Cut Both Ways Read Online Free

realize that I was me. Me, Will, Will Caynes; that it was me, this whole time. His friend. Who is not gay. Not gay. Clearly not.
    My dick isn’t even hard. I mean, not entirely. Not even half hard. About halfway to halfway hard.
    You’re half gay, then.
    â€œI’m not gay, Angus.”
    A quarter gay.
    â€œOkay,” he says. Still looking at me all weird, his eyes bright under his bandanna.
    â€œI’m not. I’m drunk.”
    â€œOkay,” he repeats. He looks behind him, at the playground. His hands are on his knees. “Sorry. Me, too. I’m drunk, I mean. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t thinking. I mean, I get it. I know. I know you’re not.”
    Half hard. Half gay. Quarter gay. Can Angus tell? Does he know? Can you sense that, when you’re gay? Because you have a dick, too, and you know how dicks act?
    Angus apologizes more. He’s very slow and deliberate about it. Like he’s waiting for me to tell him to stop. So I finally do.
    â€œAngus,” I say. “Stop apologizing.”
    â€œYou’re not mad?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou should hit me, Will. You can. If you want.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause. Because then you won’t feel weird.”
    I haven’t hit Angus in forever. Not since we were little kids. Hitting him now would be even weirder.
    I paw my hands through the wet grass, ripping up blades of it. My T-shirt is all wet in the back and feels cold and gross. I feel gross. Spinny. High and drunk.
    â€œI’m not hitting you, Angus. It’s not a big deal.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œI mean, don’t go telling people or anything.”
    â€œOf course not,” he says, sounding pissy.
    â€œI’m just saying, you know, I don’t want people to think the wrong thing. Not that it’s wrong, you know? I don’t care if you’re gay. I don’t.”
    â€œI know.”
    And then he stands up, like he’s mad at me, and we walk back to his house, faster than we’d walked away from it, and we go back into the garage and he starts dicking around with his guitar and we act like everything’s okay. And I feel okay, I guess. Not high as much, a little spinny, but still drunk. Drunk-okay, though.
    It’s like a thing that happened to somebody else. Like it wasn’t me doing that. Like it was just Angus, not me.
    Then he’s nudging me, because I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa.
    â€œWill,” he says. “Come on.”
    I sit up. Look at him. My eyes water. My mouth is dry.
    â€œI have to go home.”
    â€œYou can stay here if you want. My mom won’t care.”
    â€œI gotta go,” I say. I stand up, make a point to appear competent. I’m very slow, but I can walk. I can. I can do this.
    I walk down his driveway. I know he’s behind me, watching me, but I won’t turn around. I won’t. For a minute, I’m kind of wobbling. I think I won’t make it. I wish I was still on the garage couch. But somehow, the wide black sky above me, the stars brighter than before, I get home. My mom’s house is silent. The dishwasher is humming, the light above the stove is on.
    My bedroom at my mom’s is across from Jay’s office. There’s a bathroom right there, too; it’s kind of my bathroom, though Jayleaves his magazines and stuff in there. I’m the only one who uses the shower. The medicine chest is full of my stuff. I turn on the light and I pee. I pee for a long time. I pee for a thousand years, swaying while I stand. Listening for signs that my mom’s still awake. The sound of the television. The sound of her own toilet flushing or sink running. But nothing: just the dishwasher hum.
    In my bedroom, I strip off my clothes in a damp heap. Clunk down on the bed, which has a new comforter on it. Maroon with gray trim. My mom just bought it a few months ago, for no reason I could see. She just decides something needs to be