Down Boy/Boy Down

This motherfucker’s dog won’t stop jumping on me, and I’m trying not to kick it in the balls.

Dixon walks out of the kitchen with a glass of something red and offers me a cocktail. It’s ten in the morning. On a normal Sunday around this time, I’d be choking down chicken and waffles with cheap champaign, but John’s still asleep at home, and I’m too hungover and insecure to eat brunch by myself. I wouldn’t really know where to go, anyway. Baton Rouge isn’t exactly foreign, but I’m still kind of foggy and I’m not in the mood to fuck with UrbanSpoon. Plus, I’m wearing black, mesh micro-shorts and I’m carrying a half-pound of pink glitter in my hair. I’m ripe for the fagbashing. I wince when he says cocktail because I hate it when grown men: A.) Drink colorful mixed drinks and B.) Refer to them as “cocktails.” It just sounds fruity. Well, it probably is fruity, but there’s no sense in making your Sea Breeze feel more feminine than it already is. I’m craving Absolut, but I don’t want to scare him with my shotgun from the bottle, so I decline and sit on the arm of the sofa. The dog is still mauling me.

He (the guy, not the dog) is wearing black-rimmed glasses, knee-length, drawstring shorts with a blue stamp of a bird across the upper calf, and no shirt. His Grindr said his name was Dixon and he was 32, and since I was already his Facebook friend, I knew it was true. He’s shorter than me by about three inches, making him around 5’5, but he’s perfectly proportioned and free of those tiny, empanada hands that short guys have and that I hate more than the word “cocktail.” Looking at him, he doesn’t appear old enough to rent a car. He’s not really my type, but he’s very handsome. He sits across from me on the love seat and takes an easy sip of his ladydrink.

“So. Did you go to the parade yesterday?” he asks me with a wide smile, ignoring the beagle who’s eating my face.

“Yeah, it was bananas,” I say. “My first Spanish Town. I’m still feelings like crap. My best friend’s still shattered at home in bed and I was just bored I guess. I think you and I are friends on Facebook.”

“Sofia, down!” he screams and claps his hands at the dog. “Yeah, I noticed. Lafayette, right? You write a blog. It’s funny. SOFIA, LEAVE HIM ALONE! I’m sorry, she’s four months old — still a baby.”

I try to nod so he understands I’m paying attention, but all my energy is spent keeping this animal close to the floor. I never know how to handle other people’s pets. I just as soon let a dog, or cat, or goldfish molest me in front of my host before kicking it away or screaming in its face. How to deal with an ineffective disciplinarian’s hyperactive dog in their home should be taught in grammar schools.

"You read my blog?! Seriously? You read my blog and you still invited me over to your house to do stuff? JESUSGIVEMEAFUCKINGBREAK!" The dog writhes for a second and Dixon looks at me over his glass of cranberry diarrhetic. "Let's go upstairs," he says.

"That would be great."

His bedroom is spartan with no art on the walls or piles of laundry on the floor. I sit on the nondescript, white bedspread and kick off my shoes. He joins me from the other side and rolls onto his back. I don't think we've engaged in enough small talk to make ourselves feel better about what's about to happen, so I ask a few more questions and he volleys them right back. Eventually, I kiss him and it begins and ends as effortlessly as kicking off my shoes. Nothing special — plain white rice. He had one of those sliding mirror closets, which I definitely watched more than him. When it was over, I excused myself to the bathroom where I redressed and splashed cold water on my face. In the mirror, my eyes are bloodshot (probably from the dog dander), and pink glitter is visible down to my scalp. "Happy Mardi Gras," I tell myself. We smile at each other when I return and I tell him that I'm going back to sleep. I'm not, but I want to leave and I don't know what else to say. He walks me to the door and I side-hug him while glaring across the room at the mutt trotting towards us. "See you soon," I mutter.

Outside, it's colder than I remember. John will probably sleep until 2PM, so I guess I'll eat something on my own. I think I saw some French Onion Dip in his parents' fridge. Maybe there are chips, too. I should probably text that guy from last night or at least respond to his friend request. He was nice. Much more interesting than Dixon. He was a good kisser. I think I like him. I think about Heath. I wonder if he's okay. Valentine's Day is coming up and I hope he's not taking our break-up as hard as me. I hope he's not leaving a stranger's apartment right now. He's better than that. I'm better than that, too. But for now, I need this. I need time to scab over, and I need to distract myself until something shakes me up again.

Maybe I'll get a puppy.