"Outdoorsy"

Found this in my phone from February 22, 2014:

That is all.

End of blog post.

Tarzan

The Height of Luxury - Part I

Every now and then, I’ll look over at John and he’ll be looking down at his phone, scrolling through the pictures of the stripper from last night.

“Can’t stop, huh?” I ask.

“Every time I see him,” he says. “I stop breathing.”

“He was a goddamn superhero,” I say. “Like when he turned on the shower and started whipping his hair around and flinging water all over the crowd.”

“Oh God,” says John. “It’s like my dick can hear you. I bet if I covered my ears, my dick would still be like, Are you guys talking about Tarzan?! Is Tarzan here?!’’

I laugh and then I roll down all the windows when I see John reach for the pack of cigarettes in the cupholder. The Texas summer wind zigzags in and out of the car — roaring over the song we’re listening to: She’s A Lady by Tom Jones. When we took this exact same road trip last year, our anthem was Rock The Boat by Hues Corporation. This time, for no particular reason, we’ve adopted She’s A Lady as the Independence Gay Weekend 2014 theme song. “This song sounds like something from the Miss Congeniality soundtrack,” John says. “Yeah,” I add. “It sounds like the perfect song to introduce a drag queen. She would never perform it, but she would definitely walk out to it.” He side-eyes me and nods as if to say, exactly.

Two nights ago, on a Thursday, we left Lafayette around six and arrived at Nick’s house in Houston in the shallow end of the night. We went to a strip mall gay bar called Guava Lamp where we stumbled upon a drunk mob of singers and dancers with the touring company of The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas, who for four solid hours continued to drink like monsters and perform choreographed dance routines to songs unrelated to the choreography. Needless to say, it was fucking spectacular.

The next day was July 4th, which we spent beside a pool at Joey’s apartment, surrounded on all sides by Mexican teenagers who grilled hot dogs and played screechy, incoherent mariachi music from a boom box that looked like the same one that’s covered in dust and rat shit in the shed behind my parents’ house. When it started raining, I took cover but John and Joey stayed in the pool, insisting the rain was only passing.

Joey invited us to a party in Rice Military, so we got ready and ordered a ride. We don’t have Uber in Lafayette, so we thought it might be fun to try in Houston. A peppy black lady with hair bundled like a sheaf of wheat picked us up at twilight. She said it was her second day as an Uber driver, which was obvious by her scattered, overenthusiastic attempt to talk to the strangers in her car. She didn’t seem nervous, just jumpy and obnoxious. She asked us questions, and nodded, and smiled, and then asked more questions until we arrived at our destination. Her sugary disposition and apparent need to make others comfortable and engaged forced me to take a good, hard look at my own cynicism. And before exiting the car and mounting the stairs to the party, I decided that the friendly, conversational characteristics of a Southerner were not within me — and never were. I felt like a contradiction; a New Orleans native who finds friendly small talk between people who don’t need anything from one another painful and embarrassing. Like I was raised by animals in the jungle — seeing agendaless human social interaction as mystifying. And that’s when I thought, out loud, “I need a drink.”

The party was hosted by a pair of gay real estate agents at a home that could have been featured in Shit You’ll Never Own Magazine. Joey introduced us around and we tried not to gawk at the furniture and artwork. “We need to make a good impression,” whispered John. “I want to stay here next time.” I poured myself a glass of Grey Goose over ice from a crystal decanter with a sterling silver charm around its neck that read, Vodka. I repeated this exercise for the duration. The house was five stories with a rooftop patio that overlooked the Houston skyline. We climbed to the top, surveyed the panoramic view, and headed back down the stairs for another drink. A man with wild eyes and a voice like Harvey Fierstein stood on the landing, gesturing for us to follow him towards a door. “Why don’t you kids just take the elevator with me?” he said. John and I looked at one another. “Of course there’s a fucking elevator,” I said rolling my eyes. And then John screamed, “This is the height of luxury!”

I was introduced to a CPA who had the power to make me bored and also sexually indifferent. When he walked away, John said, “Geez, he’s had some work done.” I said I hadn’t noticed. John looked at me like I was screwing with him, which I wasn’t. “You didn’t see how his left eyebrow was pulled all the way back to his hairline?” “No,” I said. “I just assumed he was intrigued by everything.” I arched my eyebrow and pursed my lips, causing John to snort-laugh into his drink.

After the fireworks, we decided to head to the bars. I was considerably drunk and John was not far behind me, as evident by the volumes of our voices inside the second Uber car. That ride did not inspire a bleak, depressing self-realization the way the first one had because I was much too busy asking the driver if she could play “a black girl song” because I was “feeling like a black girl.” Also, the driver was a black girl and she stopped acknowledging me after three minutes.

Like many gay bars, Meteor has a stage on which drag queens and dancers can perform. Unlike many gay bars, Meteor has a multi-head shower in the middle of the stage, backed by a stone-tiled wall. We’d been drinking and socializing for hours when we finally sat down on a couch in front of the stage. John sat in the middle, flanked be me one side and a giant Mexican on the other side, who used his thumb and index finger to steady the straw in his drink every time he took a sip. John turned to him without provocation and asked his name. He said Ricky. John asked who he was with. He said no one. Then John said, “Good. You’re with us now.” Ricky looked ecstatic. And that’s when Turn Down For What came on and the lights changed. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen..."

I didn’t see him walk onto the stage. I only saw him everyone started screaming and whistling. He was the type of man you would see at the beach and drop your sunglasses to get a better look when he passed by. And he shook his ass impossibly. At the age of 25, I’ve seen more strippers in my lifetime than the average rap artist. But this guy — this Tarzan-looking guy — he was an unbelievable showman. To be honest, I wouldn’t have looked away if the place was on fire. And when it was all over, John and I sat next to each other dumbfounded and oddly horny for being in public. Then John turned to Ricky and said, “Get up Ricky, you’re coming with us to the next place.”

John’s awake now and Marc Maron is interviewing Jared Harris on the podcast I’m listening to. I accidentally forgot to set a route for Austin, and I’ve only just realized it upon entering San Antonio. I thought I could just travel west from Houston and end up in Austin, which was apparently fucked. So now we’re headed north up through Lockhart with another hour of driving ahead of us.

But I don’t mind.

It’s been exactly a year since John and I visited Houston and Austin together.

Last year, he was moving to New York at the end of summer, so we took one last road trip before he left for good. That whole weekend was bittersweet and I’d often find myself trying not to cry when I looked at him. But then, his plans changed and he moved from Lafayette back to New Orleans, which is only a two-hour drive instead of a plane ride.

We certainly didn’t think we would have this opportunity again last year, but look where we are! I'm not taking it for granted, though. This is special. But right now, I’m driving to one of my most favorite cities in the world with my best friend sitting next to me.

This is the height of luxury.

Where Do I Come In?

I’m a three position max kind of guy. After that, I’m lying on my back and I’m cranking it out ‘til something happens or I fall asleep.

My idea of adventurous sex involves moving. And if I do anything besides flat-back (stand, squat, bend, sit, prop myself up on one elbow, elevate my body into a push-up position, etc.), it’s only to prove I’m still athletic enough to do it. Meaning that it’s not for your pleasure, it’s for my reassurance. But just to reiterate: I cap off at three.

I never know what to do with my hands when receiving a blowjob. When I was 14, this guy on the wrestling team named Greg Duplechain told me that you should always rub the person’s shoulders when she is going down on you. At an all-boys high school, this kind of open dialogue about blowjob etiquette is mostly going on between everyone all day long. Walk by any table in the cafeteria and you’re bound to overhear the term “donkey punch” more than once. Rub the shoulders, I thought. How considerate.

Teenage boys will blindly follow one another’s advice because each one assumes the other guy has slightly more experience than he does. Greg Duplechain spent his summers in Arkansas at Camp Ozark — where I assumed he fingered girls from sunrise to sunset and participated in bunk-wide circle jerks after lights out. He knows his stuff, I thought. I would later find out that shoulder-rubbing is fine for a little while, but then my weak hands make it strenuous and awkward. Now, my go-to move is both hands behind my head. Guys in porn do this, and it looks so cool. And looking cool is something I’ve been trying to do since I was born. So there I am, receiving oral sex from someone I probably conned into it with my hands behind my head like I’m a fireman posing for a calendar you might find at the mall newsstand in the 1990s.

But then what do I do with my eyes? I can look you in the eyes, I guess. But then it turns into a staring contest, and I get anxious and break eye contact immediately. I can’t beat you in a staring contest while you’re sucking my dick. How much ego does one man need? I already won when I convinced you to give me head. I don’t need to assert my dominance by staring you in your distant, hopeful eyes. So I guess I’ll just keep mine closed. But does that make me appear smug or disinterested? Maybe I’ll just look out the window. But then what if a neighborhood kid walks by and peeks inside to see if anyone’s home? I’m never expecting children at my house, but it could still happen. Girl Scouts or wayward teens on their way to the bus station could drop by at any minute! It’s around this time I decide we should probably do something else.

When it comes to roles, I don’t particularly have a preference. It’s complicated and squishy either way, and my choice to top or bottom ultimately comes down to what the other guy looks like. My work as a Creative Director comes in handy here. I can see the picture in my head beforehand and make a professional recommendation for the final composition. But sometimes I just get hammered and throw caution to the wind because I don’t care what goes inside where after I’ve shotgunned a case of High Life and neither should you.

What else? Um. Oh! I like handjobs. Handjobs are the only kind of sex where you can also sit in a booth and enjoy a chicken parmesan at the same time. Straight guys get so psyched for Steak & BJ Day, but count me in for a chickparm and a mildly enthusiastic HJ. I don’t even care if there’s pasta.

Alright. I’m not really sure where I’m going with this anymore. I think it started out as a short essay about my compulsion to feel comfortable during sex, and then I got sidetracked and started discussing my quirky, relatable sex habits.

I’m glad I put it out there, but what are you supposed to do with that information?

Shit, and I totally intended to mention weird places in which I’ve ejaculated, but I never really got around to that. The title makes more sense now, doesn’t it? Kind of funny, right? Well, I guess now’s a good time to talk about cum since I’ve gone full-on Frank Underwood. Okay, here we go:

I basically won’t cum above your shoulders unless I love you. Or unless I hate you.




Well.





I guess that’s all I have to say about that. A little anti-climactic, I guess.





Cum joke.





I’m going to sleep now.

I don't even know how this fucking happened.

the platypus

“Since we’re speaking candidly,” said the Platypus. “Can I ask why you’re doing this?”

The Fox gingerly lowered his fork, resting it softly on a pillow of pale eggs. He smiled to himself and took a deep breath. Even though they weren’t making eye contact at the moment, the Platypus squirmed in his chair when he saw the Fox smile. He found him painfully attractive from every angle — especially when he wasn’t looking back at him. Finally, the Fox swallowed, shifted his gaze to somewhere beyond the window and said, “Because I think you’re a silly, odd animal. But you make me feel important. And I can’t remember the last time I felt important.”

The Platypus was a silly, odd animal. He was chubby and he spoke with a lisp, but he was also smart and he had a knack for making the other animals laugh. The Fox, on the other hand, was quiet and elegant and took himself very seriously. He was a handsome beast with a fine, sleek coat and shimmering eyes like two river rocks. And although he was beautiful, he wanted to be valued for other reasons.

Outside, the rain was falling so lightly that it seemed to be second-guessing falling in the first place. If rain had a choice in the matter, that is. Inside The Crate Myrtle Café, the Platypus and the Fox couldn’t even hear it — like outside was on mute. Still, the Fox watched drop-after-drop soak the grass, imagining what it would be like to run a moist blade across his lips, which were red and chapped from kissing the Platypus. The beat of silence between them was interrupted when the waitress, a skinny raven with clumpy mascara, sauntered over and squawked, “How’s everything taysten, y’all?!” The Platypus squeezed his eyes together and pinched the base of his snout. “It’s lovely. Thank you,” he mumbled. The Raven flashed her service industry smile before swishing off towards the kitchen. When she was out of earshot, the Platypus sighed, “How’s everything taysten? Jesus, I hate when waitresses say that. It makes me want to gag. Like you want me to describe the taste of what’s rolling around in my mouth? Great, now I’m thinking of the half-chewed larvae wedged between my teeth, as if the act of eating larvae isn’t gross enough.” This made the Fox laugh, which made the Platypus smile with the unabashed glee of someone in love, which he was.

A few hours earlier, at sunrise, the Platypus snuck over to the Fox’s dugout under the cover off wild grass. He was greeted by the gorgeous creature standing there in all his amber radiance. And without so much as a good morning, he kissed him right there in the doorframe. They had chemistry; that was for sure, but their mismatched snouts made kissing difficult. Still, they did their best. In the dugout, everything was in its place (nothing like the Platypus’ dirty, slapped-together nest) and this made the Platypus feel embarrassed, occasionally pulling his focus away from their kiss. On the walls hung a congregation of framed photographs of the Fox and a large grey wolf. The Platypus kissed the Fox but kept a sideways stare on the image of the Wolf. Dear God I hope he doesn’t come home and catch us like this, he thought. He'll tear us both to shreds! He saw visions of his blood splashed across the immaculate dugout. The meticulously places photographs flecked with crimson drops — still boiling from the kiss.

“My turn,” said the Fox, the Raven refilling his coffee. “Why are you doing this?” The Platypus felt the weight of his own tail. For two feral animals, they were behaving awfully sheepishly. “To be honest,” said the Platypus. “I’m crazy about you. It's unfortunate that you’re with someone — someone who can swallow me whole — but I can't help how I feel.” He was still a little shaky from their earlier encounter; a mixture of anxiety and adventure. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?” The Fox caught a heavenly band of mid-morning sunlight across his face and closed his eyes. “Rain and sunshine,” he said. “Can’t do anything with that.”

At the next table, a chipmunk and a field mouse shared a dessert. They giggled and rolled their eyes and made fussy faces. First date, thought the Platypus. Lucky fucks. “I wanted it to happen with you,” said the Fox suddenly. The Platypus looked back at the Fox; into his shimmering river rock eyes. “What do you mean?” he asked. The Fox straitened up and looked down at the table. “I don’t want you think that I had an affair with you because I’m unhappy with the Wolf. I am. But I wouldn't settle for the first animal who came along. I think you’re a silly, odd animal. But you make me feel important. And I wanted this to happen with you.”

The Platypus tried to smile but he couldn’t. His heart was curling up like a snail. “That’s a relief,” he lied somberly. “I figured you weren’t happy and you needed something else. Someone else. But you’re so regal and beautiful.” He was beginning to feel small. “I just,” he paused. “I didn’t think you could want someone like me.”

There was silence between them. The nearly inaudible sound of pit-pit rain drowned out with the hum of effortless banter between friends over breakfast. The Platypus looked down at his heaping belly then he glanced over at the Chipmunk and the Field Mouse. The Chipmunk was sitting on one ankle, letting his free leg swing back and forth. He said something that made the tiny Field Mouse burst into laughter — his little squeaks drawing the attention of everyone else in the dining room. The Field Mouse covered his face with a napkin but continued to giggle into it. The Chipmunk looked at the Field Mouse like he was meeting his new best friend for the first time. The Fox was staring out the window again, and without looking at the Platypus, he said, “The Wolf is going to work early again tomorrow. Stop by around sunrise?”

And right there, in the middle of the breakfast crowd at The Crate Myrtle Café, the two small creatures were flash-flooded with the details, but flash-frozen in time. Everyone who came before didn’t matter; everyone who comes after won’t measure up. And acknowledging the awe and majesty of this moment, the Platypus made up his mind to never see the Fox again. Because even an animal as silly and odd as he should still have some dignity. And even the hot-and-fast affection of the Fox could not inspire the feeling he would get from just saying no.

This is the second story in collection of fables about woodland creatures in complicated relationships.

It is proceeded by the chipmunk and the field mouse. 

The Cave

Some people run with an iPhone strapped to their arm, but not me. I use an iPod Shuffle that I clip to my waistband, draping the cord down my spine like a ponytail.

Weather permitting; I don’t wear a shirt. Weather irrelevant; I don’t wear underwear. I do, however, wear very small black running shorts that fall nearly an inch below my balls. On a windy day, I avoid high-traffic roadways because the odds of an up-short breeze revealing my junk to the transient public are pretty steep. As much as I want people to look at my dick, I’d rather it happen on my own terms — in a text message. I never run the same route on consecutive days, which keeps it interesting. I need to keep it interesting because this is the only real hobby I have left.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about doing something else, like a new hobby. I don’t really practice yoga anymore, but if I meet someone new, I lie and say I do it every day. I read one book per month, but I wouldn’t really count that as a hobby, either. I often entertain the idea of joining the really fancy gym in town that lets you run a credit line at the snack bar. The only thing that keeps me from signing up is that one of my exboyfriends goes there, and I really hate him.

Also, I heard that gays blow each other in the steam room, and I don’t want to be lumped into that group.

Also, I don’t lift weights.

I thought about learning to play an instrument, but that turned out to be really depressing. I borrowed an electric guitar from my little brother and from the day I brought it home, it leaned against my bookshelf where it remained for four months, unstrummed and useless. If it had feelings, I’m sure it would’ve been sad. Eventually, I decided to get rid of it along with some old workout equipment and a twin mattress of undetermined origin. The Salvation Army Donation Center was closed that day, so I dumped everything near a sign that said ABSOLUTELY NO DROP-OFFS ON SUNDAYS.

This impulse to find a new hobby feels more urgent now than ever and it’s completely Andy’s fault.

Before I met Andy, my future could’ve been anything, anywhere. Now, it feels like there’s a plan.

It’s like I finally know where my life is headed so I’m trying to branch out and find new interests before I become the me that stays me forever. It’s not just hobbies, though. I need to take a vacation, or start eating kale, or go live in Portland for a year.

No one ever talks about the panic that comes with finding your special someone. It’s like living in the frozen wilderness and then suddenly finding a warm cave. You’re happy to be in the cave, but then you realize how small it is. That’s a happy disposition, right?

You make the big decision and then you watch the other would-be timelines collapse.

It can be scary to watch big things collapse, right?

But it's exciting.

The Future

Andy,

Right now, you’re taking a nap in the hotel room and I’m lounging poolside next to three women who keep sending their food back.

From what I’ve gathered, one of them ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and two are splitting a plate of baby carrots. Their server — a thirty-plus cabana boy with an iron jaw and a teal polo with Palomar Dallas embroidered over his heart — has been chastised twice for fucking this up.

The sun only shines between breaks in the parade of passing clouds like a strobe light on Xanax. When it peekaboos out, I put down my pen and pad and stretch my limbs — exposing the fullest extent of my pasty skin for a fleeting moment before it’s covered again. My belly is still full from breakfast at Bread Winner’s; the place with glasses shaped like little cowboy boots and yesterday’s cookies, individually wrapped and priced at 75 cents each. After breakfast, we drove to The Belmont because someone told us it had the best view of the Dallas skyline. The place looked like one of those fake neighborhoods the government built in the 1950s for nuclear testing [your joke, not mine], and the view was obscured by a bunch of trees. Later, we wandered around Bishop Arts District for about an hour; me picking things up and putting them back down and you picking at your nails, anxious about your car getting towed. We returned to the hotel with two hours ‘til checkout. You crashed and I came to marinate in the Memorial Day Weekend sunshine, which presently feels like it’s being filtered through a colander.

We got into a fight at dinner last night but I can’t remember why and I don’t really want to bring it up again. You paid the bill and we left without speaking. Outside the restaurant, I pulled out my phone and played a song. I dropped the phone into your shirt pocket and asked you to dance with me. The sailors say ‘Brandy, you're a fine girl. What a good wife you would be… We're both terrible dancers, but we pretended we were better. You spun me around and I braced against you. We basically did the same move over and over again. But my life, my lover, and my lady is the sea!’ We were cracking ourselves up, shimmying and swaying back and forth. The people on the porch at the Tex-Mex place across the street must’ve thought we were hammered! Which we totally were. But we must’ve looked like we were in love. Which we totally are. When I woke up this morning, there was a six-pack of High Life and a pack of Camel Crush cigarettes on the side table. The beer was untouched but two cigarettes were gone.

It seems like every gay person east of Houston is in Pensacola this weekend. Not us, though. Pride festivals [in general] give me anxiety because the odds of running into someone I hate or someone I fucked are pretty high. It’s easy to dodge someone in a dark, crowded bar but there's nowhere to hide in the open daylight. "The beach setting makes it exponentially more unappealing," I said to you. "I can’t imagine subjecting myself to an entire weekend of self-loathing and sunburn." I heard the bitterness in my own voice. You heard it, too. That’s when you suggested we go somewhere different.

It came down to Dallas [also your idea] or Hot Springs, and I’m so happy we picked Dallas. It’s been wonderful and I want to remember it. My favorite moment was last night before dinner. The Palomar hosts a wine reception every evening, but we only caught the last ten minutes because we spent too much time getting ready. I had wine and you had beer. It was almost 6PM and the lobby was thick with an ambient orange glow. We sat near the towering front windows and talked about what it might be like to get married one day. This is how we frame most of our conversations: in the future. Anyway, I went back over to the hostess to grab us a few more drinks and she was packing everything up. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know we were late, but is there any way we could get one more glass of chardonnay and one more IPA?” “Wine’s right here,” she said. “But we’re out of IPA.” “Oh no,” I said. “The beer’s for my boyfriend. I’ll just run over to the bar.” She told me to wait a second and then she disappeared through a door behind the concierge, returning with another can of IPA. “Here you go,” she said. “Keep him happy.”

I left my phone in the room, so I don’t know what time it is. The sun feels like it hasn’t moved at all, but I’ve been writing for a while. I hope you’re awake by now. Maybe you’ve packed some of our stuff. That would be nice of you. And I can’t wait for the drive back home. We can listen to a Simon Rich story on Selected Shorts and then New In Town by John Mulaney! And then maybe before we reach Louisiana, I’ll fall asleep.

And when I wake up, it will be the future.

Love,
Ryan

This is me trying to keep you happy, dammit.

Oh, before I forget. Remember when we had dinner at Social a few weeks ago? I got drunk and said, “You know babe, sometimes you say things that annoy the shit out of me.” Really sorry about that. Pretty sure that was the least apropos way to share my feelings. What I meant was something like: I’m an irritable human being and most things bug me without rational cause. Like the way you ask questions with that bizarre Scottish inflection at the end. And the way you pronounce something like sampin. Oh, and Tootie! Sweetheart, please stop calling me Tootie. I know it's a Cajun thing, but I hate it. You can continue calling me Catfish Nugget, though. I like Catfish Nugget.

Better?

Thoughts I've Had During Sex

“I love laying on my back. Laying on my back has got to be one of my most favorite things to do! It’s how I eat, and it’s how I sleep, and it’s how I enjoy TV and music. Yep, this is lovely. It’s purely a bonus that my genitals are being stimulated right now. I could do this anywhere [in any state of consciousness] and feel wonderful. I could be in this exact same position on a beach! Yes indeed, with nothing but a thick, colorful towel between my bare back and the warm sand. Hell, I could even stargaze if I wanted to! Without a doubt, this is how I want to spend my golden years. Just me, horizontal, eyes to the sky. You just keep doing whatever it is you’re doing to my ding-a-ling and I’ll just lay here, making constellations with the tiny bumps in the ceiling.”

“As soon as he leaves, I’m getting tater tots.”

“Is that a poo smear?! Oh God, is that my poo smear?! Shit! Okay. Okay. Chill. I have two options here: I can try to hide it until we finish or I can point it out, pretend to be disgusted, and blame the poo smear on him. I should brace myself, first. He’s about to get super defensive.”

“What if there were a TV channel that only played security camera footage of what's going on inside Mississippi's hottest urban nightclubs? That’d be tight. I'd watch the shit out of that.”

“Would we really need Emma Stone if Brittany Murphy were still alive? I guess not, huh?

“If his boyfriend comes home early, he’ll probably kill us both. How embarrassing would that be!? Gunned down in this shitty duplex with practically no art on the walls — in Kenner of all places! Welp, it’s already in. Guess we’re just throwing caution to the wind here."

“I’m tired of spending so much time deciding on a spirit animal. I just want someone to tell me!”

“Golly. That’s an interesting haircut for a wiener.”

“Josh! No, not Josh. Why do I always jump to Josh first? I don’t even know that many Joshes! Maybe it’s Charlie. No, no, no it’s not Charlie. I would remember if his name is Charlie. Charlie sounds like your cute, affable fat friend. I bet every single Charlie is funny. Hmmm. Maybe it’s one of those painfully generic names that says my parents didn't even try. Like Joseph, or James, or Michael. Like a biblical name! But man, I don’t think that’s right, either. Is it one of those names that only sound right on a little boy? Like Bobby, or Tyler, or Scottie. Nah. Don’t think so. Well at least it’s not something like Shaun, or Brent, or Landon. Oh my God! What if his name is super white-trashy like Junior, or Dusty, or Keith?! That would be hysterical. Alright, alright. Think! This is important. As soon as he cums, we have to rejoin the world and talk to each other like humans. Fuck, what if it’s something cool like Nolan, or Linus, or Ollie? Wait! No, no, no. I’m so stupid! It’s Ryan! His name is Ryan. We have the same name. I’m so glad I solved this Da Vinci Code. Jeez Louise, that was an ordeal. Hold on. Is his name Louise?!”

“A hip tattoo? Really bro?”

“You know what this moment is missing? A slow LeAnn Rimes song.

“And where the fuck has LeAnn Rimes been?! She two-timed her husband and then she went away. Wait. Was that her or Shania Twain? Oh, shit! You know what this moment it missing? You’re Still The One.”

“So this is what being a girl feels like. Meh. Don’t hate it. Don’t love it.”

“Wow. I’m someone’s child. That’s devastating."

“Oh, this guy’s on glue. I am not putting that miniature-size wang in my mouth. It’s like a lil’ midge ding-dong! Boo, do not put me in a position where I have to pretend like I’m enjoying myself. On the other hand, I’ve lied a lot tonight. Guess I can feign interest for a little bit longer...”

“Did this motherfucker just fall asleep?! Ugh. Thank God.”

“I love laying on my stomach. Laying on my stomach has got to be one of my most favorite things to do! But this whole jamming a wiener into my butt thing is mostly terrible.”

Look how far we've come, my baby.