I lean across the table and stage-whisper to John, “I think he’s looking back at me!” John pulls his eyebrows together and purses his lips into a duckbill. “Jean jacket and jeans?” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes in tandem. “No. He's not.” “He’s stupid hot. And so tall! What do you think, six-three?” I crane my neck and look at no one in particular behind him. “I think you just want him to look back at you. And uncross your legs. You’re scaring all the dicks away.” Now John’s stage-whispering too.
“C’mon. Let’s take a walk,” says John, rising to his feet and flicking the smoldering butt over the balcony. I follow him through the glass doors and across the empty dance floor. “I need to close out,” he barks to the strikingly beautiful transgender woman behind the bar. I lean against John and stick my hands into the pockets of my jacket, resting my head against his shoulder. “I’m ready when you are,” I yell over the assaulting house music. “Aw, don’t go yet!” booms a stony, drum of a voice behind me. I bite my bottom lip and slowly turn to face him. “Hey man,” he says. “You leavin?”
At point blank range, the cowboy is textbook-handsome. And seeing his face makes me instantly aware of how fat and hammered I am. But I have to focus. Charming strange men is one of the few things I can do with my eyes closed besides jacking-off and listening to girls. So I shift my weight to my hip and flip my invisible bangs. “Yeah we’re already late. We were supposed to meet some friends for Boys Night twenty minutes ago.” I never break eye contact. Neither does he. He cocks his head, half-grins, and takes a gulp of his Budweiser. I can tell he's the type of guy who has never taken a sip of anything in his life. He's never sipped, or primped, or groomed, or swished, or brunched. He's never said "breeder," or "gayby," or "Miss Thing," or "fierce," or "disco nap." He's never expressed the need to "have a kiki." Oh, of this I'm sure. But this doesn't scare me. I know his type well. And since he's still staring at me after hearing my shrill, lispy voice, I know there won't be any heavy lifting. He likes guys like me, so that's all I have to be. This might even be easy.
The cowboy drives an F-250, like he would. He says his name is Rick Ross and that he's in town for two weeks for training — something having to do with measuring shale or teaching third grade or Mutton Bustin'. "Is your name really Rick Ross? Do people give you shit for that?" I ask with my head hanging out the window, trying desperately not to womit in front of this man. "You can see my ID if you want," he offers, reaching for his back pocket. "Nah, I believe you. Make a left up here. It's the blue house with the tin roof." We park and he follows me into the house. I stumble into my room and flick the lights on. I was drunk two hours ago. Now I'm just woozy and drenched. I wrestle off my shirt and twist to crack my back. I catch my reflection in the mirror and think, "Bruh. You look like Prince Harry on K right now, but this beautiful ranch hand from Nebraska is in your room. You can either screw him or pass out. Either way, you've already won, stud." Rick Ross smiles at me in the mirror and then asks where the bathroom is. It's the next door on the left. Alone now, I lift my leg and release the fart I've been holding since closing my tab, then I slip into gym shorts, and wipe the fronts of my teeth with a towel I find on the floor.
Everything I've learned from my decade of dating has taught me to never dig through someone's personal affects. From inboxes to search histories, you're guaranteed to discover something scary every time — even if it's just your own insecurity. I know this, but I still grab his circa 1776 LG Scoop and scan the outgoing messages. This is a picture of the last message he sent to a name I didn't recognize:
When he finally returns from the bathroom, I'm wrapped in covers and facing the wall. He curls up behind me and he nuzzles my neck. I know I smell like a biker bar, but he still tells me I smell nice. He grinds and pokes me for a good ten minutes before he starts snoring. I carefully look over my shoulder to check the time, but the glowing, green numbers are obscured by a tiny bottle on my nightstand. I squint and quickly recognize the label. It's lube. But how'd it get there? Did he transport it from his truck or was he carrying it in his jean jacket pocket all night? The thought of a person casually walking around in public with a travel-size bottle of lube in his pocket gives me the willies. But I strangely find comfort in the idea that, technically, anyone could be carrying lube on his or her person at any time. It's like the idea that any abandoned trash bag on the side of the road can have a baby in it, or any closed box can be filled with dildos.
Although he might have appeared to stand out from the herd, Rick Ross The Cowboy was nothing special. He might not have ever worn an infinity scarf or cried at a Beyoncé concert, but he was a lot like me — an aimless fag who's still looking for something exciting or someone to impress.
And while his sex appeal might make him a heartthrob on The CW, I sleep easier knowing that my unique look might qualify me for casting on a network with better quality of viewership. I remind myself to email Ryan Murphy my headshot before slipping into a dream about gay zombies in the old west.
I uncross my legs, but continue to stare. He may have stolen that outfit from the Brokeback Mountain wardrobe trailer, but he is one of the sexiest men I’ve seen in the wild. I reach for my tie’s knot and loosen it with two yanks, rolling my neck and closing my eyes toward the night sky. “I’m fucking choking. We could’ve gotten away with wearing tank tops to that goat ranch wedding,” I whine. Between the “V” of his fingers, John flips his cigarette and blows a steady stream of smoke between us. “Wanna go to Marley’s? No one’s here.”
“He’s here.” I flick my ash and raise the joe to my lips, nodding to the cowboy on the other side of the patio. He’s standing at a round, high-top table across from two microgays who are visibly drooling while little red hearts pop above their empty, flat-ironed heads. I can’t really make out what he’s saying, but I can hear the sound of his voice. It’s deep and clunky with no hint of a lisp or inflection. His words seem to land on the tabletop with matter-of-fact thuds. I caught full sight of his face on my walk to our table, but now, I’ve only got his profile. Still, his features are soft and deliberate. He could easily pass for an actor on The CW network — maybe for a teen soap called something like Goodbye, Beaverton or Cow Pies for Sutton. He would be the dangerous, older ranch hand who woos Miranda Cosgrove’s city girl-turned-champion-bull-rider. I wouldn’t watch it, but I’d probably see him on Tom & Lorenzo standing before a step-and-repeat and think, “I don’t know who he is, but I’d totally let him in. What the fuck is Cow Pies for Sutton?”
“C’mon. Let’s take a walk,” says John, rising to his feet and flicking the smoldering butt over the balcony. I follow him through the glass doors and across the empty dance floor. “I need to close out,” he barks to the strikingly beautiful transgender woman behind the bar. I lean against John and stick my hands into the pockets of my jacket, resting my head against his shoulder. “I’m ready when you are,” I yell over the assaulting house music. “Aw, don’t go yet!” booms a stony, drum of a voice behind me. I bite my bottom lip and slowly turn to face him. “Hey man,” he says. “You leavin?”
At point blank range, the cowboy is textbook-handsome. And seeing his face makes me instantly aware of how fat and hammered I am. But I have to focus. Charming strange men is one of the few things I can do with my eyes closed besides jacking-off and listening to girls. So I shift my weight to my hip and flip my invisible bangs. “Yeah we’re already late. We were supposed to meet some friends for Boys Night twenty minutes ago.” I never break eye contact. Neither does he. He cocks his head, half-grins, and takes a gulp of his Budweiser. I can tell he's the type of guy who has never taken a sip of anything in his life. He's never sipped, or primped, or groomed, or swished, or brunched. He's never said "breeder," or "gayby," or "Miss Thing," or "fierce," or "disco nap." He's never expressed the need to "have a kiki." Oh, of this I'm sure. But this doesn't scare me. I know his type well. And since he's still staring at me after hearing my shrill, lispy voice, I know there won't be any heavy lifting. He likes guys like me, so that's all I have to be. This might even be easy.
The cowboy drives an F-250, like he would. He says his name is Rick Ross and that he's in town for two weeks for training — something having to do with measuring shale or teaching third grade or Mutton Bustin'. "Is your name really Rick Ross? Do people give you shit for that?" I ask with my head hanging out the window, trying desperately not to womit in front of this man. "You can see my ID if you want," he offers, reaching for his back pocket. "Nah, I believe you. Make a left up here. It's the blue house with the tin roof." We park and he follows me into the house. I stumble into my room and flick the lights on. I was drunk two hours ago. Now I'm just woozy and drenched. I wrestle off my shirt and twist to crack my back. I catch my reflection in the mirror and think, "Bruh. You look like Prince Harry on K right now, but this beautiful ranch hand from Nebraska is in your room. You can either screw him or pass out. Either way, you've already won, stud." Rick Ross smiles at me in the mirror and then asks where the bathroom is. It's the next door on the left. Alone now, I lift my leg and release the fart I've been holding since closing my tab, then I slip into gym shorts, and wipe the fronts of my teeth with a towel I find on the floor.
Everything I've learned from my decade of dating has taught me to never dig through someone's personal affects. From inboxes to search histories, you're guaranteed to discover something scary every time — even if it's just your own insecurity. I know this, but I still grab his circa 1776 LG Scoop and scan the outgoing messages. This is a picture of the last message he sent to a name I didn't recognize:
When he finally returns from the bathroom, I'm wrapped in covers and facing the wall. He curls up behind me and he nuzzles my neck. I know I smell like a biker bar, but he still tells me I smell nice. He grinds and pokes me for a good ten minutes before he starts snoring. I carefully look over my shoulder to check the time, but the glowing, green numbers are obscured by a tiny bottle on my nightstand. I squint and quickly recognize the label. It's lube. But how'd it get there? Did he transport it from his truck or was he carrying it in his jean jacket pocket all night? The thought of a person casually walking around in public with a travel-size bottle of lube in his pocket gives me the willies. But I strangely find comfort in the idea that, technically, anyone could be carrying lube on his or her person at any time. It's like the idea that any abandoned trash bag on the side of the road can have a baby in it, or any closed box can be filled with dildos.
Although he might have appeared to stand out from the herd, Rick Ross The Cowboy was nothing special. He might not have ever worn an infinity scarf or cried at a Beyoncé concert, but he was a lot like me — an aimless fag who's still looking for something exciting or someone to impress.
And while his sex appeal might make him a heartthrob on The CW, I sleep easier knowing that my unique look might qualify me for casting on a network with better quality of viewership. I remind myself to email Ryan Murphy my headshot before slipping into a dream about gay zombies in the old west.
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