Andrew Oppenheimer stood about 5 feet 4 inches and looked like a miniature version of the guy I was currently dating. I saw him dancing wildly like one of those hippies at Jazzfest under the flashing lights of the bar. I immediately glanced at my group of friends, pointed with two fingers at the crazy little man with the white mohawk, and screamed “DIBS!”
I asked a mutual friend to introduce us, and he did. I was dressed in my standard going-out/living uniform: Ralph Lauren button down, backwards camouflage Texas A&M hat, colored J.Crew chino shorts, and auburn loafers. Some queers would call it “straightboy drag,” but I’ve been dressing like some sloppy fratboy since I was old enough pair khaki with seafoam. I blame my father. It’s not really a “look” so much as it is “laziness.” Fratboy chic is like the tofu of guy fashion. I can wear this shit to a bar, or church, or work. Sometimes in that order without washing anything.
Meanwhile, I was certain that I was going to screw Andy within the first few minutes of meeting him. But for the sake of making this as “organic” as possible, I flirted and made him laugh as much as I could. I was committed to making this happen whether he liked it or not. And I’m pretty sure he did. Because we were making out on wall near the door before I had time to shake his and had and say “Nice to meet you. My name [sloppy kissing noises].”
I scammed him into letting me and six friends stay at his apartment so that we didn’t have to drive back home hammered. I wore his San Antonio High School gym shorts without a shirt, and he wore a matching set of UT Austin pajamas. Remember that time I said I tend to ignore big red flags? Case in point: matching set of UT Austin pajamas. Before we slept together the first time, I told him that I was sort-of talking to someone. He said that it was ultimately my decision that I would have to live with. So I put on some clothes, rustled up my friends (most of which had brought other strange men to Andy’s apartment), and drove back home smiling with my head held high. And that’s how I began my life of in the clergy.
After me and my clan of horny misfits left in the morning, I gave Andy my number and we continued to talk and meet up at my place or his for the next few weeks. Then one Saturday while I was in New Orleans, I got trashed and tried calling and texting him to let me come over. He didn’t respond, so I did the logical thing — barge in on him. Unfortunately, the front gate at his complex was locked, so I hopped the iron fence and landed on my ass in a mud puddle. I picked myself up, mounted the stairs to his apartment, and began to pound (not knock) on the door. After standing there covered in mud-sweat and swaying with extreme obliteration for a solid five minutes, I got tired and drove home.
Andy texted me the next night to chastise me for showing up unannounced. And when I told him that a simple response to my texts would have prevented me from showing up, he told me that he couldn’t text me when he was his boyfriend. I stood in my living room with the phone next to my ear for several seconds before hanging up.
“Cheating asshole,” I thought as I tossed my phone onto my bed and walked into the other room where my boyfriend was watching TV.
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