Orientation: The Benchmarks Series

my life had I been reduced down to the demands of my dick. Sure, it had made its desires known but this…this was torture.
"—and my friend Joseph does this cool thing where he and his partner host these nights, like Spanish night or French night or whatever. They call it ‘Eat the Globe’ and we only speak Spanish or French while we're there and we eat Spanish or French food. It's awesome. You'll meet them soon. They're awesome. They're the best guys. Oh, and trivia nights. I bet you're a boss at trivia. You are going to adore Tom. Maybe we could go next week. What d'you think?"
I paused, my taco an inch from my mouth. "Wait—what? Where are we going next week?"
It was after midnight. We'd been together—and having a great though exhausting, sexually frustrating time—since the afternoon. It would be another hour before I was back at my Quincy apartment. And now we were penciling in plans for next weekend? I wasn't sure I'd be fully recovered by then.
"To trivia." Max glanced over at me from his side of the park bench we'd chosen for this late-night taco supper. "It's at the best little tavern and—"
I set the taco down, wiped my hands, and stared at the ground as I tuned out the finer points of Max's friend group trivia traditions. I didn't know how to explain to someone I liked and wanted to spend more time with that I'd had fun but this was not my normal. I was willing to step beyond the bounds of my comfort zone—and those avoidant tendencies—but I couldn't do that every single weekend and be a functional teacher during the week. I didn't operate on the same fuel as Coach Maximum—I needed downtime and quiet and a heavy pour of predictability.
I rubbed my forehead. "Max. Listen."
"Yeah?" He leaned closer, dipped his head to catch my gaze. "What's up?"
He looked so sweet. So sweet. And concerned. He peered at me like he truly wanted to hear what I had to say, and I just didn't think I could bear to dim the light in his eyes. Not on my stupid, anxious, fretful account.
"You're right. I am into trivia," I said. "That sounds incredible and so do your friends. Sign me up for French night. I'll bring the brie en croute."
"But? Because I heard the but."
"But…" I trailed off. I wasn't good at articulating my needs. I wasn't good at disagreeing or saying no, even when it was in my best interest. I didn't like making my issues someone else's problem—not being a problem was a core principle of my anxiety—though I had the strange sense Max could handle my problems. That he'd be offended if I didn't share them. "But you should know my bedtime is ten p.m., and on most school nights, I'm tucked in with a book by nine. I had an amazing time, Max, fully amazing, though I'm not sure I'll ever be able to pack a baseball game and a concert, plus stops at a sports bar and a Somerville taco stand into one date again."
"I went a little overboard, huh?"
I replied with a shrug-nod. "I had an amazing time," I repeated. "But I'm gonna need some hot tea and a lazy day in bed after all this."
"I can accommodate those needs," Max replied, his gaze heating.
"Max…"
He laughed, but I knew he was serious. If I agreed, he'd escort me to his bed and keep me there the remainder of the weekend. In many ways, I wanted that. I wanted to be with Max, to open myself up to him in every way, to get lost in him. But I also wanted to be cautious with him. This wasn't a race and there was no penalty for taking it slow.
And I was pretty sure I'd developed a blister on one of my toes. There was nothing sexy about that.
"As nice as that sounds, I don't think I'm ready to add that to today's adventure. I'm too tired to be polite—"
"I don't allow good manners in my bed anyway," he interrupted.
"You know, Max," I started as I dropped my head on his shoulder, "that doesn't surprise me."

4
Max
I pulled a navy blue sweater over my head, immediately whipped it off, and added it to the pile forming on my bed. Wrong. All wrong.
My wardrobe consisted of t-shirts, polo shirts, and sweatshirts. My non-gym-teacher apparel was limited. And all of it was wrong.
"This would be easier if I had a damn clue where we were going," I grumbled to myself.
Since I'd turned our first date into a chapter from The Hobbit, I suggested Jory plan the next outing. That way, he was guaranteed to enjoy himself, and I'd learn what he liked. Because I obviously had no clue and when I'd tried to feel him out before our first date, he'd insisted he was up for anything. He'd repeated that sentiment the whole night too.
I wasn't the sharpest tack in the box, and sometimes I failed to read between the lines, but I'd checked in a bunch of times that night and he'd given me every indication of having a wicked good time. I'd realized at the taco stand that some of his smiles were more like grimaces and it seemed to me he'd only let those slip by because I'd put him through a marathon of fun and he was too tired to censor himself.
No more of that. Nope. It should've dawned on me while I'd asked him out a half dozen times only for him to respond with wide, overwhelmed eyes, fidgety hands, and a gentle change of topic. Jory liked slow. He needed it that way—and I had to adjust accordingly. It didn't matter whether my whole body clenched when he smiled or I got a massive endorphin rush from seeing his name in my text message inbox. Jory favored a slower, steadier approach and it was on me to adapt.
Tonight, I'd make sure he was tucked