Why I'm Not Hard

I’m sorry. I think I'm just distracted. The TV is on. I paused it when we first started hooking up, but now there’s a static shot of Tina Belcher glaring at us from across the room. Let me just find the remote. Where’s the damn remote?! Fuck it. I’ll just get up. Okay, then. We should be good to go.

Whoa, stud. That feels really good. You’re so hot. Just like that. Yeah.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Not working. It’s like you’re gargling a jellyfish.

It’s got to be the ceiling fan, which is blowing around like a hurricane. I can’t really get a bone when I’m chilly. Let me just pop up and take care of that.

Well now that I’m standing, can I grab you a bottle of water? I’m a little dehydrated, myself. WAIT! That’s got to be it! We’ve been drinking all night. That’s why I can’t get hard!

Just let me grab a water and a couple of Advil and I’ll be solid as a rock in a couple minutes. Did you say you wanted some water? Vitamin or classic? 

Alright, alright. Let’s give this another shot.

BUT FIRST, do you mind if I take a piss? I’d hate for me to finally chub up and then pee a little on you. Unless you’re into that? No? Okay, then I’ll just be a moment.

I’m back! Daddy’s home. Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. You’re older than me. You probably remember the Challenger explosion, right? Oof, I’m sorry. I’m not really on my A-game right now. This whole boner thing is throwing me off my axis. Let’s just get back into it and see what happens. Thank you for being so patient and so attractive.

Okay, buddy. Here we go.

[10 MINUTES LATER]

Son of a bitch! It’s like trying to stuff a dinner roll into a Coke bottle. I apologize. I'm really trying my best here. I'm looking at you, and you're gorgeous, and on paper, this shouldn't be a problem at all. For Christ's sake, look at your body! It’s like you were built by Ryan Murphy!

Alright, look. I've got a lot on my mind right now; the presidential race and whatnot. Plus, I’m worried I’m not getting enough calcium. Also, what if someone asks me about my position on “Black Lives Matter?” I’m not prepared for that! And last night, instead of going to the gym, I ate between nine and twelve Girl Scout Cookies in this bed. Because life is all about choices. And I will always choose Samoas over sit-ups! I'm a vaguely chubby trainwreck and I don't like the way you're looking at me right now. You're making my dick turtle back into my body. Please! Look the other way! This is so humiliating!

HOLD ON! Three months ago, I dropped off a pair of Banana Republic slacks at the dry cleaners and haven't yet gotten around to picking them up. That's got to be it! Somewhere in my subconscious, the guilt over leaving my pants in the care of that lonely old Laotian man is tugging at me. And now I can't get an erection.

That’s definitely it!

Alright, you hang out for a minute and I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. I’m just running out to the cleaners at 2AM to grab those slacks. I might be a few hours, so if you get bored, feel free to leave. Maybe we'll see each other in the future, but I'm moving to a small village outside of Prague in the morning, so you probably won't hear from me or see me around ever again. And please don't tell anyone about what happened here tonight because I want the local gay community to remember me fondly.

Farewell, champ. Help yourself to a cocktail on the way out.

Make yourself something stiff.

I'm sorry. I'll be going now.

Mandy

"Happy birthday," I said. "You're 23, right?"

She pulled a small drag out of her cigarette. "No," she exhaled. "Too old."

I swiveled on my heel, making a half-circle and finally facing away from her. "You're not old enough," I said just within earshot of the two of us.

In just under two hours, my workday begins. I will haul ass across the city from Lakeview to the Lower Garden District. I will make it to my apartment with plenty of time to toss today's outfit in the dryer and stand under the shower. I will glove and scarf and sweater and bicycle my way into the Central Business District. I will go to work. And at noon, I will leave and a lengthy, unmemorable Thanksgiving holiday will commence upon leaving.

But before that happens, I yell, "I love you."

I am approaching my car and she is behind me on the porch. I trudge forward, barley lifting my chin to bark the sentiment over my shoulder.

"I love you," she shouts back.

My first impulse is not to appreciate the moment, but to appreciate the fact that she didn't punctuate her response with a comma and a "too." It's an asshole's reaction, but I know she'll understand when I joke about it later.

I slide the key into the ignition, but I don't turn it. First, I've got to find the right driving music. I scroll and tap my way through Spotify until I find "Dancing In The Moonlight" by King Harvest. It's been in my head all night.

For a few moments, I sit still and listen to the lyrics. And then, when the chorus starts, I twist the key and yank the seatbelt across my chest to keep myself safe.

11:11

When 11:11 roles around, I wish that you would text me.

Since Thursday, I’ve never missed an AM or PM opportunity to submit my wish.

Now, it’s Monday morning and I’m up to eight consecutive, ritualistic wishes.

The truth is, I wasn’t aware I was doing it until this very moment.

I just checked my phone, and when I saw the time, I closed my eyes and wished.

I realize how incredibly mystic/passive/nuts this sounds, but it’s really the only action I can control to redirect you back to me.

Sure, I could text you. But then what?

I spend the rest of my day waiting for a reply?

I agonize over every word I wrote, second-guessing the language and grammar?

I fuck this up?

I could grab our relationship with both hands and steer. But for once, I want someone else to take the wheel.

And honestly, I just want to be the recipient of someone else’s impulse.

That’s not stupid, is it?

Texting you could also put what we’ve got in jeopardy.

Because right now, this is delicate and freshly minted.

To me, it’s safer to invest in shooting stars, and genies, and cyclical 12-hour chances.

My birthday isn’t until July, but I can reserve that wish for you, too.

We’ve got all the time in the world, don’t we?

Ernest

Every morning after my breakfast, I take the streetcar down St. Charles Avenue just to visit you at the bank.

This daily routine permanently wedged itself into my life the day I shuffled into the Whitney Bank lobby and was greeted by a teller with a smile that reminded me of a 1950s toothpaste ad. I was there to put something in my safety deposit box and spent the previous evening agonizing over the event, but I felt the anxiety trickle away when you looked into my eyes and asked, “How can I help you today, sir?”

You are a sophomore at Tulane University — studying Broadcast Journalism with a minor in English. You grew up in Castor, Louisiana with your mother and three younger sisters. At Castor High, you were a decorated student athlete who carried his lacrosse team to three consecutive state championships. Outside of school, you were a devoted boyfriend to the most beautiful girl in Bienville Parish. And on the day you were accepted into Tulane, your mother cried inconsolably.

I know all of this because you told me so.

Over the past year, I’ve told you about myself, too. You know that I grew up on a pecan farm in Clanton, Alabama and that I received my draft card on my birthday. You know that I returned from the service and settled in New Orleans, where I founded the company that eventually made me a wealthy man. You know that I spent my first day of retirement at the New Orleans World’s Fair in 1984. You know that my wife passed away shorty after the storm and that I’ve been very lonely ever since. You know that I enjoy our visits and that’s why I return to the bank every morning after breakfast — just to spend a few minutes with you.

But there’s something you don’t know: I’ve only got a few months to live, and I’d love to share them with you.

This may come as a shock, but I’ve thought very carefully about this proposal and I believe it’s the one thing that would make my final days worth living.

What I’m asking is that you be with me. Quit your job, take some time off school, and move into my home for the duration of my life. Accompany me on a trip here or there and see wonderful parts of the world. Share my bed and allow me to pleasure you, if you’d be inclined. And in exchange, you will be named my sole beneficiary after my passing — collecting everything I’ve amassed in a lifetime. To me, this is a last-ditch effort to be with someone I care for before I succumb to brain cancer. To you, this is an opportunity to have whatever life you want after I’m gone. Take care of you family. Go anywhere. Buy anything. All I’m asking for is your time and your intimacy.

Right now, I’ve never been more nervous or embarrassed.

I can’t imagine what you think of me.

The truth is, I’ve spent my entire life being a partial version of myself. But I’ve come to love everything about you — even though you’re a straight boy from Castor — and I’m finally ready to be the person God intended me to be. I know this is a long shot, but I really want you think hard about my offer.

No one ever tells you what the end of your life feels like. But to me, every day feels like I’m bound and locked inside the trunk of a car, waiting to plunge into the river. But for a few moments every day, the trunk opens and I can see the sky.

You said you always wanted to visit Southern California, right? Well, we can leave tomorrow! On the plane, I want to hear more about that summer you worked as a 4H Camp counselor. Tell me everything. Let’s have drinks at the Del Coronado and talk about everything. We could watch the sunset and I’ll buy you sunglasses so you won’t have to squint. After I go to sleep, you can go wherever you want. But while we’re in bed, hold me and whisper, “I love you.” You don’t even have to mean it. Just say it into the air around my ear and maybe I’ll hear it before drifting off.

Whatever your answer, I want you to know that you are funny. And you are very, very kind. And you have the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. And on your off-days, my driver still takes me to the bank, even though I know I won’t find you. He lets the car idle while I gaze into the lobby — imagining you walking across the floor to fetch some coffee or deliver a message.

Right now, the trunk is closed and my hands are feet are bound. Very soon, the water will come rushing in and I’ll fight for air. And the water will win, like it always does.

But before that, let me see the sky one last time.

After that, I'll be ready.

That’s Hysterical

Before every first date, I pick out an outfit, shave my face, and treat myself to compulsive, frantic, psychological episode.

I know that it’s coming, but I’m still surprised when it does. That’s because it manifests in different ways and in various phases of my pre-date routine. This micro-breakdown sometimes hits me while I’m in the shower — singing a loud and off-key rendition of a Ying Yang Twins song, which is an oxymoron. My Night At The Strip Club Spotify playlist is a traditional choice when preparing for a romantic night on the town, and the Ying Yang Twins are sprinkled throughout this curation for obvious reasons. Strip club anthems are the calling card of Atlanta’s most party-ready, rapping misogynists. I’m body-rolling my way through “The Whisper Song," when suddenly I think to myself, Oh God. I’m about to go on a date with someone for the first time! What am I doing?!

What follows is a series of questions directed at myself. Some are date-specific [Do I have money in my checking account?] and some are much more existential [How did I fuck up my life so dramatically?], but each one is accompanied by a palpable rush of panic and anger. This episode is amplified by the fact that I never give myself enough time to get ready. Since I’m prone to these freakouts, I avoid getting ready too early. This helps me avoid downtime to mull over new worries. This also backfires and I end up sprinting from room to room, trying to make my face and body appear fuckable while showtime inches nearer and nearer.

Date Dash comes to a screeching halt when I finally have to stand in front of the mirror. Here, I study my reflection and reflect on how I achieved this toneless, adolescent build. With the possibility of sex looming in the near future, I take this opportunity to yell at myself for everything I’ve eaten in the past 27 years. I blame my parents for shitty genetics and I wonder aloud how my siblings managed to look like Swedish TV anchors while I look like someone who’s perpetually recovering from last night — a balding, 20-something version of David Caruso on a bender. I am fat and skinny and look too young and too old. I am a physical paradox. And somehow I have a date.

FUCK! I HAVE A DATE!

No time for bathroom sobbing. Bathroom sobbing can wait ‘til later when I’m drunk and alone. This train of thought leads to a second round of questions about my impending date, mostly along the lines of my predisposition to drink like a monster. Like most of us, I’m a more affable person after a couple drinks. Unlike a vast majority of us, I will tear past the acceptable limit until I am a hurricane of insobriety. Knowing this, I will engage in a psychotic debate with myself about the pros and cons of anxiety drinking and its effect on my “game.” This debate is interrupted by a sudden compulsion to have a drink. Slipping on underwear and yanking up socks to the stretchable limit around my calves, I hustle to the kitchen where I shotgun a Michelob Ultra with the fridge wide open. That’s better, I think. I’m going to be fine.

I spend the next few minutes ironing my outfit in hurried brush strokes and nodding along to Genuine’s “Pony.” Night At The Strip Club is still going hard. I’m not calm, but I’m making it. I pass for fine until I fully dress and return to the mirror. This is where I come undone again.

Sometimes there’s discoloration on my sleeves or a stain on my collar, but most of the time, I just hate the outfit. I grit my teeth and I cover my face with my hands so I don’t have to see what’s in front of me. Here comes the meltdown.

Nothing fits.

Nothing’s new.

I wish I had nicer things.

I wish I made more money.

I wish this wasn't me.

*Bathroom sobbing*

Eventually, I run cold water and dab my eyes and cheeks. I throw yesterday’s office attire into the dryer with a Bounce Sheet and an ice cube. I open Spotify and change Night At The Strip Club to Angry Workout. I turn the music all the way up while I latch my Rolex and mist Spicebomb across my neck. Fuck this, I think. I didn’t spend two days trying to convince a guy on the Internet to like me by using charm and recycled jokes just to break down in overtime. This is happening.

I’m crippled with anxiety at any given point in the day, but there’s something about going on a job interview for sex that turns me into an erratic basket case. But once I’m on the couch, and 7PM is only a few minutes away, I cool down and somehow find the confidence to leave the house and go to dinner with someone I barely know.

Then, across the table from a perfect stranger, I will experience an entirely new dimension of horror as I agree with ideas I don’t believe and pretend to be someone I’m not.

Please enjoy Night At The Strip Club.

 

Muck

There’s something you stir in me, and it’s not appetizing like cake batter or tomato soup.

Inside my stomach, there’s a thick, black tar that bubbles when I look at pictures of you or hear your name.

The sad part: I look for it.

I’ll noticed that you’re tagged in a Mutual Friend’s Facebook post, and then I’ll investigate what you’ve been up to for the past few months. You look good. I can’t believe you finally went to Barcelona. It’s embarrassing, but at least it’s private. And it induces a toxic indigestion

The really hard part is not bringing you up around other people. Saying your name in conversation is a compulsive, embarrassing habit I can’t seem to break — or at least muffle. No matter the topic, I am masterfully skilled at working your into the discussion. Try me. The Pope’s visit to America? Modern Family? A YouTube video of a moose fucking a Jeep? I’ve got just the segue to a story about you and me. And while I’m telling my friends, I’m becoming ill with hot, dark magma.

Right now, I’m writing about you.

And I can feel the nauseating sludge groaning from deep in the pit of me.

But I like it.

It’s you, after all.

Missed Connections

Missed Connection: We work in the same building and I think you're on the first floor. I was walking my bike through the lobby this afternoon and I saw you sitting in an armchair near the elevator. I noticed from across the room that your eyes were red and your forehead was sweaty. You looked like you'd been crying. Or possibly between cries. You were sitting perfectly upright like a fence post, but you were staring down at your shoes. During the workday, you are the closest person to me on Grindr, but for some reason, we never talk. I thought about resting my bike against the wall and walking over to you. I wondered what it would be like to put my hand on your shoulder and ask if you were alright. I wanted to be someone you could trust. I really wanted to. But instead, I kept moving towards the door — adverting my eyes when you looked up. I've thought about you for the past few hours and even though I wasn't there, I want you know that I think you're a huge pussy for crying in public.

Missed Connection: Listen, guy. Just because we hooked up once doesn't mean you have to sneak out the gym when I walk in. We're both adult men and I'm not going to make it weird for you. And if I ran out the room every time I encountered someone I hooked up with, I wouldn't be able to leave the house. So relax. Finish your workout on the stairclimber machine like a woman and let's get through this.

Missed Connection: You are the deaf busboy at Rum House. I left my number on a coaster and you never texted me. Now I have to spend the rest of my life wondering if you weren't interested in me or if you never saw the coaster because you're deaf.

Missed Connection: You kissed me in your F-150 and then looked away and said, "This was a mistake." Then, without saying another word, you dropped me off around the corner; in front of the bar where we'd just met. I stood on the curb until you drove away, and then I walked two miles home alone in the January deep freeze. I forgive you, but I hope something exotic and angry swims up your urethra. Oh, and you're real name is Logan Broussard because fuck you.

Missed Connection: You're the drive-thru boy at the McDonald's on Carrollton. I think you heard me fart. You made me a Sausage McMuffin and I involuntarily made a toot cloud for two.

Missed Connection: You're the cashier at the H&M five minutes from my apartment. You're also my Facebook friend and you follow me on Instagram, although we've never met in person. I was standing in line for 10 minutes before I realized you were behind the checkout counter. From that moment on, I stared at the other cashier – mentally begging her to go faster so that I didn't have to come face-to-face with you and drudge through an awkward, sweaty conversation. And before the obese woman with two babies could reach out and take her receipt, I forced myself onto the other cashier, throwing my belt, shirt, and debit card in her face. Then I "nonchalantly" leaned against the counter and hummed the Lianne La Havas song that played overhead. Once I had my bag, I practically sprinted out the door and turned the corner so you wouldn't see the back of my T-shirt: "Britney Spears Circus Tour 2009." The worst of all Britney tours.

Missed Connection: You were my summer camp counselor when I was 10 or 11. You were probably only a couple years older than me at the time, but you seemed at least Erik von Detten's age. One time, you sat on top the monkey bars with one leg extended out. Your entire dick and balls flopped out of your gym shorts. I've been looking for you ever since. 

Missed Connection: We met on Bourbon Street. I think your name was either Matt or David. Pretty sure you're a ginger. We fucked, I passed out, and in the morning, you were gone. Now, I've spent the entire morning combing through all of my slutty gay male Facebook friends to see if we have you in common. No luck so far. Will try again at first light.

Missed Connection: In Palermo, you were crossing at an inner section in the rain. I looked up from under my umbrella and saw you gripping a messenger bag over your head like a visor. In Paris, I saw you on the street below our apartment. You were with friends and you waved back at me. It was New Year's Day and we all had to be going somewhere. In Kilrush, we passed each other on a muddy trail. An icy breeze lifted off the sea and you packed up your shoulders and shivered. I smiled at you and said, "I know. It's unbearable." From behind me, my boyfriend asked, "What's unbearable?" And I wanted to say, "All of this," but I just reached back for his hand instead.