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Reply to Northlight or visit her websitePosted to the RoswellSlash mailing list January 2, 2001
Title: Straight (1/1)
Summary: Alex is dealing with some unwelcome feelings.
Distribution: Previous archivists. Anyone who asks. My site: http://www.geocities.com/northlight12/ros.html
Disclaimer: 20thC Fox and WB.
Date: Jan. 2, 2001.
Note: My first Alex fic!
My name is Alex Whitman, and I am officially a dumbass. What startling event leads me to this conclusion, you wonder? Easily answered, but not so easily explained. You see, I kissed Isabel Evans today. Tall, blonde, curvy, a teenaged boy's wet dream come to life. And she's been mine - wet dream, that is - since girls stopped having cooties.
Before last year, I never would have had a chance with her at all. But then, I found out that she and her brother and their friend (Max and Michael, for the uninformed) were aliens. And I was initiated into a very select group of individuals. Suddenly Isabel Evans knew my name and on occasion, actually _talked_ to me. Joy. But that wasn't enough. Oh, no. I didn't want, 'oh, Alex, you're sweet, but I'm not interested...'. I wanted 'come here, you stud, you.'
I think. Because things aren't as clear as they used to be. And I'm not just talking about aliens and FBI agents and interplanetary war and... well, you get the point. The thing is, Isabel Evans is gorgeous. She's smart. She's kind. Any hot blooded American male with any of his five senses intact would be panting at her heels. But I'm not, not now, and it's terrifying.
You see, it isn't as if I shifted my attention away from Isabel and towards some new drool-worthy image of the perfect woman. While shallow and all that, at least lusting after some new woman would be, well, man-like, right?
I don't know who I am anymore. I was waiting for Isabel in her living room, my tail would have been thumping in eager anticipation had I had one. Isabel was upstairs, fixing her makeup, I told myself, knowing she was probably trying to avoid me as long as possible. I heard footsteps, looked up, and found myself staring, mouth agape, at _Max_. Damp hair, sweat pants, bare feet and chest, and oh my God, what's _wrong with me?!_
I kissed Isabel Evans to prove that I was still me, that I still liked and wanted her, that I hadn't felt a surge of... _something_ when I saw Max. And it isn't working. I'm thinking of him, like something has just opened up inside of me and I'm seeing and thinking things that I never... Stop it, please. Make it go away. Make me _normal_ again.
My two best friends are females, one of whom just happened to be dating Max Evans. Not a problem. Or it wasn't. Except this new, highly disturbed me is suddenly remembering things that Liz and Maria giggled and gushed about. I'd rolled my eyes at them and turned up the television, but I still heard. Liz has an amazing mind for details. The way she described how Max kissed, I could almost imagine that I experienced it myself. Not that I'd wanted to, at the time. But now, I'm not me, and I'm thinking nonstop about what Liz said about how Max sounds when he moans.
I. Am. Not. Gay.
I'm just thinking about another guy's very nice chest and wondering what hearing him moan in person would be like. Perfectly normal, right?
No, I didn't think so.
It was just the surprise of seeing him like that. It's not like I dreamt about him last not, not as if I jerked off thinking about him. Because that would make me seem like something I'm not. And I'm _not_, do you get me?
I wish Isabel had slapped me, hit me hard enough to knock me back into place and these thoughts out of my head. I'm in serious lust with Isabel. I've even checked out Maria and Liz. My first kiss was with a pretty little redhead named Jenny. And _years_ of heterosexual conduct and beliefs and self-identification is _not_ negated by the recognition that Max is a good looking guy.
God, help me.
I'm just glad that Max can't dreamwalk.
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