The Future

Andy,

Right now, you’re taking a nap in the hotel room and I’m lounging poolside next to three women who keep sending their food back.

From what I’ve gathered, one of them ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and two are splitting a plate of baby carrots. Their server — a thirty-plus cabana boy with an iron jaw and a teal polo with Palomar Dallas embroidered over his heart — has been chastised twice for fucking this up.

The sun only shines between breaks in the parade of passing clouds like a strobe light on Xanax. When it peekaboos out, I put down my pen and pad and stretch my limbs — exposing the fullest extent of my pasty skin for a fleeting moment before it’s covered again. My belly is still full from breakfast at Bread Winner’s; the place with glasses shaped like little cowboy boots and yesterday’s cookies, individually wrapped and priced at 75 cents each. After breakfast, we drove to The Belmont because someone told us it had the best view of the Dallas skyline. The place looked like one of those fake neighborhoods the government built in the 1950s for nuclear testing [your joke, not mine], and the view was obscured by a bunch of trees. Later, we wandered around Bishop Arts District for about an hour; me picking things up and putting them back down and you picking at your nails, anxious about your car getting towed. We returned to the hotel with two hours ‘til checkout. You crashed and I came to marinate in the Memorial Day Weekend sunshine, which presently feels like it’s being filtered through a colander.

We got into a fight at dinner last night but I can’t remember why and I don’t really want to bring it up again. You paid the bill and we left without speaking. Outside the restaurant, I pulled out my phone and played a song. I dropped the phone into your shirt pocket and asked you to dance with me. The sailors say ‘Brandy, you're a fine girl. What a good wife you would be… We're both terrible dancers, but we pretended we were better. You spun me around and I braced against you. We basically did the same move over and over again. But my life, my lover, and my lady is the sea!’ We were cracking ourselves up, shimmying and swaying back and forth. The people on the porch at the Tex-Mex place across the street must’ve thought we were hammered! Which we totally were. But we must’ve looked like we were in love. Which we totally are. When I woke up this morning, there was a six-pack of High Life and a pack of Camel Crush cigarettes on the side table. The beer was untouched but two cigarettes were gone.

It seems like every gay person east of Houston is in Pensacola this weekend. Not us, though. Pride festivals [in general] give me anxiety because the odds of running into someone I hate or someone I fucked are pretty high. It’s easy to dodge someone in a dark, crowded bar but there's nowhere to hide in the open daylight. "The beach setting makes it exponentially more unappealing," I said to you. "I can’t imagine subjecting myself to an entire weekend of self-loathing and sunburn." I heard the bitterness in my own voice. You heard it, too. That’s when you suggested we go somewhere different.

It came down to Dallas [also your idea] or Hot Springs, and I’m so happy we picked Dallas. It’s been wonderful and I want to remember it. My favorite moment was last night before dinner. The Palomar hosts a wine reception every evening, but we only caught the last ten minutes because we spent too much time getting ready. I had wine and you had beer. It was almost 6PM and the lobby was thick with an ambient orange glow. We sat near the towering front windows and talked about what it might be like to get married one day. This is how we frame most of our conversations: in the future. Anyway, I went back over to the hostess to grab us a few more drinks and she was packing everything up. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know we were late, but is there any way we could get one more glass of chardonnay and one more IPA?” “Wine’s right here,” she said. “But we’re out of IPA.” “Oh no,” I said. “The beer’s for my boyfriend. I’ll just run over to the bar.” She told me to wait a second and then she disappeared through a door behind the concierge, returning with another can of IPA. “Here you go,” she said. “Keep him happy.”

I left my phone in the room, so I don’t know what time it is. The sun feels like it hasn’t moved at all, but I’ve been writing for a while. I hope you’re awake by now. Maybe you’ve packed some of our stuff. That would be nice of you. And I can’t wait for the drive back home. We can listen to a Simon Rich story on Selected Shorts and then New In Town by John Mulaney! And then maybe before we reach Louisiana, I’ll fall asleep.

And when I wake up, it will be the future.

Love,
Ryan

This is me trying to keep you happy, dammit.

Oh, before I forget. Remember when we had dinner at Social a few weeks ago? I got drunk and said, “You know babe, sometimes you say things that annoy the shit out of me.” Really sorry about that. Pretty sure that was the least apropos way to share my feelings. What I meant was something like: I’m an irritable human being and most things bug me without rational cause. Like the way you ask questions with that bizarre Scottish inflection at the end. And the way you pronounce something like sampin. Oh, and Tootie! Sweetheart, please stop calling me Tootie. I know it's a Cajun thing, but I hate it. You can continue calling me Catfish Nugget, though. I like Catfish Nugget.

Better?

Thoughts I've Had During Sex

“I love laying on my back. Laying on my back has got to be one of my most favorite things to do! It’s how I eat, and it’s how I sleep, and it’s how I enjoy TV and music. Yep, this is lovely. It’s purely a bonus that my genitals are being stimulated right now. I could do this anywhere [in any state of consciousness] and feel wonderful. I could be in this exact same position on a beach! Yes indeed, with nothing but a thick, colorful towel between my bare back and the warm sand. Hell, I could even stargaze if I wanted to! Without a doubt, this is how I want to spend my golden years. Just me, horizontal, eyes to the sky. You just keep doing whatever it is you’re doing to my ding-a-ling and I’ll just lay here, making constellations with the tiny bumps in the ceiling.”

“As soon as he leaves, I’m getting tater tots.”

“Is that a poo smear?! Oh God, is that my poo smear?! Shit! Okay. Okay. Chill. I have two options here: I can try to hide it until we finish or I can point it out, pretend to be disgusted, and blame the poo smear on him. I should brace myself, first. He’s about to get super defensive.”

“What if there were a TV channel that only played security camera footage of what's going on inside Mississippi's hottest urban nightclubs? That’d be tight. I'd watch the shit out of that.”

“Would we really need Emma Stone if Brittany Murphy were still alive? I guess not, huh?

“If his boyfriend comes home early, he’ll probably kill us both. How embarrassing would that be!? Gunned down in this shitty duplex with practically no art on the walls — in Kenner of all places! Welp, it’s already in. Guess we’re just throwing caution to the wind here."

“I’m tired of spending so much time deciding on a spirit animal. I just want someone to tell me!”

“Golly. That’s an interesting haircut for a wiener.”

“Josh! No, not Josh. Why do I always jump to Josh first? I don’t even know that many Joshes! Maybe it’s Charlie. No, no, no it’s not Charlie. I would remember if his name is Charlie. Charlie sounds like your cute, affable fat friend. I bet every single Charlie is funny. Hmmm. Maybe it’s one of those painfully generic names that says my parents didn't even try. Like Joseph, or James, or Michael. Like a biblical name! But man, I don’t think that’s right, either. Is it one of those names that only sound right on a little boy? Like Bobby, or Tyler, or Scottie. Nah. Don’t think so. Well at least it’s not something like Shaun, or Brent, or Landon. Oh my God! What if his name is super white-trashy like Junior, or Dusty, or Keith?! That would be hysterical. Alright, alright. Think! This is important. As soon as he cums, we have to rejoin the world and talk to each other like humans. Fuck, what if it’s something cool like Nolan, or Linus, or Ollie? Wait! No, no, no. I’m so stupid! It’s Ryan! His name is Ryan. We have the same name. I’m so glad I solved this Da Vinci Code. Jeez Louise, that was an ordeal. Hold on. Is his name Louise?!”

“A hip tattoo? Really bro?”

“You know what this moment is missing? A slow LeAnn Rimes song.

“And where the fuck has LeAnn Rimes been?! She two-timed her husband and then she went away. Wait. Was that her or Shania Twain? Oh, shit! You know what this moment it missing? You’re Still The One.”

“So this is what being a girl feels like. Meh. Don’t hate it. Don’t love it.”

“Wow. I’m someone’s child. That’s devastating."

“Oh, this guy’s on glue. I am not putting that miniature-size wang in my mouth. It’s like a lil’ midge ding-dong! Boo, do not put me in a position where I have to pretend like I’m enjoying myself. On the other hand, I’ve lied a lot tonight. Guess I can feign interest for a little bit longer...”

“Did this motherfucker just fall asleep?! Ugh. Thank God.”

“I love laying on my stomach. Laying on my stomach has got to be one of my most favorite things to do! But this whole jamming a wiener into my butt thing is mostly terrible.”

Look how far we've come, my baby.

Just My Type

You know when you see a crew of inmates picking up litter by the side of the road and there's always that one white guy with vaguely bleached hair and a neck tattoo? That's my type.

Danger. That’s what I’m after.

I may have been raised in the wrong part of New Orleans, but my subdivision had a fucking bird sanctuary in it for Christ’s sake. So when I try to establish street equity by saying “I’m from the Westbank,” there’s really no need to feel threatened. My family had box seats at The Saenger.

I can defend myself, though. I wrestled varsity in high school and one time I got thrown out of a bar for fighting. But to be fair, it was a gay bar. At a foam party. And by thrown out, I mean the bartender smacked his bottle opener against the bar and screamed, “STOP SLAPPING HER!”

I’m a huge pussy when it comes to manual labor and basically anything that might be slightly uncomfortable. Since I was little boy, I avoided anything that couldn’t be performed without air conditioning. One time, I told my mom that playing Wave Race on N64 counted as a sport because it made my heart beat fast and improved my reflexes. Even now, at the age of 25, I get anxious and sweaty just thinking about mowing the yard. Which is why I pay someone to do it for me. Most days, I just want to lie on the couch and have nachos and Double Doozies crammed into my mouth. And then I want to watch several hours of RuPaul’s Drag Race while I shotgun champagne. And then I want to fly off into the night sky on a Hippogriff and never lift a finger again. Some men dream of becoming President. I dream of exploring new fathoms of laziness, wrapped inside a down comforter.

I have asthma and I drive a bright green Ford Fiesta. I’m the opposite of dangerous — skittish even. Which is why dangerous men appeal to me. That chiseled inmate with half a cigarillo hanging out his mouth doing litter abatement? He’s got what I want.

Well, not necessarily him. The idea of him. The real him is frightening and I’m sure he’d be mean and call me “Twinkie dick” or something. I guess the synthetic version is what I like. Think: Ryan Gosling in The Place Beyond The Pines. Oh, let me tell you; when homeboy appeared on-screen with that store-bought dye job and all those jagged, homemade tattoos, I could practically hear my boner against the bag of popcorn. Yeah, that’s my type: A non-threatening bad boy who makes his own rules and also has a neck tattoo. Someone imaginary and impractical.

Instead, I have Andy who is basically a big goofy stuffed animal whose idea of bad behavior is walking around in his underwear in his own room. Maybe one night I'll be out with Andy and some drunk prick will walk over and hit on him. Maybe then I'll have to inform this prick that Andy's with me. Maybe things will escalate and I'll drop into a staggered stance before tackling his ass to the ground and jamming my elbow into the back of his neck. Maybe then I'll have to spend the night in jail.

And that's where I'll meet the man of my dreams. 

*popcorn boner*