Ewok Boner

"Ewok Boner" is a dialogue that requires two alternating readers or one crazy person with alternating voices in his or her head.

On Grindr, I thought his picture was attractive, even though he was wearing shades and making a duck face.

On Grindr, he opened with ‘Hey Hey Hey,’ which — to me — seemed overly eager and reminded me of Fat Albert.

On Grindr, he introduced himself as ‘Chuck,’ which is one of the names I hate; along with Carl, Hank, and Lester.

On Grindr, he said his name was Ryan and that he worked in advertising. I guess he thought I’d be impressed?

On Grindr, we made small talk and traded pics, one of which was a full-length selfie of him wearing the smallest jock strap I’ve ever seen.

On Grindr, I sent him some pics and he immediately asked if I wanted to hang out. It must’ve been the jock strap.

On Grindr, it looked like he was squeezing a hot pink Tamagotchi through his crotch.

On the way over, I smoked a bowl and listened to Kennedy. The drive to Lafayette usually takes about thirty minutes.

In the bathroom, I smoked cigarettes and listened to the new Cults album. I had about thirty minutes, I guessed.

Through the window, I saw him fidgeting. He looked nervous.

From the sofa, I watched him climb the porch steps, so I positioned myself so that I appeared both casual and masculine — although I am never either.

At the front door, I knocked.

At the front door, I side-hugged him and made a mental note to tell him his Grindr photos didn’t do him any justice. Even though he was two inches shorter than I am.

In the living room, I finally got a good look at him. Definitely bangable. But tense.

On the sofa, I said he looked like Edward Norton, but nugget-sized.

On the sofa, I told him I get the Edward Norton thing a lot. But it has more to do with the way I speak than the way I look. The exchange felt conventional and recycled.

On NBC, Edward Norton was hosting SNL, which we both felt was too bizarre to pass up. So we watched it, until he needed a smoke break.

On the porch, I told him I’d just moved back from Manhattan and that I was practicing interior design here. The story I told sounded a lot more glamorous than the whole truth.

On the porch, he was dodgy about his past, but it felt like he was trying to protect me from it. Still, I found him adorable in the way Ewoks are adorable. Ewoks with boners. Also, I could see his boner.

On the sofa, I deliberately sat closer to him. He smelled like English Laundry cologne, isolation, wet skin, piña colada-scented moisturizer, and skepticism.

On the sofa, we discussed curtain fabric, the peplum silhouette, Terry Richardson’s hackneyed portfolio, and the appropriateness of certain kinds of art in kitchens.

On the sofa, we mostly talked about gay designer crap — the crap I live and breathe — but at one point, he said, 'In [his] opinion, people who eat pizza without toppings don't want to be happy.' And I couldn’t stop laughing.

On the sofa, I made him laugh.

On the sofa, he told me about the tranny who works at the Circle K around the corner who often lets him leave without paying for his beer or cereal bars.

On the sofa, he introduced me the late-80s New Orleans rapper, Bust Down. I felt ashamed that I wasn’t already familiar. “Nasty Bitch” is clearly a hometown classic.

On the sofa, I felt ashamed for sending him that jock strap picture.

In my stomach, I felt churning. I think I wanted him to like me.

Under his shirt, I felt gurgling. And then he farted. On me.

Behind my eyes, I fought back tears. I was mortified. But then he started laughing and pressing down my stomach — trying to make me fart again. Then I started laughing too and we wrestled around.

On the sofa, he pushed me away, but I wiggled on top of him and pinned his hands above his head.

On the sofa, he kissed me.

In my head, there were issues of hyphenated last names, and what I was going to eat later, and safe sex, and being single, using my tongue to its fullest potential.

Outside, the wind was blowing the lanterns that hung from our old crape myrtle around. 

In all honesty, I wanted to stay over, but it was already past midnight and I had to meet a client in Youngsville the following morning.

Under different circumstances, I would’ve asked him to stay over. But I didn’t want him to bail on me after we had sex. So I said, 'I’m going to need to crash soon.'

On the porch, he held my face with both hands when he kissed me goodbye.

Under the covers, I waited for him to text me when he made it home. He never did.

In the morning, I told him that I passed out as soon as I got home, and he said 'S’all good.'

Throughout the day, I thought of him often. But since he was few years older then I am, the reigns were in his hands. The senior should take the lead in my opinion. Right?

Around sundown, I asked him if he wanted to hang out. He said, 'Sounds good.' But I’m not stupid. His day-length silence and clipped, detached responses were meant to throw me off. This motherfucker was definitely into me. Right?

On the porch, we smoked cigarettes and listened to Yeezus. And when I told him he’d lost me on a rant about the predispositions of Capricorns, he said, “Ketchup, mustard!”

On Tuesday, he said he had to work late, so instead of going back over to his house; I poured over floorplans and jacked-off to a group scene on Rocket Tube.

On Wednesday, he came over and we watched Modern Family and American Horror Story. After, we had sex and my mind barely wandered.

On Thursday, I didn’t hear from him until twilight. Was he still playing hard-to-get? That seemed a little unnecessary. We already did sex.

On Friday, we went to dinner at Agave. I liked the way he looked in lighting that wasn’t native to my home. Actually, I couldn’t stop looking at him.

On Saturday morning, I woke up in his bed. I sat up and pressed the palms of my hands into my eyes and he reached around my waist and nestled his shoulder into my hip.

On Saturday morning, I woke up and he was in my bed. His skin smelled like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I didn’t want him to go, but at some point I would need to take a dump.

At his friend Dustin’s apartment, we ate gumbo for dinner, and at one point, he asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him to the store for a bottle of Vitamin Water.

In the car, I told him I sometimes get social anxiety and I just need to get out and go for a drive.

In the car, he held my hand and I wondered why everyone thinks they have social anxiety. No one likes forced conversation or big crowds or heavy silences. But that’s part of human interaction.

In the car, I felt like I had overexposed myself.

In the car, I blamed his 'anxiety' on the YouTube generation. His generation.

In the car, it got quiet. And I began to feel anxious.

In the car, it got quiet. But I didn’t mind because there was talking ahead of us, just not at that moment.

In the car, I wanted to know what he was thinking.

In my head, I was screaming, ‘Jesus, if you want to know what I’m thinking, just ask!’

In my heart, I wanted to control his internal dialogue so that I didn’t have to wonder.

In his eyes, I could tell that he wanted to know if I liked him.

In the car, he smiled at me and said, “Catch up, mustard.” And I finally got it.