J.H.

At work today, I saw you walk past my window, so I jumped up and bolted through the office — hoping to catch you at the front door.

My co-workers looked up from their monitors and stopped mid-conversation with one another to watch me serpentine, arms flailing, though each department. I rounded corners and swung open doors — knowing the whole time that it probably wasn’t you at you. This is embarrassing to admit, but I didn’t actually see your face. Just a back view of someone’s blond-headed skull on top of a frame similarly proportioned to your own. But that was just enough to convince me it was you.

The back of your head.

I know the back of your head.

I never told you this, but the first time we met, I noticed the back of your head before I noticed anything else about you. I imagined myself sliding my hand up your back and into your thicket of blond hair. I felt compelled to run my fingers through it. Smell it. Pull it. Then suddenly I felt myself walking towards you. And then I was standing next to you, with a clear view to your face. I knew before I looked that you were going to have one of the most beautiful faces I’d ever seen. I stole a look and then I quickly faced forward again before you caught me gawking. My instinct was right: You had one of the most beautiful faces I’d ever seen.

I stared intensely at our reflections in the mirror behind the bar because seeing us next to one another was perfect, and we didn’t even know each other yet.

In the mirror, I noticed a girl coming up from behind. She shimmied her way between us and I quickly realize she was your friend. So I complimented her hair and asked what she was drinking. She was nice, but she didn’t introduce you right away and I appreciated that. So I intentionally kept my interest in her. Not you. But I could see you in my periphery, craning your neck and brushing your hair back with one hand. You wanted me to notice you, but I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. Finally, she gestured to the air behind her and says, “This is my friend, Jeremy.” And I could see the relief in your face when I leaned in to shake your hand. And I didn’t let go right away. And neither did you.

After the bar, I took you to my office to listen to music and shoot hoops, because that’s my move and I do it with every guy I want to fuck and it always works. And it did work. And then we started seeing each other and it was nice. The sex was nice. The intimacy was nice. You were nice. But at the time, nice wasn’t enough for me. So I chose someone else.

When you came to my house that last day, I knew I was going to break things off, but I hugged you anyway — which was a selfish thing to do. You were so excited to see me and I felt guilty for knowing the future. But when you threw your arms around me in the doorway, I pulled you tight and inhaled. Then I took you by the hand and led you into my bedroom. Before you break someone’s heart you feel an unearned boldness. It’s like all the good parts of you wilt and the ruthlessness inside takes over and says all the things you’ve been withholding. That happens, and then eventually, you watch the back of his head as he walks away.

I tore through the art gallery towards the front entrance of my office and pushed open the glass door with both hands. As soon as I did, I realized that I’d left my sweater back at my desk. Outside on the street, the air was wild and icy. I crossed my arms, rubbing my biceps with my palms and locking my jaw to keep it from clattering. The wind was loud in my ears, but I could still hear the sound of your name humming under it.

But you were gone.

You're still gone.

And that will always be my fault.

The 2nd Annual Exy Awards

Hello and welcome to The 2nd Annual Exy Awards. Once again, we’re here to honor those brave men who made a significant impact on me [and my private parts] in 2014. I met my current boyfriend in March of last year, but I got it in A LOT before he showed up. So settle in and please refrain from sending emails trying to guess who’s who because I won’t respond. Unless you give me a really good reason to do so. And if you’re the recipient of an Exy, you will not be presented with a physical trophy. Your award is knowing your performance did not go unnoticed. Good or bad, you made an impression. Don’t change for no bitch.

Our first Exy of the year is for Most Fumbly Morning After and that goes to Guy With Wrist Tattoos. We’ve been friends for years and then one night we got drunk and hooked up. I tried to leave early the next morning so we wouldn’t have to face each other, but you woke up and we did that whole, “So that was weird, right?” thing. And it was.

The Modern Romantic Comedy Award goes to Guy I Met At The Backpacker. You came over and asked me if I needed help finding anything and my first thought was, “Yeah, can you help me find where to direct this boner?” But of course, I didn’t say that. Instead, I did the most cowardly thing imaginable: I went to The Backpacker’s Facebook Page, searched fans with your first name [which I knew because of your nametag], found you, added you, messaged you, and asked you out. That night, I went over to your house and we had sex. I didn’t have the balls or finesse to run game in person, but I do have a funny online personality and that’s really all I need, right?

The Oldie But Goodie Award goes to 45-Year Old Who Looked 30. You are the oldest person with whom I’ve ever hooked up. Congrats! Also, I stole your copy of Lolita off the bookshelf on my way out. I already have a copy, but taking yours felt poetic. I’m not giving it back.

Worst Sibling Award goes to Me for banging my brother’s friend. It was a dick move, and I shouldn’t have done it. And sending my brother a picture of the guy exiting my car the next morning was also a bad decision. Sorry bro. We good? Yeah, we good.

Worst Kisser goes to Guy With Boyband Hair and Tiny Mouth. Man, what a letdown. A handsome guy who kisses like a CPR dummy is the human equivalent of...

Well...

A sexy CPR dummy. And I know you’ve got a small mouth, but you should be making up for that with tongue skills. You brought nothing to the party. Plus, you made me work overtime and I don’t even do that at my real job. So many metaphors!!!

Hardest Break goes to North Louisiana Stoner. Telling you I just didn’t feel the spark wasn’t easy, but you handled it like a champ. Probably because you were super high at the time.

The Muse Award is bestowed upon those who have inspired personal essays that went on to be published in print or online in 2014. This year, the award is given to Guy I Dated For 3 Years for inspiring two pieces that were published: One in the 4th Issue of Hello Mr. Magazine and another in the 21st Issue of Gertrude Literary Journal. I turned our relationship into literature and it’s some depressing shit that people enjoy reading. I think you’re the worst, but you bring out a better writer in me. Get fucked.

The No! That's Not What I Meant! Award goes to Litigation Attorney With Chest Tattoo. When we were doing it and I said, “Spit in my mouth,” I didn’t expect you to cock back and shoot a loogie in my face. It wasn’t funny at the time, but it’s hilarious now. I’m seriously laughing at my computer thinking about it. What an asshole.

The Exy for Worst Date goes to Guy Who Wanted to Get Coffee. When you asked me to have coffee with you, I thought it was a nice idea. Then, halfway though my Mochasippi, I realized I knew you! A couple years back, when I bartended at a club downtown, you used to come in with your boyfriend and sit at my end. Your boyfriend was hot and would check me out when I tended bar in my underwear. You, on the other hand, were rude and never tipped me more than 10%. And even though I hated you, I didn’t fuck your boyfriend [even though it would have been easy]. So that’s why I never texted you back after we hugged goodbye in front of CC’s Coffee House. Because years ago I showed you clemency at a time when I could’ve fucked shit up and then you didn’t even have the decency to take me to a real restaurant for a first date. Who raised you?!

Best First Date goes to Andy Rivière. I knew halfway through breakfast at French Press there was something different about us. And I could make up a million different awards to give you (Favorite Travel Buddy, Most Romantic Outdoor Slow Dance, The I Don’t Deserve You Award), but I won’t. Instead, just know that I love you and I will continue loving you as long as you let me. You win.

Congratulations everyone! I’ll see you all in hell.

FUCK!

So here you are.

You got piss-in-your-pants drunk again and invited a complete stranger from the Internet over to your place for sex.

Now you’re in a bit of a pickle aren’t you? All because you got brave for a split-second and asked, “Wanna come over?” And to your surprise, he responded with, “Address?” And then you were like, “FUCKKKKKKK!” So now your brain can’t catch up with itself because you have a million things to do before he gets here. Also because you’re drunk, you stupid asshole.

Sorry. There’s no use making you feel frantic AND disappointed in yourself. Let’s save that for tomorrow morning. For now, let’s prioritize:

Start by cleaning the living room.

NO! The bedroom.

NO! Go shower first. You can make excuses for the state of your apartment, but not your hygiene.

Okay. Take your clothes off and put them in the hamper.

FUCK! Where’s the hamper?! Do you even own a hamper? Screw it. Jam it all behind the bathroom door.

You definitely need a playlist to shower by. And worse case scenario: He arrives within the next five minutes and gets to hear what great taste in music you have. “Is that Sylvan Esso?” he’ll wonder. “I love Sylvan Esso.”

Alright, so definitely some Sylvan Esso. Maybe some Sinkane. Leagues. Real Estate. Yeah, this is good. Eclectic and tasteful without being too hip or overtly anything. You’re actually really good at picking out songs. Maybe you could freelance as a playlist curator. That’s a great idea! You’ve got to write that down. Where’s your phone? Oh shit, your phone! That guy’s on his way! Get in the fucking shower!!!

Alright, alright. Soap under the arms. Soap on the dick and balls. Soap all up inside the asshole. If he goes back there with his face, at least you did the bare minimum. That pube situation is not good, but it’s not out of control either, so don’t even think about grabbing the scissors and trimming the hedges. You’re washed now, so just try to keep this momentum going!

Yo, this bedroom is fucking gross. Why is there a pair of boots in the middle of the floor with a sock hanging out of each one? And those jeans over there are practically standing up on their own. And the fucking Q-tips on every surface?! You’re a farm animal. But you can’t fix your shamble of a life right now; you can only fix this shitty mess. But you need to put on some clothes first. The trick to dressing for sex is looking relaxed, but confident. You are neither, but should appear as such. Don’t overthink this. A pair of gym shorts without underwear; the man’s lingerie. Very practical. Oh, and a T-shirt from high school. Good idea, appear youthful and nostalgic. Now slap on some deodorant and try not to sweat a lot when you’re cleaning this house — which looks like a group of people hosted a cockfight in the middle of a frat party after the world ended.

Go find a candle. Worse case scenario: He arrives within the next five minutes and at least you’ve got a candle burning. Candles make people think of mom, and being home, and sometimes real romantic fucking. All of which are nice thoughts, but not in that order. Oh, you don’t have any candles? Well make yourself a reminder to buy candles tomorrow. Where’s your phone? Oh shit, your phone! That guy’s on his way! Jam that pile of clothes in the closet and muscle the door shut! Febreze this bitch and move onto the living room!

NO! First run to the kitchen.

Grab the trashcan, run back to the living room, and just start pitching everything on the coffee table into it. And don’t you even think about cleaning that kitchen, bitch. He’s never going to see it, so just shut the lights off and pretend it’s not there. Let’s just focus on, what appears to be, a student project about how landfills work spread out all over the coffee table. That’s a bowl of crusty jasmine rice with pieces of rotisserie chicken congealed in, what appears to be, yellow mustard. That’s it! No more weed for you. But that’s a bigger problem, kind of like the one where you get piss-in-your-pants drunk and invite a complete stranger from the Internet over to your place for sex. You’re just coming face-to-face with a lot of mirrors right now and none of them look particularly glamorous. But just keep cramming that trashcan with Taco Bell wrappers and flimsy paper Burger King and we’ll deal with one issue at a time, starting tomorrow.

But right now you have to make one decision: What should be playing on the TV when he shows up? The obvious choices are: Bob’s Burgers, Modern Family, and Parks and Rec — lovable comedies, with which everyone is familiar. You can watch any of these without really being too invested or just use it as background noise while you force small talk. You’ve already seen these episodes, but you won’t have to fake-laugh in front of him because each one is genuinely funny. Go with Parks and Rec.

Alright, one more lap around the apartment. The kitchen is a black hole, your bedroom is serviceable for the 12 seconds he’ll see it with the lights on, the bathroom is out of toilet paper and there’s water all over the floor. Replace the roll and move on. The living room? Meh. That’ll do, pig.

Now flip on the porch light so he can find the address and flop yourself down on the couch in front of the TV. Adjust your limbs and torso to appear as chill as possible. You’re just kicking it. Yeah that’s right. You’re kicking it. And you’re down for whatever. Pfft. You always stay this relaxed. And you talk like a black person when you’re feeling relaxed, don’t you? Yeah, son. Relax. Just don’t fall asleep. That guy will be here any minute, and you don’t want to miss him. You can close your eyes for a second, but don’t drift off. Everything looks decent for once. Show it off to someone. What are you doing?! Stay awake!!!

Oh, fuck it.

He's not worth it.

Plus, you never got around to sending him your address, anyway.

But at least your asshole's clean.

Meet-Cute

I pull his index and middle fingers out of my mouth, but I keep my lips tight around them until the finger tips. Then I let my lips go slack and his fingers practically fall out.

“Where do you want to go next?” asks Joey. I stop staring at the guy behind the counter and look down at my phone on the table in front of me. “Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “Maybe a movie?” I turn my head just enough to watch the barista again — his thick fingers strumming against the countertop.

Buh-da-dum.

Buh-da-dum.

Buh-da-dum.

I bite my lip and I can taste his oils — dirty from handling other people’s money. I catch myself panting when Joey stands up and knocks his porcelain mug onto the floor. It cracks in two and suddenly the barista with dickfingers is swooping over to pick up the pieces. He squats down in front of me and I feel my face turn red and splotchy, which is the same reaction as when I drink tequila because I think I have a tequila allergy but don’t actually know that for a fact. I probably have just a second before he stands up, so I pivot my body and mime picking up a shard, just as he’s rising. His ass grazes my hip and slides up the side of my body until he’s standing upright with a khaki butt cheek planted against the side of my face.

“Oh shit,” I say feigning surprise. “My bad.” He looks over his shoulder at me with an expression that says, That was an accident and we should both bail, immediately.

But what if I’m reading his expression wrong? What if he’s thinking how embarrassed he is? Or what if he initiated this and he’s relishing the moment? What if he hurried over here when the mug broke just so he could be closer to me, if only for a couple seconds? What if he felt me behind him just now and poked his ass out to intentionally? What if the attraction I’ve had for him since he took my order* is flowing counter to his for me?

And…

And what if…

And what if this is our meet-cute?

This is the part where he starts laughing; little nasally snortlaughs and bunched up eyebrows. We stumble through apologies and brushing imaginary strands of hair away from our faces because that’s what people in movies do.

A year from now, we’ll talk about how clunky this whole scene was and he’ll describe my face as “red like a Solo cup,” because he’s said that phrase a million times since our first date at that Indian place. After that, he started using “red like a Solo cup” to describe anything he thought was beautiful. Even if it wasn’t red — which was weird at first and then my second favorite thing about him. On some nights after we’ve been drinking, I’ll rub his fingertips against my lips while we’re half-asleep and that will be my first favorite thing about him. Because it always has been.

We’ll date for a few months after the year anniversary and then things will begin to fall about because we’ve always been in different places. Me: Down on one knee, staring up into his confused face with a handful of ass a half-inch from my face. And him: Looking down at me and wondering what the fuck I’m doing. And then he clears his throat, steps directly over me, and excuses himself.

And just like that, our timeline — our future — disappears.

Later, at the movie theatre with Joey, I sit four rows behind and seven seats across from a guy with a full head of the most beautiful blond hair I’ve ever seen. I imagine accidentally brushing it when I pass, followed by our first long car ride together and a petty, easy break-up over the phone.

On my jog later, I pass a guy running in the opposite direction. I imagine taking a few more strides and turning to see him looking back at me. We’ll have sex on the third date and never again until his mom goes to the hospital and he calls me because he knows I’ll say, “Sure. You can come over.”

And when I finally go to sleep, I dream about being a little boy at summer camp. I sit on the edge of the volleyball court and stare at all the guys, inventing futures. One of the counselors, Kyle Gaudet, peels off his shirt and tosses it to the sand. "Rogers!" he barks. "Grab me a water." I stand up and rush to grab him a bottle.

This is how it starts, I think.

He has no idea what I've got planned for us.

*A medium cappuccino. Middle-of-the-road enough so he can't make any snap judgments about me, even though I didn’t want it.

Lookout

I see you.

You don’t see me, but I see you.

You’re not supposed to be here — outside my office on a Thursday after midnight. But [to be fair] my office is in the middle of downtown where the foot traffic and the traffic-traffic never really stop, day or night. This isn’t me giving you the benefit of the doubt, though. There’s no reason for you be here.

I am sitting inside my car with a French Vanilla Cappuccino between my thighs and my eyes on the rearview mirror. The scalding hot chalky sludge comes from a sputtering machine in the Circle K by my house. Stop by at any given time and you’re guaranteed to encounter at least one cashier of indiscernible gender. It’s a thing. Sometimes when I’m writing late, I grab a large cup of this molten sugar and suck it down as fast as I can. But right now, it’s just tucked into my lap; unsipped and radiating heat into my crotch while I watch you step out of your Jeep and onto the sidewalk.

I think about bolting straight for the side entrance into my office. Pulling my hat down over my face. Slamming the door behind me. But I don’t because I can’t take my eyes off you.

What are you doing here?

What are you doing when you’re not right here, right now?

And where have you been?

You look good. Your hair is fuller and you’re impeccably put-together, as always. For such a surprising encounter, you look unsurprisingly like yourself. But seeing you makes me more self-aware — my thinning hair, my bloating gut, the wrinkles in my forehead and the lines around my mouth. We’ve aged, but I’ve done so more profoundly. On the outside, at least. In this moment, I realize I’m feeling shitty about myself just by looking at you. Some forgotten wiring in my heart that still works, apparently — the current in my chest is making me want to throw the door open and projectile vomit on the street.

I think about killing you. Unspooling your brains onto the sidewalk. Creating a future where I can’t see you on the street ever again. But I don’t because I’m haunted enough.

It’s December outside but it’s stuffy inside my car. I finally take a sip from my cup and I wince. In my rearview mirror, you are rocking on your heels and exhaling thin clouds into the air like empty speech bubbles. You’re waiting for someone. Shit. How did it take me so long to realize that? You’re obviously waiting for someone and here I am staring at you from the blind of my Ford Fiesta. And I kind of give a fuck who it is.

You look down at your phone and smile.

I smile with you, but not with you.

I can't help it, but I wonder what would happen if I walked over and said hello. I could step out, head towards my office, look your way, appear to be surprised (not stunned), jog over, shake your hand (because it would catch you off your guard), act normal, just the basic pleasantries, the vaguest sense of interest, nodding, smirking, acting, bullshit. Maybe I fist-bump you. Then I turn away and walk back to my office without looking back over my shoulder (like you'd expect me to do). That actually sounds like a great plan. I am in control of this situation. I'm doing this. Now! I open the door and swing my legs out. The cup in my crotch crushes between my thighs. Hot cappuccino slime splashes all over my sweatpants and somehow makes immediate contact with my dick and balls. I scream "AH! FAGGOT!" I jump out. I am splattered with it. I look up and you are staring at me.

I put my hand up and stick my chin out. The universal hey what's up. Your expression doesn't change. You look stunned (not surprised). "Welp," I say much louder than I mean to. And then I roll my shoulders back and casually strut away — not towards my office, though — in the opposite direction for some reason. Down the other end of the street where there isn't really anything besides the Greyhound station, which is terrifying, but now it appears that I'm headed that way so I guess I'll hang out in there for a while until you're gone. Or maybe I'll just a buy a ticket to somewhere. I've got work in the morning, but I could always shoot my boss an email right now and tell him I'm feeling feverish. Oh shit. I left my wallet in the car. Fuck it. I'll live like a homeless person or a transient tonight. This isn't going to kill me. Unless a homeless person or a transient kills me. Oh God, I'm scared.

Anyway, it was great seeing you.

Screwing Sedaris

Last Saturday, I was the featured storyteller in an improv series called Lafayette Famous. I was asked to prepare three true stories from my life to be delivered onstage, while the improvisers created scenes based on themes from each. This is the one of those true stories, written as a monologue.

Story 1: Screwing Sedaris

So one of my heroes of writing is, of course, David Sedaris (you know, like a white person). And about a year ago, he’s out promoting his new book and I find out he’s doing a signing at the Barnes & Noble in Baton Rouge. So on the day of, I leave work a little early and I head over there.

I should also mention that I am wearing some kind of western button-down, with cut-off shorts, and these really kindof ridiculous combat boots.

So I get to the B&N and I’m standing in this really long line and I’m holding my book and I’m completely by myself. And then this woman with a Manager ID badge around her neck comes over and just starts talking to me. And her name is Courtney and she’s a really nice lady, but I can’t shake that something feels a little off, like “Why are you talking to me?” So at one point she’s like, “Look, if you want to, I can get you some one-on-one time with David.” So of course I say “Of course.” And she’s like “Well after he signs your book, come around and stand by me, and I’ll introduce you more personally after.” And I’m like “Great” and then she walks off and I’m just standing there like “WHY?!”

Now, in my mind, I make the decision that David Sedaris [the internationally famous writer and memoirist], has seen me and has asked this woman to come arrange for my company. Ya know, like he wants to fuck me. Like he’s a rapper and I’m some ho. Like he goes to his own book readings and rounds up dumb, eager gays to bang. So then I start getting nervous — asking myself questions like: “Am I willing to do this?”

So he finally shows up and I’m slowly moving to the front of the line and I’m pretty much about to puke. And Courtney the manager is standing there and she winks at me and I’m like, “Fuck you for putting me in this situation.”

And then I get to the front of the line and David looks me up and down and says, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.

[LONG PAUSE]

Where on earth did you get those boots!?” And “I’m like, “…What?” and he’s like, “I absolutely love them. Do you watch RuPaul’s Drag Race?” And now I’m just struggling to keep up at this point, and I don’t even know what I’m saying because I still believe if I’m being pre-interviewed to fuck this aging literary icon. So after a while, he grabs my book and signs it and then Courtney grabs me and pulls me off to this side and she’s like, “Wait here with me.”

I’m sweating through my shirt and thinking: “This was not on my bucket list. And I don’t want my hero to use me like this.” So I tell her “I’m gotta take a piss.” And then I walk right past this long line of people and I head right out the door and I’m practically sprinting through the parking lot and this gay guy is getting out his car and he yells, “HEY! WHAT WAS HE LIKE?!”

And I yell back, “HE’S HORNY!” And get in my car and I drive back to Lafayette.

Sexting Mom

Last Saturday, I was the featured storyteller in an improv series called Lafayette Famous. I was asked to prepare three true stories from my life to be delivered onstage, while the improvisers created scenes based on themes from each. This is the one of those true stories, written as a monologue.

Story 2: Sexting Mom

So when I was in college, I dated this guy for years and we had a very healthy sex life. And we were actually very sweet to each other too: We would walk to class together and often run into each other on campus.

Well one day, I pass him on Rex Street and we kiss each other and we keep walking in opposite directions. So I arrive at my Louisiana Folklore class and I sit down, and I get a text from my boyfriend and it says the grossest, most sexually explicit thing I’ve ever read.

Then I get a text from my mom and I hurry up and close that and go back to my boyfriend’s text.

So now he and I are sexting, right? And now I have to top his text, so I write something even more graphic. I’ve probably said grosser things by now because I’ve gotten more creative with age, but at the time, my response painted a pretty disgusting picture of what I wanted this boy to do to me — using words like “ride” and “squirt” and “chest.”

So I send it, and I wait for a response. But nothing. 10 minutes and nothing.

Then I get this sinking feeling in my stomach and I check my outbox and realize something:

[LONG PAUSE]

I accidently sent the text to my mom.

Sitting there in my Louisiana Folklore class, I have a full-blown panic attack and turn beet-red and grip the edges of my desk and make all these weird noises and Dr. Wilkerson comes over and she’s like “Hey, what’s wrong?!” And I say, “It’s my mom!” Which is a very scary thing to say.

And then my mom texted me back.

And it said:

“That was obviously not for me. I’m very disturbed.”

And I didn’t go home to New Orleans for three months.