Longing

The story of us is the only one like it. Of this, I’m certain.

There’s been no relationship like the one we share in history, and I don’t think any two people could ever replicate it.

Of course, there are stories of relationships moving fast, the distance between two people, queer intimacy, sexual chemistry, beautiful weddings, addiction, the struggle to communicate, disappointment, hardship, sacrifice, transcendence, and even convergence. But only our story has all of these elements, and infinitely more.

But at the core of our story; at the very beginning; in bold type in the preface – is longing.

Well before we collided, we spent our entire lives longing for a setting that suited us. We longed for the assurance of good work. We longed for community and found family. We even longed for someone to love us, even if we both thought we’d probably never find it. And four years later, in our everyday interactions, we long for the other to deliver all of these comforts, even after we stuck wedding bands on our fingers.

I see in you what I see in me: the longing to be understood, accepted, loved, and most importantly, valued. And sometimes that longing takes different shapes. Holding each other under the sheets for another 15 minutes while the alarm blares [over and over]. Reaching for your hand while we walk from the car into the restaurant. Asking if now is a good time to have sex. Desperately pleading for attention. Manic, distressing expressions of fear. Shouting matches across the living room. Closing our eyes and embracing; signaling a deeply needed reconciliation.

And sometimes, longing can happen in reverse. Wanting to connect so badly that we turn our bodies away and stretch in the other direction. For me, my longing for a sense of belonging extends beyond our bond. It’s something that lives in my body; the smallest Russian doll of myself tucked below my sternum. This tiny keyhole space longs for something so paradoxical it disrupts the rest of the system. This little empty void cries out for the vaguest sense of “more.”

This is an absence of self. And my entire life, I’ve tried to fill this space with beer, vodka, food, vomit, men, women, hookup apps, cocaine, weed, vape smoke, cigarettes, art, TV, podcasts, commitments, promises, infidelities, fantasies, and anything that could potentially, finally make me entirely whole. This is the truth – traced back to infancy where a baby with respiratory issues sensed his body could turn against him in a snap. It’s an in-utero entanglement of my body’s deficiencies and my mind’s chemicals. My longing was born when I was born.

And that’s a historical problem for those to whom I grant proximity. Who wants to be one of many wires fighting for a single plug in the switchboard?

This is where you reenter the story. Our story.

The pinprick echo chamber inside of me brought me to you. But over time (as your boyfriend, fiancé, and husband), sometimes you fit and sometimes you didn’t. Which must’ve hurt you in unsettling ways – maybe feeling like you could easily be jettisoned in favor of something intoxicating, delicious, or numbing. I don’t know how you feel in those moments, but I imagine it feels something like human collateral. Human debris. And that can’t feel good.

But I want you to know something: with focused intent (not just flighty compulsion), this little voice that cries out can be hushed to a whisper. Though I’m not sure it’ll ever go away. It’s an inherent part of me. It’s my very own language of longing. But it can be repurposed. Reshaped from a void into a furnace – fed by purpose, not substance. This reshaping will be its own journey, reversing a lifetime of picking up & checking out. It’ll probably be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but I believe in the power of clarity, and the desperate need for support. Your support. You, Drew Prestridge.

The first few chapters of our story are littered with the wreckage of misunderstandings and misdirections. The flotsam and jetsam left behind by two people struggling to describe their nature, shortcomings, and trauma. But that doesn’t have to be our story anymore. No more longing to be understood, accepted, loved, [and most importantly, valued] anymore.

We can’t start over. But we can literally and figuratively write a new chapter, right now. One that’s entirely based on truth, and not the wild tales that brought us to winding side-streets and dead ends. So let this letter be the opening passage of this new chapter.

Let it begin with these words.

At this very moment, my longing reaches out from the tiny keyhole underneath my sternum; a taut suspension cord of negative space. It’s tethered to you, my love.

Wherever you are right now.

Wherever you go.

ink & water

He needed space, so he just started walking away from their apartment.

When the fights escalated to the point of screaming, distance and time helped. Their therapist called it “emotional flooding;” the moment in an argument when you pass the point of reason because you’re seeing red. Now, when he felt emotionally flooded, he’d just slip on a pair of shoes, ballpark an estimated return time, and head out the door.

He was nearly ten blocks from their apartment when he hit the intersection of 19th and Valencia. Making a right, he passed a shop with colorful backpacks and art supplies in the window. Since he wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, he turned on his heel and crossed the threshold. Inside, rows of fanny packs and duffles lined the walls – color-blocked from floor to ceiling in chunks of magenta, beige, and other hues left-of-center for the sake of fashion. Running through the center of the store was a banquet table piled high with plain journals and cheeky activity books. Walking absently, he ran his fingers across adult coloring books and thought-starters inviting the reader to write “one line a day.” And then, his gaze found its way to the back wall, where he saw it; a typewriter. He thought of the device as “camera-ready” because it looked like a movie prop – almost too pristine for an antiquated relic. The typewriter plopped itself in the center of a mid-century writing desk – occupying space like a pumpkin on a fireplace mantle. Next to it was a cardboard box stacked to the brim with paper. The blank pages, just like everything else in the shop, were arranged by color; one layer resting idly upon another. He noticed a squatty waste bin on the ground, gurgling crumpled fists of discarded paper. He reached down and picked up a pink one that looked aggressively crinkled, like whoever threw it away wanted it to suffer. In faded blue-black ink, it read, “Hi dad I misss you everyday & wish we had more timee togethe.r”

A sudden wave of shame overcame him, so he crushed the note between his palms and returned it to the bin. “I’m trespassing,” he thought.

He wasn’t a particular good typist. In fact, most texts were followed with a correction and an asterisk. He’d also never used a typewriter before, but he knew each movement should be firm and intentional. “What would I say?,” he wondered. “Do I have anything to say?” Two pens stood crossed in a yellow, ceramic cup – cracked around the edges like chapped lips. He grabbed a pen and scribbled down a few test sentiments. “I’m sorry,” he wrote. “You’re my best friend.” “There should be more time.” “I didn’t mean it when I said you were an asshole because you’re not an asshole.” “You’re so beautiful, and I’m fucking this up.” Finally, he grabbed a page the color of eggshell and fed it through the machine. When he finished typing his message, he folded it up and tucked it away.

Outside on the sidewalk, the sun was warm – uncluttered by the everpresent clouds hanging in the San Francisco sky. He turned left, making his way back to their apartment where he would present the note as a peace offering. He knew it wasn’t enough to repair the damage between them; a collapsing dam overrun with an ocean. But he believed in his heart the waters of an emotional flood will always recede.

He reached into his pocket and ran his finger across the creases of the page emblazoned with the words, “Life is a nightmare. The world is corrupt. But you make it livable. I love you so much.”

you.

Of all the time we spend together in a day, the morning's my favorite part.

When we're in different cities, your voice on the other end of the phone kickstarts my day and gives me energy, like a solar panel absorbing sunshine. When we're together, squirming under the sheets and discovering new ways to fit together, mornings are euphoric. I inhale your smell and graze your skin with my lips and fingertips. And then there's your smile. "Hi," you'll say – soft and high. "Hi babe."

I've never seen a smile like yours; it takes up your entire face. Accented by the glow of a skylight, your smile is its own creature, waking and coming anew– reaching and stretching towards your eyes. When you smile, I can't help but smile myself. In those moments, at the onset of something new, I'm the happiest I'll be all day.

I want you to have every opportunity to be happy. And not just in moments of intimate, closed-off-from-the-world togetherness. Because I made a promise to you, and I'm going to keep it. Do what makes you happy and I will be there.

The next morning is imminent. And I'll be with you when it comes. Always.

***

“I love a skyline,” you said, nodding towards the cluster of buildings in the distance.

“The Cathedral, Hotel Monteleone, Harrah’s, the aquarium.” Like a seek-and-find game in Highlights Magazine, I scanned the buildings and located every landmark you named, realizing [for the first time] that the Monteleone was left of St. Louis Cathedral. Weird, I thought. I never knew that.

When you visited San Francisco the first time, you said the same thing. “I love a skyline.” Here, I was able to point out Salesforce Tower and Google’s Spear Street Office. I was still learning, but proud of myself for knowing two of the infinite buildings that make up the Financial District.

In my mind, I filed away skylines along with craft breweries, Teen Wolf, Drake, Nike stores, blackjack, and grilled cheese sandwiches.

***

Last night, we fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms and breathing only the air between us.

Every few hours, I was awoken by the soft touch of your fingertips across my face.

“Hey,” you said in a whisper. “I love you.”

Briefly breaking the surface of my dreams, I said, “I love you.”

And then I slipped back under – returning to the depth of my own personal twilight.

Visit Vancouver

Last night, I dreamt I attended a surprise birthday party that turned out to be a surprise sex party.

Quickly after disrobing and entering the pile, I lost my wallet and phone. I spent the rest of the dream searching – eventually finding my wallet (missing everything including my Clipper Card), and tracking my iPhone across the border to Vancouver where it disappeared upon dying.

Waking up, I see my phone lying mere inches from my face on the pillow.

At the top of my inbox, there's an ad from Airbnb; "Visit Vancouver."

Moving Hands

Everyone has a clock inside them that ticks away the minutes.

It takes nine months to wind itself up, and the minute you enter the world, the little hand jumps forward.

When you do something good for yourself, the clock slows down. And when you do something harmful, the clock speeds up. That way, you're always in control of how much time you've got.

But when I look at you, my clock stops.

It takes a little break.

It lets me live outside of my timeline, just for a moment.

Because whether my time here is long or short, my clock knows that every moment with you is time well spent.

Men Wearing Rings

There's a guy sitting across from me on the Google shuttle from Mountain View to San Francisco. Good-looking Asian man in a henley and tortoise shell frames. On his left hand, he's wearing a wedding ring.

A few months ago, I had a conversation with Emily at Tsunami in New Orleans. "I never notice that kind of thing," I said. "When women are pregnant or when men wear rings. Breezes right by me. But women seem ridiculously in-tune to it—like on a primal level. Every single one of my girlfriends can spot a ring from across a crowded room. But when they call it to my attention, I feel blindsided. What the fuck, I think. I can't even find myself in a group photo."

But at Coffee Culture in late-July, I noticed a wedding band on a man pointing at a breakfast pastry inside a glass display case. "Cheese," he said. "Now does that mean cream cheese or like provolone or something?"

My friend Matt's friend Brett was wearing a gold ring on his left hand while plucking ramen from a bowl at Chow on Church. I noticed it almost immediately, and then I noticed I noticed.

At this moment, there's a guy reclining across from me on the GBus, wearing a simple band around his ring finger. And if I'm being honest, I noticed the ring before I saw his face.

Part of me feels like I never noticed pregnant women or married men because I didn't live in their world. It's not in the cards, so why would I notice at all?

But now—with you—I'm sharing my present and building our future. Browsing for rings isn't a fantasy. It's something I did this morning while listening to the playlist you made me. Size 8, yeah?

Being your partner gives everything more context.

Suddenly, I've got more options; more possibilities.

You've cracked open the world.

The shuttle creaks to a stop at Market and 9th, and everyone rises to their feet. In a single-file line, we descend the steps and land on the busy, rush hour street. I watch the handsome, be-speckled Asian guy disappear into the crowd navigating the crosswalk. And then I turn away and march down 9th towards my apartment, passing exactly 12 men wearing rings.

What I Wouldn't Change

I wouldn’t change my legs. There’s always room for improvement, but I think my thighs and my calves are pretty sexy as is, especially in athletic shorts and crew socks. Legs are an easy default for folks to hang their self confidence upon, but my toned runner’s legs, covered in trim waves of blond hair, are objectively hot. And that’s my stance on that.

I wouldn't change anything about my face, except for a few hard lines etched into my forehead and around my smile. In my reflection, I see my mom’s eyes and my dad’s mouth. I like being reminded of where I come from. Thank God they’re not terrible assholes.

I wouldn’t change my carrier service. $130 a month seems like I’m overpaying, but just the thought of leaving AT&T seems like a nightmare. Avoiding the hold time alone is worth whatever cash is being swindled away from me.

I wouldn’t change my lisp. Since I was a little kid, people have poked fun at the way I talk. Inching towards 30, I still struggle to be taken seriously in a conversation. My wide tongue grapples with fricatives like a clown fish trying to escape the jaws of a hammerhead. But I wouldn’t change my lisp because it’s mine and no one talks like I do. Plus, it’s forced me to cultivate a personality that projects beyond my speech—even if I’ll never know the joys of a tongue ring.

I wouldn’t change my apartment. The rent’s sky-high for a studio loft, but I don’t mind because it’s right smack in the middle of the city. From my fourth-floor balcony to my tiny, pocket-door closet, I like everything the way it is. It’s the first place I’ve lived alone. It’s my first big claim to independence. It’s my haven in this sparkling, bustling city. Though it would be nice to have a Subway inside the building. Hoofing my way down Mission five times a week for my Oven-Roasted Chicken on Italian Herb & Cheese is getting old. Even if it’s right around the corner.

I wouldn’t change my childhood. I can’t change my childhood. But if I could, I wouldn't.

Speaking of things I can’t change but wouldn’t if I could: my ability to forgive. I can take in a painful experience and channel it through a filter of forgiveness—almost immediately. It can be jarring when the person with whom I’m arguing watches my shoulders and the corners of my mouth relax, right after saying some bitchy and below-the-belt. “You’ve got a body like Whoopi Goldberg!” or “Fuck you, your sister’s in rehab!” maybe. But in the same breath, I can step outside of the disagreement and move along. “I’m sorry,” I’ll say. “Where can we go from here?” And the other party—stunned, mouth agape—will typically stutter and get in a few final jabs before moving along with me. I don’t want to lose that talent. It's necessary and hilarious.

I wouldn’t change my eyebrows. I’ve never tweezed them, shaped them, threaded them, or otherwise. Subtle and low-maintenance. Nothing like me. But everything I aspire to be.

And I wouldn’t change you.

I wouldn’t change the patterns of hair on your chest, or your heavy eyes when you’re drunk, or the volume of your voice when you rap Drake lyrics at me in the car.

I wouldn’t change the way you dress—actually, I love the way you dress. Even the rubber flip flops you wear with nice clothes. Even your Adidas gym shorts with the worn-out waistband. Even that time you wore a tank top to the House of Blues. Actually, we should talk about that.

I wouldn’t change the fact that I missed my shuttle to work today because you were having a bad morning and you desperately needed to talk to me. And I lied. I missed two shuttles. But I would do it again because I’m your partner and there’s always another shuttle.

I wouldn’t change the hours we said we lost with fighting. We didn’t lose them at all. Sure, we could’ve been saying nicer things instead and yelling, but now we’re here. And our time together is more valuable than anything I’ll ever own. Because life is short and even hours spent fighting are hours spent with you.

I wouldn’t change anything about you.

Not a thing.

So don’t alter anything.

Please stay the same.

And don’t move.

Stay right there.

I’m on my way.