Anonymous Fun

I slow to a crawl until I finally spot the address and then I park across the street. It’s early enough to expect morning joggers, but I don’t see any.

I am wearing the shirt I slept in with fresh underwear and a pair of blue gym shorts with Comeaux High School printed across the thigh. I did not go to Comeaux High School. These gym shorts used to belong to someone else. “Can I borrow these to wear home?” I asked, already sticking my feet into them. “Sure,” he grinned. “I probably won’t bring them back,” I said. Still naked, he got out of bed and strutted over to me. He put his hands around my neck and stuck his face in mine. “If I let you borrow them,” he breathed into my mouth. “You’ll have to bring them back at some point.” I rolled my eyes up to meet his. “You’re letting me hold your gym shorts ransom?” He reached down and grabbed my dick. “You’ll be back.”

I haven’t seen him since.

These gym shorts — the blue ones with Comeaux High School printed across the thigh — they are part of a collection that includes t-shirts, boxers, hoodies, and other gym shorts taken from guys I’ve slept with — each one swiped in haste before a kiss on the cheek and a promise to text later. There isn’t any “stashing”; I just integrate them into my wardrobe and wear them without ritual. Often, I can’t wash the boy out of certain items but that doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’d prefer if each retained the odor of its former owner. My two favorite scents come from a Tulane University sweatshirt (Andes Mints) and a Hackberry Cardinals Baseball shirt (burnt hair and stale sweat). But these gym shorts — the blue ones with Comeaux High School printed across the thigh — they just smell like my fabric softener.

I get a text that reads, “You here yet?”

I stare at the screen for a moment before typing, “I just parked.”

“Ok. The door is unlocked. No small talk, remember?”

I don’t respond.

I exit the car and cross the street. Finally, a morning jogger: a twenty-something of mannequin proportions. I want to equate her running posture to a graceful animal of the plains like a gazelle or a springbok, but I’ve never actually seen either run — in person, that is. I have seen a golden retriever run [in person], and that has to do, I guess. Unlike the jogger, the clouds are not hard to describe. They are metallic and appear to be bolted to the sky like God’s art installation. Don’t get me wrong: I’m a fan of his work, but sometimes the presentation feels smug. I can’t speak to his early work, but I’m assuming it was less sanctimonious — the same shit we say about the early work of every artist.

The jogger passes by and smiles at me, but I can’t manage to return one. I feel grim.

The front door is unlocked. I step into the foyer. Inside, there are three numbered doors and a spiral staircase winding up from the center of the floor. Somewhere in my head I hear an enthusiastic talk show host yell, Let’s see what’s behind Door Number Two! My heartbeats are so much louder than my footsteps. I exhale and quietly open Door Number Two.

The only light coming into the tiny living room is filtered through a thin purple curtain that is draped over a solitary window. I quickly close the door behind me and stand there waiting for my vision to adjust. Without saying a word, I gingerly kick off my shoes and place them neatly next to one another — a small act of affection they can’t feel. I walk toward him, indecisive about what to do with my eyes while he keeps his gaze fixed to his fist and erect dick. I kneel next to the couch and finally look at his face. I’ve seen his face in pictures and twice in the flesh, but never up-close like this. He is strikingly handsome; puffed lips, emerald eyes, and a boy band haircut. We are both still, besides his arm, which is rising and falling with the rhythm of a carousel horse. It’s just a blowjob, I tell myself.

I think about boy bands.

I think about guys I actually like.

I think about getting a haircut.

I think some background music would be nice.

I wonder if he likes me.

I wonder if he’s enjoying this.

I wonder what his parents do.

I wonder if there’s such a thing as a “depression boner.”

I consider stopping.

I consider writing about this.

I consider going for a run later.

I consider grabbing Chipotle on the way home.

I realize Chipotle isn’t even open yet.

I realize I’m starving.

I realize I've never been described as "boy next door" and that weirdly upsets me.

I realize he’s about to cum.

And then.

All of a sudden.

He does.

And it’s over.

By the door, I jam my feet into my shoes with one hand on the doorknob. “So,” he says. “What are your plans today? Big Saturday, huh?” I look him right in the eyes when I say, “No small talk, remember?” I don’t slam the door, but I make sure it shuts securely. The neighbors might misinterpret this. Outside, the clouds are gone but the joggers are up and down the sidewalk. I slide into the driver’s seat and start the car. Finally, some background music.

I drive and I hate myself in waves. When the tide in my head goes out, I feel vaguely self-satisfied — like God and his metallic clouds. But when it comes in, I feel like a fucking cannibal. I pass Parc Sans Souci and see families. So I reach for my phone and I give my mom a call just to feel connected and little less like no one.