By Brian L. Cummins
Introduction to: Cautiously Optimistic by Brian L. Cummins
In a world where love is often framed by familiar tales of seamless connections and picture-perfect endings, many find solace in stories that reflect a reality more aligned with their personal experiences. "Cautiously Optimistic" is a short story that delves into the nuanced and often complex journey of seeking love within the LGBTQ+ community. This piece serves as a metaphorical exploration of the gay experience, capturing the delicate balance of hope and caution that defines our pursuit of relationships.
Growing up in a society that doesn't always embrace or understand same-sex relationships can instill a sense of uncertainty and hesitation. "Cautiously Optimistic" poignantly portrays this reality, illustrating how the longing for connection is often tempered by a guarded heart. Through a vivid metaphor and scenario, the story encapsulates the emotional landscape of clinging to any glimmer of possibility in love.
"Cautiously Optimistic" is more than just a story; it is a reflection of the resilience and courage it takes to seek love in a world that hasn't always shown acceptance. It speaks to the universal desire for connection and the specific hurdles faced by those whose love doesn't fit into traditional molds. Through its rich metaphors and heartfelt narrative, the story offers a window into the lives of those who love differently but just as deeply.
For anyone who has ever felt the sting of loneliness or the flicker of hope in a new relationship, "Cautiously Optimistic" is a reminder that love, in all its forms, is a journey worth embarking on, even when the path is uncertain.
Read Below:
Cautiously Optimistic
by Brian L. Cummins
Restless. I was restless. It took me a while to find the word. My mind was buzzing with electric thoughts and my pillow was simply a power source. The bright winter stars encouraged me to look and stare for as long as they pleased my eyes. The truth is, I could’ve stared forever. I wanted to. But I’d never been one to allow myself to accept enjoyment.
I had an exam approximately 4 hours after the realisation that I had overindulged in the beauty of the cosmic view from my bed, through that precious foggy window and the yellowed blinds. But, the realisation of my inability to sleep, and my body’s refusal to relax, just gave me an extra adrenaline rush. Worry was something that motivated my mind to wake for longer.
I had barely settled into my shared student accommodation, which was quite understandable in my opinion; moving counties, starting college, being thrown in the deep end in a brand new area, forced out of comfort, stress, exams, and so much more. How was I expected to be settled at all? Not to mention the sharing of a room with a complete stranger. A complete stranger who never spoke, might I add. But, my Mam always said ‘If a flower isn’t exposed to the sun, it won’t grow.’
Marcus, or ‘Marc’, as his pencil case’s label suggests; is my roommate. He was tall, and dark-skinned, had a confident aura, and was, I suppose, attractive. For lack of better words, yes, he was attractive, I hated that word, but it fit him. The whole time we had shared a room together for the first semester of college, we had barely spoken. It felt like a telepathic agreement to avoid awkward conversations. “We are in college together. The same course. The same year. We don’t speak to anyone in our classes. We share a room. Let’s ignore each other.”
It would've seemed unnecessarily awkward at first glance, but it worked. Constant communication is tiring, and I could tell he felt the same way. Our tongues prefer to remain dormant while our eyes and minds explore the world. Well. That’s what I assumed about him anyway.
I had grown to like him over the first few months of (knowing?) him. The version of him I had stitched together related to me more than anyone else ever has. We had completely different interests, friends, and upbringings, but somehow I could tell on an empathetic level, that we both saw the world through the same microscope.
I began to study him, I’d unwillingly stay up all night while my eardrums awaited any clues that he was also aware of me. Any sound excited me. As little as a snore would excite me to keep absorbing his patterns, and gather information, I wanted to know anything. Was there an end goal to this study? No. I just got caught up wanting to know why we were so similar without having to actually make any verbal connections. He was my mystery.
There was one particular time that a shift in his pattern intrigued me. I had accidentally fallen asleep with earphones in while listening to a lecture that I had missed out on. It, of course, had paused, so I wasn’t fully deaf to my surroundings. I slowly removed one earphone at a time to allow any and all vibrations to whack my eardrums with satisfaction; and satisfied I was.
I knew what the sounds he was making were immediately. I saw a faint light reflecting off of the white walls and knew he was watching porn. He wasn’t being discreet. He clearly wanted me to know. Was I making it obvious that I wanted to know all about him? Did he catch on? Is he also intrigued by me?
Moths of anxiety invaded my stomach, giants were pouncing on my heart to keep it beating as fast as possible, to get blood flowing urgently to all parts of my body, the circuits were frying in my brain, but my eyes and mind pushed passed every hint of worry and switched to autopilot. Before I knew it, I was joining in.
My dry hand was sensually slithering down my torso to a final destination of pleasure. “Let him know that you know he knows”. I didn’t try to be quiet. I had had enough of wondering at this point, I wanted my eyes and mind to wander to any place they liked whenever they pleased. He needed to know I was aware of him too. My flower had finally been exposed to the sun. I was blooming.
We were both quick. They always say that your first intimate experience never lasts long due to the momentum. I was drenched in my own pleasure, and I wanted to know if he was too, so I turned around to see his bed. All emotions predating pleasure had returned swiftly as soon as my sight lay on him.
He had a stack of blankets blocking my view. He had earphones on the entire time. He didn’t know anything. He was just innocently trying to discreetly masturbate in a shared room, and I mistook his innocence for filth. I was ashamed. Every ounce of enjoyment fled from me quicker than the germs from a sneeze. I laid there, dripping in shame, too stubborn to move, and watched him as he cleaned and prepared himself for sleep.
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