth time, he actually did it. He didn't care anymore, and if Tim beat him up some more, he could say that was what he wanted. He wanted another fight, he was just crazy like that, that's what he could say.
It turns out he didn't need to say that, though, because of all the things Tim could have done, he kissed him back. Dallas didn't really didn't know what to do about that. He wasn't counting on that outcome. In fact, he hadn't even thought about it. He pulled back first.
"I'm not a queer. I'm not, I like girls. I'm drunk." He needed Tim to know that.
"Shut the hell up, Dallas Winston. I seen the way you were lookin' at me."
Dallas did shut the hell up, and Tim kissed him again. They did other things, too, and Dallas thought they'd never do it again. It was just a one-time thing, they were drunk, they didn't know what they were doing. Like he told Tim, he was drunk, that's all. He would get over it.
It wasn't a one-time thing, but he didn't tell anyone that. No one had a reason to know. It wasn't serious, anyway. They weren't serious, really. It was just like with Sylvia—neither one of them cared for love. Dallas Winston didn't do love.
When he was seventeen, he realized he had been in love with Johnny Cade for three years. It was too late to tell him that, though, because he was dead. Johnny had died and nothing Dallas could do would bring him back. He couldn't think of anything to justify his feelings this time, and he knew he wouldn't be getting over Johnny. Not ever.