Claudia

I have to use Uber's GPS locator because I don't really know where I am.

So many New Orleans neighborhoods look exactly like this one. Potholes shotgun-blasted across gravelly streets, lined with shotgun homes painted in dull pastels. The app says I'm in Riverbend, just a few blocks from South Carrollton. I request a ride and settle onto a porch, finally becoming aware of my appearance. My camera shows me what I look like; the beginning of a daylong recovery. Uber says my driver's name is Claudia and she drives a Hyundai Santa Fe.

Here she is now.

"Hey there, good morning," Claudia says cheerfully as I heave my body into the backseat. "Hi," I say. "I feel like shit. Please don't look at me." She laughs. "Rough night?" she asks my reflection in the rearview. "Rough life," I say. "I got hammered in the Quarter and went home with some guy.”

Outside, the endless ribbon of houses cuts away and we're on Carrollton.

In age, Claudia hovers someone between my mom and my grandma. She has all the trappings of a young mother from her top bun to her stylish warm-up jacket, but the lines around her mouth and eyes give her away. "Was he cute?" she asks. “Didn’t get a good look,” I say, squinting into the sunlight.

Gay men have an inborn talent to disarm women. This can be used selfishly to gain the favor of a bitchy female hostess or a busy female flight attendant. But most of the time, it just helps break the threat barrier. I am gay and I am not going to hurt you. Let’s grab brunch.

“Well I’m seeing a really cute guy myself,” says Claudia. I wave my hand in the air next to her head. “Show me pics!” I say, gesturing for her phone. “Oh,” she says. “He’s not on Facebook.” She smiles at me in the mirror. “Good for him,” I say. “How’d you meet?” I drop my hand into my lap and stare out the window. Up here on I-10, the New Orleans skyline is so close I can almost touch it. I’ve rounded the Superdome on this same stretch of overpass for 28 years, but I still take a moment to marvel at it when I swoop past. People often say the Superdome looks like a spaceship, but to me, it looks like a megachurch. I think the Saints would appreciate that sentiment.

“We work together,” she says. “When I’m not driving Uber, I work in the Philanthropy Department at a big hospital in town. Matthew’s our IT guy. That’s his name, by the way. Matthew.” She lights up when she says his name. I can hear her grinning from ear to ear. “Girl, good for you!” I say with exaggerated gay inflections. She’s opening up because she likes me and she feels comfortable, and suddenly I want to know more about her.

There’s a branded Ochsner Hospital badge hanging from her visor that reads, “Claudia” and no last name. I pull out my phone and go straight for the Ochsner website and search the name “Claudia.” Her employee bio appears with the same headshot from her badge. With her last name in-hand, I head to Facebook and search “Claudia Caulder.” There she is. I stare down at her profile picture and then I glance up and catch her looking back at me in the mirror. She winks and I smile. I pull my phone to my chest for extra measure, even though there’s absolutely no way she can see what I’m looking at: Claudia Caulder’s Facebook account, emblazoned with a photograph of her family.

In the picture, everyone is wearing shades of blue and standing on a beach in (what I’m guessing is) Destin or Santa Rosa or somewhere in the Florida panhandle. Backlit by the setting sun, Claudia stares lovingly at her husband while two ginger-haired girls cheese it up for the camera. They look exactly like their dad. I press the home button and Facebook shrinks away.

Even though I smoked all night and my tongue is dried out like a welcome mat, the craving for a cigarette makes my mouth water. Then I hear myself ask, “Do you have any kids?” She looks back at me, and this time, she isn’t smiling. “Yes,” she said, flatly. “Two girls.” I nod. “Have they met the new guy yet?” I grapple with my boldness and wonder why I’m fucking with this woman. But in my carefree hungover state, I can’t help myself. “No,” she says, throwing her response away through the hollow tunnel between us.

We glide in silence through the Lower Garden District and I think about last night. I lied to Claudia when I told her I didn’t get a good look at the guy. His name was Cody and he was incredibly handsome. We’re in the same kickball league and after ogling him for an entire season, I built up the courage to ask him out and he said yes. Last night, when he kissed me, I wanted him to like it — my head buzzing with hyper awareness of my own body. This morning, when he walked me to the door, I took a picture of him from behind and sent it to a few friends. I feel bad about doing that but not bad enough to delete it. Then I send it to a few more people.

We pull into the horseshoe of my apartment complex and Claudia turns down the music. “I lied to you earlier,” I say, suddenly. “I actually like the guy I slept with last night. I hope he texts me. He’s really cute and he’s very sweet.” Claudia turns and looks me directly in the eyes. The lines around her mouth and eyes soften and she looks instantly looks 10 years younger. “I’m having an affair with the IT guy,” she says. “And every day I feel like I’m losing the woman I was.” I look back at her and bite my bottom lip as a gesture of sympathy. “The woman I am,” she corrects herself. “There’s nothing sexy about this,” she continues. “I walk around the office scared shitless that one of my co-workers knows. And every afternoon, on my drive home, I have to remember to delete his text thread. Sometimes we have dinner at the Applebee’s in Algiers because it’s 45 minutes away from my house.” She blinks hard to suppress the tears, but it doesn’t work. “And I fucking hate Applebee’s!”

I look down and realize I’m holding her hand. On the corner, at a coffee shop, a man opens the door for his female companion and I decide that he’s a gentleman and that they should get married if they haven’t already. I want to ask Claudia what she’s going to do about this, but I don’t. Instead, I tell her that I’ve never been married and I’m not going to pretend to know what that’s like. “It’s really hard to keep a secret, especially from the people you love,” I say. Then I don’t say anything at all. We sit together in wordless solitude while New Orleans wakes up around us.

I yank my shirtsleeve over my hand and wipe away Claudia’s runny mascara. “I hope that boy calls you, sweetheart,” she says, turning around and running her fingers over her face in the mirror. “If you ever feel like doing this again,” I say. “You know where I live.” She laughs and winks at me in the mirror while I open the door and step outside.

The fall weather is unseasonably warm, even for New Orleans. I decide that as soon as I get inside, I’m taking the longest shower of my life and tossing this entire outfit in the washer. “I hope you have a great day,” I say, actually meaning it. “Take care, sweetheart,” she says. Then, Claudia closes the door and pulls away, out of the horseshoe and onto Annunciation and out of sight.

Anyway, Uber, this was one of the most emotionally draining rides I’ve ever experienced. I’m not looking for anything, but I just thought you should know that one of your drivers is going through a tough time. Obviously, I rated her five stars, but frankly, she was a lot to deal with. As an advertising professional, I don’t want consumers believing that Uber aligns itself with adulterers who discuss their infidelities with passengers. Please keep an eye on Claudia for the sake of the brand.

Sincerely,

Ryan Rogers

SECOND ENDING

The hardest part about breaking up with Jeffrey was not the actual break-up. It was four days later, when I noticed his toothbrush.

I’m not sure how I missed it, but today, I stepped out the shower and there it was. This might sound stupid, but I always liked seeing our toothbrushes leaning together in the highball glass, next to the sink. His toothbrush was certainly not the first to share occupancy with mine, but this particular union charmed me — maybe because they were both hot pink.

---

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was released last week. I figured I’d grab a pair of tickets to the earliest screening on opening night, and then have dinner at Chipotle. Jeffery’s a picky eater, but he loves Chipotle. So I texted him and asked if he wanted to go. He responded immediately, “I think we need to talk tonight.” Without panicking, I suggested we meet at my apartment around eight, to which he agreed. Then, I spent the afternoon compulsively checking my phone and sitting with my face in my hands.

On the drive home, I changed my mind and asked him to call me, two hours and thirty-nine minutes before he was supposed to show up. “Let’s just chat now,” I said. Chat, I thought to myself. Like we’re going to enjoy this.

The chat lasted 14 minutes and was, all things considered, pleasant. We spoke in level voices and shared supportive sentiments and related to one another. At the end, I asked if there was anything else he’d like to say before we hung up. “I love you,” he said. “Always will.” And then I hung up and hurried out the door to make my yoga class on time.

I didn’t think about it much the next day — except for the occasional phantom impulse to text him. Waiting in line at Subway, I typed, “Getting lunch. What are you eating?” before realizing I didn’t have to do that anymore.

After work, I got a haircut from Paul, my barber. I stared blankly at my reflection and asked, “Do people sometimes cry in your chair?”
“Sometimes,” he said. Sure.”
I nodded. “Do guys cry in your chair?”
His eyes met mine in the mirror. “Do you need to cry, man? Go ahead. It’s all good.”
I blew a freshly cut curl off my forehead. “No,” I lied. “I’m okay.”

A break-up happens and you want to be angry about everything you wasted: the time, the money, the headspace. All those songs you memorized because they reminded you of him. All the effort you spent learning the names of his siblings and their kids and how the nuances of his family factor into his personality. All the social media real estate you share. So many pictures together. All those nights you stayed home with him when you could’ve been out there in the world, living life. All the times you conceded an argument [when you were absolutely right], because it was easier to say “You’re right. I’m sorry.” You hate yourself for compromising so much. You hate yourself for not standing on your principles. Now, you’re standing in a ruin with nothing but a body you’re unhappy with and prospect of dating new people looming in the distance.

---

This morning, when I saw his toothbrush, I tossed it into the trash and placed the highball glass in the dishwasher. I laid my own toothbrush on the edge of the sink because I thought it would look sad standing upright, alone in another glass.

I’m bound to find more little relics of our relationship here and there; gym shorts and handwritten cards and memories that I’ll romanticize with filters and soundtracks. But right now, I won’t go looking for them.

Instead, I’ll wait for them to find me again. And there, I’ll savor the opportunity to be angry, resigned, and close to him for just a moment.

The Way David Eats Pizza

It’s three a.m. on the 27th floor of an apartment building on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, and I am sitting across from David Lafuente, watching him eat pizza.

I arrived in Manhattan two days ago and caught an Uber straight to David’s apartment. He greeted me at the door and ushered me inside. Upon entering, my eyes were drawn across the living room to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city beyond 37th Street, framing a breathtaking landscape of towers. Standing there, looking out over Midtown West, I wished for a dry erase marker. The view begged for contextual labels: arrows addressing the names of buildings and dividing lines along neighborhood borders. Now, days later, the world behind the glass feels less dioramatic and more like flat wallpaper. The New York skyline has become a vinyl cling from Urban Outfitters, in front of which David and me eat pizza.

Earlier this evening, we were walking home from a bar when David nodded to a bright red awning several blocks away. “You wanted some really good pizza, no?” David always punctuates his questions with a firmly inflected “no,” which I find charmingly European, even though he’s Mexican. I was still stuffed from dinner, but I was also drunk, which means I was starving. David launches into Spanish with the man behind the counter and I allow my mind to drift while he takes care of business. I bend at the waist to inspect the giant display pizzas. Each one is pale and unappetizing, which makes me feel sad for the slices that don't get to reanimate in the oven. My pizza grief takes an upswing when David shoves a warm cardboard box into my hands and says, “Let’s go home.”

Back at the apartment, the living room is dense with pot. When David opens a window, the faraway noises of New York travel on cool air and reach me at the coffee table. He walks into the kitchen then returns with plates, silverware, napkins, stemware, and wine. He sets places for the two of us and settles in.

I’ve never seen anyone eat pizza the way David eats pizza. First, he uses a knife and fork to remove all the toppings — rolling and piling pepperoni, Italian sausage, and gobs of cheese into a meaty queso fundido. This heap sits alongside the flat triangle crust, which, for lack of a better euphemism, appears skinned alive. He spins his plate around and saws off a small segment of the crust. Then, with knife and fork, he rolls the half-inch of crust in the molten cheese mixture and pops it into his mouth. He repeats this process over and over with elegant precision — coating bite-size morsels of crust with mozzarella and huge pieces of meat. He does not eat the body of the pizza (the wide, doughy triangle lacquered with marinara), but instead, he sets it aside and moves on the next slice. I can only stare in rapt bewilderment while I attempt to shotgun my entire slice.

It’s funny how uncovering a small quirk — a little oddity just under the surface — can completely change the way you see a person. It’s why I don’t discuss porn with my best friends. And now, here I am, re-framing the way I think about David Lafuente while he meticulous scrapes the toppings off his second slice of pizza before chopping up the crust.

I used to think he was incredibly handsome, back when we met in Playa del Carmen. During sex, I would stare at his face, studying his strong chin and dark chocolate eyes. I liked the way he told stories about growing up in Mexico City and about running a restaurant in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. I stood with him on our balcony and watched the star-scattered sky over Playa del Carmen before kissing his lips and falling into his arms. When he left the next morning, I cried because I never thought I’d see him again.

Over the years, I remembered our time together romantically. We fell out of touch, but regularly liked pictures on Instagram and posts on Facebook, small gestures to remind the other of his existence. Months ago, when an opportunity to visit New York popped up, he was the first person that came to mind.

Lately, my boyfriend and I haven't been getting along.

In fact, we got in a very serious argument before I boarded the plane.

I try calling him every few minutes and he doesn't pick up. In his texts, he says it's over.

So earlier this evening, I decided to get fucked up and have sex with David, just to spite my boyfriend. I got obliterated at dinner and then continued to pound one vodka tonic after another at the gay bar. My flirting was shameless and obvious, but I didn't have anything to lose, so I didn't care how it looked. Finally, I suggested we head home because his bed was the only place in Manhattan I wanted to be. And on the way back, we stopped for pizza.

Everything was going according to plan, until he started this weird, mystifying ritual with his food. I want to ask him why he's doing this, but I bet his response will annoy me.

Right now, he's watching me cram a second slice down my throat and I can see a tinge of horror in his face. He thinks I'm gross and I think he's an asshole for dismembering perfectly fine pizza. "It's good, no?" he says. Suddenly, I don't find the way he punctuates his questions with a firmly inflected “no" charmingly European. I find it ridiculous. "It's fucking great!" I say, only it sounds completely muffled because I have a whole slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza lodged into my mouth like an oversized duffle bag in an overhead compartment. His eyebrows furrow and the mood changes dramatically. We are both wading in a river of wine, vodka, marinara sauce, and sudden contempt for one another.

When we finish, he clears the dishes and I curl up on the couch with a brand new joint. "Are you coming to bed?" he asks from the doorway of his room. "Nah," I say, lighting the joint and inhaling deeply. "I'll crash here tonight." He almost looks relieved. "Sweet," he says. "Night!" And just like that, he closes the door and leaves me alone in the living room.

A cool breeze turns the pages of an open book on the coffee table. Through the window, I can see an army of giants stalking me; a million glowing eyes watching the loneliest man in New York.

Tomorrow, I will call my boyfriend again.

I will call him over and over.

And when I get back to New Orleans that evening, I will try to work this out because he is the real man of my dreams.

I will ask him to meet me at my apartment in the heart of the Lower Garden District.

When he gets there, I will have his favorite pizza waiting for him.

Then, we will sit on my bed, across from one another, and eat each slice from tip to crust, like two normal people who also happen to be in love.

Jeffrey

I’ve never told you this, but in the morning, when you’re still asleep, I put my face as close as I can to yours. 

I lay next to you in intimate, wordless solitude, the tips of our noses nearly touching. I gage your breathing and adjusting mine so that we’re alternating breaths. When you breathe out, I breathe in.

Sometimes I keep my eyes closed and sometimes I watch you — taking in your face, feature to feature. When I look at you from across the dinner table or in the mirror when you’re brushing your teeth, I can clearly see that you have the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. But at close range [at a distance where I can feel your breath and your body heat and the life buzzing around your face], you are somehow even more breathtaking. Up close, you are a perfect collage of shapes and colors. Sharp black punctures, soft angular shadows, and a pale rosy glow just under your skin.

When you stir or tussle, I run my fingertips through your thick blond hair or lay my palm flatly across the side of your face, just to reassure you that I’m here.

Sometimes I kiss you on the forehead or right on the lips. I press my lips softly against your face and hope it reaches you, wherever you are in your dreams.

On days when we have to be up early for work, I savor your nearness intensely. On weekends, I can do this for hours. And it’s always my favorite part of the day.

Sometimes, in the quiet stillness of my bedroom, I tell you I’m sorry.

I tell you I’m sorry for not always being a great boyfriend.

I tell you I’m sorry for fraying the friable trust we’ve built with my crippling insecurities.

I tell you I’m sorry for continually breaking your heart.

I tell you I’m sorry within inches from your face, while you are sleeping because your silence and beauty feel the same as forgiveness.

In my heart, I want to stay with you and work this out. Because I love you so much that I enjoy the simple pleasure of breathing the same air as you.

But you can go.

And I can let you go.

The future won’t be so painful with all these memories I have — treasuring your face in the moments before you wake up, sleepily look me in the eyes and say, “I love you.”

17 Easy Steps To Prepare For A First Date

Step 1. Pick out an outfit.

Step 2. Shave your face.

Step 3. Treat yourself to a compulsive psychological episode. In the getting-ready process, most micro-breakdowns manifest when you’re taking a shower. So strip down, put on some tunes, and brace yourself. Speaking of music selection, there’s a pre-made Spotify playlist called “Night At The Strip Club,” and it’s an excellent choice for background music when preparing for a romantic night on the town. So press play and body-roll your way through the entire Ying Yang Twins catalog. Then experience the sudden, overwhelming dick-punch of reality when you think to yourself, Oh God! I’m about to go on a date with someone for the first time! What am I doing?!

Step 4. Towel off and blow-dry your hair. Pro Tip: Your hair should be 60-to-65 percent dry before blow-drying with a brush.

Step 5. Direct a series of questions at yourself. Some should be practical, like “Do I have money in my checking account?” And some can be more existential, like “How did I fuck up my life so dramatically?” But each one should be accompanied by a palpable rush of terror and self-deprecating anger.

Step 6. Amplify this episode by giving yourself insufficient time to get ready. Never get ready too early. This will help you avoid downtime to mull over new worries. This also backfires when you end up sprinting from room to room — trying to make your face and body pass for fuckable.

Step 7. Stand in front of a full-length vertical mirror. Here, you will study your reflection and question how you achieved this toneless, adolescent build. With the possibility of sex looming in the near future, take this opportunity to yell at yourself for all the drugs, alcohol, and Taco Bell you’ve consumed over the course of a lifetime. Pinch every flab. Blame your parents for shitty genetics. Curse God for letting you develop into someone who’s perpetually recovering from the night before. You look fat and skinny. You look too young and too old. You are a physical paradox. And somehow you have a date tonight.

Step 8. FUCK! YOU HAVE A DATE TONIGHT! Get your shit together! No time for crying. Crying can wait ‘til later when you’re drunk and alone.

Step 9. Have a drink. Right now. Slip on your underwear and yank up your socks, then hustle to the kitchen and shotgun a Michelob Ultra. That’s better, you’ll think to yourself. You’re going to be fine.

Step 10. Spend the next few minutes ironing your outfit in hurried brush strokes. At this point, you won’t necessarily feel calm but you will feel like you’re going to make it.

Step 11. Return to the mirror, fully dressed.

Step 12. Look at yourself. Take it all in. Then, feel yourself come undone. There’s discoloration on your sleeves and a stain on your collar. You generally hate the outfit. Grit your teeth and cover your face with your hands so you don’t have to see what’s in front of you.

Nothing fits.

Nothing’s new.

You wish you had nicer things.

You wish you made more money.

You wish this wasn't you.

Step 13. Go ahead, treat yourself to a nice, long cry.

Step 14. Snap out of it! Run cold water and dab your eyes and cheeks. Then find the clothes you wore to work yesterday and toss them into the dryer with a Bounce Sheet and an ice cube. Open Spotify and change “Night At The Strip Club” to “Angry Workout Jamz.” Turn the music all the way up as you latch your knock-off Rolex and mist a Birchbox cologne sample across your neck. Then tell yourself, Fuck. This. I did not spend two days trying to convince some boy on Grindr — who works in retail no less — to be interested in me, just to break down in overtime. This is happening. Right. Fucking Now.

Step 15. Moisturize.

Step 16. Somehow muster the confidence to leave the house and go to dinner with someone you barely know.

And finally…

Step 17. Later, when you’re sitting across the table from a perfect stranger, experience an entirely new dimension of horror as you agree with ideas you don’t believe and pretend to be someone you’re not.

BRAND NEW PERSON

-I-

When you texted me that it was over, I was having dinner at Juan’s Flying Burrito with Brian and Anna.

I read what you wrote and then I looked at my phone like it was trying to hurt me.

Anna asked if everything was okay.

I turned to her and said simply, “No.”

Behind me, someone laughed and I imagined smashing one of those large glass margarita goblets against his head.

The food arrived. I ate, but with every bite I grew more anxious to throw up when I returned home.

Brian and Anna assured me that I was misinterpreting the message. “He says he just wants time to sort things out. He’s not ending the relationship.”

I knew better.

Because I know you.

And it’s exactly what you would say — so you didn’t have to tell me the truth.

-II-

I wish I could remember the last thing I said to you.

But after you told me, “I just need some time,” everything went black.

At some point in the night, I deleted the text thread and erased your number.

I’m sure I responded, because I always need to have the last word.

But it doesn’t matter.

I lost anyway.

-III-

I feel embarrassed wasting my words on you.

But I can’t stop myself.

The worst part is that, I can’t stop giving to you — handing over huge chunks of my time and my most vulnerable emotions.

Watch me stumble away.

A disfigured corpse of someone who used to look just like me.

Just Me

I would’ve been content just lying with Jaime in naked, wordless company all night, but then he says, "I want to know everything about you."

It is 4:37AM on a Monday and Jamie Saracino's plane leaves for Mexico City in exactly three hours and twenty-three minutes. I pull him away from my neck by shifting my shoulder around so we face each other. But we are so close that I can only see the crest of his cheek. My periphery fills in the rest of his sleepless, wild face.

Outside, the full moon over Playa del Carmen becomes a dull glow behind the breaking dawn. Last night, it brought Jaime and I (two perfect strangers) together. Now, it’s retreating and I feel weird asking the moon to stick around a bit longer. But in this light, I can see everything I need to see.

First, he asks about my family and then he asks about my biggest regret, which I find to be an unusual follow-up, but I answer honestly, anyway. Then it's my turn.

"What scares you the most?" I ask, feeling the platitudinous nature of the question while still aching to know his answer. "I'm afraid of being alone," he says, eyes trained on mine. 

"Everyone's afraid of being alone," I say. "Yeah," he whispers. "But I'm really afraid of being alone. Like not just dying alone; I'm afraid of being alone right now. I can't stand the solitude. I have this trainer, you know? He's this giant, blond monster and he's ripped and he's gorgeous as fuck. But he's the stupidest person on the planet. And my other friends don't understand why we spend so much time together outside of the gym, and I can't just come out and confess why. It's because he's always available. We have nothing in common and he couldn't hold a conversation at gunpoint, but whenever I'm hungry, he's always down to meet me."

After a beat of silence, he leans in and kisses me. Mouths dry from hours of this same repetitive gesture, I know this kiss should feel like two mannequins pressing their plastic lips together, but I deeply savor him anyway. "Go on," I tell him. Jaime exhales and whispers, "I've never eaten alone in public. I can't stand the idea of it. So when my real friends are tied up, I text my stupid trainer or my vapid hairdresser or whoever will have dinner with me. It's better to be with someone I'm indifferent about than to be alone with myself. It's too painful."

Outside the window, a rustle of palm fronds underscores this highly vulnerable moment, so I pull him in tightly. His head fits perfectly in the valley of my collarbone and shoulder. Here, I tell him I understand his fear because I rarely publicly eat alone. "I like going to the movies by myself, but restaurants are a whole different thing. After waiting tables for seven years, I have a sensitivity for people who dine alone. But it's not pity. Maybe it's my own insecurity that I can't do the same. They've got something I don't."

We sit here in this moment until it lapses into other moments; separate moments and the same moment with scattering, reaching edges like a growing heatwave.

And then, it's time for Jaime to leave.

“You don’t have to walk me downstairs,” he whispers into my ear before softly kissing my neck. “I can get to the cabs alright on my own.” We stare into each other’s faces, gathering and hoarding every line and shadow and shape. This might be the last time we have this luxury, so we study each other with intense concentration. Then the edges of his eyes relax and I study this entirely new expression. “I’ll walk you to the gate,” I say. Then I press my body solidly into his and roll him on top of me one last time.

You never anticipate the end of the night or the morning after — when you say goodbye then kiss one more time because that one final, bonus kiss has the power to inspire an entirely new future. When you walk him partway to wherever he’s going and turn to walk back to wherever you came from. When you go your separate ways down different ends of the same street.

In this moment, you are heavy. This moment dredges forward with the cargo of frivolity and fear and insecurity and something about, “easy come, easy go.” This moment is riddled with the lead of a dozen bullets — freshly fired right through your mediocre reality and lodged stubbornly into your heart and your dick and your fingers and every place in your body that knows he exists.

I walk him to the cabs (a half-mile up the road), and then head back. When I arrive at the condo, I turn away from the security guard so he won’t see that I’ve been crying. He’s noticed Jaime and I coming and going and I don’t want him to know things are over. It’s just not fair for one more person to be mopey about this mess.

On my last night in Playa del Carmen, I walk the streets alone, listening to Warm Brew's "Ghetto Beach Boys," which turns out to be the perfect soundtrack for aimless summer night wanderings around the Mayan Riviera. Jaime is long gone, but he isn't far from my thoughts. In my backpack, I carry around a postcard; ready to send to his apartment in Manhattan as soon as I find a stamp, and a mailbox, and the right words. On 5th Avenue, I pass a sushi place with a crowded patio and a completely vacant bar. I haven't eaten anything all day, and Mexican-inspired sushi seems unmissable. "Just me," I tell the hostess, who leads me across the floor and over to the bar. I order two rolls, a bottle of sake, and a Michelob Ultra. The food arrives and I take my time, pacing out each bite and consciously profiling the flavors.

Here I am.

Eating alone at a restaurant.

And then I think of Jaime.

And I completely understand what he meant.

It's too painful.

It's all too painful.

Dear Brother

Dear Brother,

We’ve never met and we never will, because last night you were murdered.

You were out at a gay bar called Pulse in Orlando, Florida when someone walked in and ended your life, along with the lives of 49 [or more] others. In his eyes, you were less than human and you deserved a gruesome, organized massacre. And while he was putting you down with bullets, I was more than 600 miles away — waking up from a sound sleep to use the bathroom. It was just after three in the morning when I came back to bed, where my boyfriend Andy was also awake. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was quick and uneven. “I just saw on Facebook there was a shooting at a gay bar in Orlando,” I whispered into the darkness. “Oh no, that’s terrible,” he said without opening his eyes. “Yeah it’s fucking terrible,” I said absently. We laid there silently until we drifted back to sleep.

I feel guilty for not being more invested in your story, sooner. But I wouldn’t know how bad the scene of the crime was until I woke again at a reasonable hour. The body count was 20, at first. Then it quickly jumped to 50, with 53 injured. It was labeled the worst mass shooting in American history. And you were there. You were somewhere safe; in a sanctuary you might’ve loved and valued.

My boyfriend doesn’t really like going out, but I do. I seek out gay bars when I visit new cities and keep my go-to locals right here in New Orleans. No matter where I am in the world, I can find comfort in the neighborhood gay bar. It’s a safe haven for people like me, from proud Glee Era millennials to veteran activists who remember the Stonewall Riots in vivid memory.

Did you go to Pulse often? Did you know the bartenders by name? Did you ever hit it off with someone you met on the dance floor? I bet the cover charge was always worth it, right?

I spent hours in bed this morning, scrolling through Facebook and watching every news clip I came across, from NBC to BBC. At Andy’s urging, I finally got up and decided we should have breakfast at The Country Club, a restaurant that caters to its Bywater neighborhood and the gay community of New Orleans. I pictured tables full of sullen, grieving gays and lesbians, dressed in black and commiserating among friends. So I put on a black T-shirt and black jeans and black sunglasses and headed out.

When we arrived, the restaurant looked and felt like a normal Sunday morning — buzzing with lively wait staff and warm, inviting scents from the kitchen. We were seated next to a table of four heterosexual couples who were clearly visiting from out of town. They laughed loudly and obnoxiously talked over one another. Typically, these people would annoy the fuck out of me, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel frustrated with them. Why shouldn't they carry on? I wondered. I'm happy for them. No one should feel the way I do. So go ahead, tell stories about last night. Make a case for sharing entrees. Order dessert. At one point, a gnat landed on the edge of my plate and couldn't even bring myself to swat it away.

When you were alive, did you ever visit New Orleans? It’s great here. The food’s delicious and the people are generally pleasant. Did you travel a lot? I bet you wish you would’ve traveled more. I feel like that’s a universal regret, but I wish you would’ve traveled more. I know that's a strange thing to wish for a stranger, but I think you'd understand.

I spent the rest of the day watching people debate the circumstances of your death on the internet. Was it in the name of God? An act of domestic terrorism? Another catalyst for the immovable gun control movement? I will not write the name of your killer here, because I don’t want him to live beyond where he ended. But sadly, he will be remembered as the face of your death and not your own. You don’t deserve that either. You deserve to be immortalized for being out on a Saturday night at an establishment that celebrates your uniqueness. And you deserve to live on in the actions of present and future gay Americans. You will be remembered when we, the living, show solidarity at our local gay bars tonight. You will be remembered when I kiss my boyfriend in public, as an act of love and an act of defiance.

Before I sat down to write this letter to you, I went for a run. I was two miles in when I started thinking about you and began to cry. I imagined what it was like for you, in the moments right before someone walked in and recklessly sprayed bullets into your body.

You might have been hammered — crying and bitching and talking incessantly the way drunk gays do after a long night of partying.

Maybe you were frustrated; on the precipice of going home alone. You had such high hopes for the night and then, in the early morning hours, your odds weren't looking too favorably.

But I hope you were happy. I hope you were dancing your ass off. I hope you didn’t know anything was wrong — complacent and maybe even a little bored. I hope you felt confident.

You might not have known it before you died, but you were among the only other people in the world who understand what it’s like to be gay.

When we talk about death, we wish to be surrounded by family in our final hours. And you were.

And now, you will never be the object of someone’s hate.

And you will never be labeled with a slur again.

You are someone.

You are all of us.

Dear Faggot

Dear Faggot,

We’ve never met and we never will, because last night you were murdered.

You were out at a gay bar called Pulse in Orlando, Florida when someone walked in and ended your life, along with the lives of 49 [or more] others. In his eyes, you were faggots and you deserved a gruesome, organized massacre. And while he was putting you down with bullets, I was more than 600 miles away — waking up from a sound sleep to use the bathroom. It was just after three in the morning when I came back to bed, where my boyfriend Andy was also awake. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was quick and uneven. “I just saw on Facebook there was a shooting at a gay bar in Orlando,” I whispered into the darkness. “Oh no, that’s terrible,” he said without opening his eyes. “Yeah it’s fucking terrible,” I said absently. We laid there silently until we drifted back to sleep.

I feel guilty for not being more invested in your story, sooner. But I wouldn’t know how bad the scene of the crime was until I woke again at a reasonable hour. The body count was 20, at first. Then it quickly jumped to 50, with 53 injured. It was labeled the worst mass shooting in American history. And you were there. You were somewhere safe; in a sanctuary you might’ve loved and valued.

My boyfriend doesn’t really like going out, but I do. I seek out gay bars when I visit new cities and keep my go-to locals right here in New Orleans. No matter where I am in the world, I can find comfort in the neighborhood gay bar. It’s a safe haven for people like me, from proud Glee Era millennials to veteran activists who remember the Stonewall Riots in vivid memory.

Did you go to Pulse often? Did you know the bartenders by name? Did you ever hit it off with someone you met on the dance floor? I bet the cover charge was always worth it, right?

I spent hours in bed this morning, scrolling through Facebook and watching every news clip I came across, from NBC to BBC. At Andy’s urging, I finally got up and decided we should have breakfast at The Country Club, a restaurant that caters to its Bywater neighborhood and the gay community of New Orleans. I pictured tables full of sullen, grieving gays and lesbians, dressed in black and commiserating among friends. So I put on a black T-shirt and black jeans and black sunglasses and headed out.

When we arrived, the restaurant looked and felt like a normal Sunday morning — buzzing with lively wait staff and warm, inviting scents from the kitchen. We were seated next to a table of four heterosexual couples who were clearly visiting from out of town. They laughed loudly and obnoxiously talked over one another. Typically, these people would annoy the fuck out of me, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel frustrated with them. Why shouldn't they carry on? I wondered. I'm happy for them. No one should feel the way I do. So go ahead, tell stories about last night. Make a case for sharing entrees. Order dessert. At one point, a gnat landed on the edge of my plate and couldn't even bring myself to swat it away.

When you were alive, did you ever visit New Orleans? It’s great here. The food’s delicious and the people are generally pleasant. Did you travel a lot? I bet you wish you would’ve traveled more. I feel like that’s a universal regret, but I wish you would’ve traveled more. I know that's a strange thing to wish for a stranger, but I think you'd understand.

I spent the rest of the day watching people debate the circumstances of your death on the internet. Was it in the name of God? An act of domestic terrorism? Another catalyst for the immovable gun control movement? I will not write the name of your killer here, because I don’t want him to live beyond where he ended. But sadly, he will be remembered as the face of your death and not your own. You don’t deserve that either. You deserve to be immortalized for being out on a Saturday night at an establishment that celebrates your uniqueness. And you deserve to live on in the actions of present and future gay Americans. You will be remembered when we, the living faggots, show solidarity at our local gay bars tonight. You will be remembered when I kiss my boyfriend in public, as an act of love and an act of defiance.

Before I sat down to write this letter to you, I went for a run. I was two miles in when I started thinking about you and began to cry. I imagined what it was like for you, in the moments right before someone walked in and recklessly sprayed bullets into your body.

You might have been hammered — crying and bitching and talking incessantly the way drunk gays do after a long night of partying.

Maybe you were frustrated; on the precipice of going home alone. You had such high hopes for the night and then, in the early morning hours, your odds weren't looking too favorably.

But I hope you were happy. I hope you were dancing your ass off. I hope you didn’t know anything was wrong — complacent and maybe even a little bored. I hope you felt confident.

You might not have known it before you died, but you were among the only other people in the world who understand what it’s like to be gay.

When we talk about death, we wish to be surrounded by family in our final hours. And you were.

And now, you will never be the object of someone’s hate.

And you will never be labeled a faggot again.

You are someone.

You are all of us.

The Ending

We met on Grindr and dated for five months.

I’m allergic to dogs and cats, which made it impossible for me to sleep at your place. So without protest or compromise, you showed up at my door on a nightly basis — leaving your pets alone for the night.

I’m not particularly skilled in the kitchen, so you did most of the cooking. To make up for my culinary shortcomings, I gave you money for groceries and often took you out to dinner. You hated Thai and Indian, which could’ve been a deal-breaker, but wasn’t.

Do you remember that night at Slice on St. Charles? How we over-ordered and under-drank? Your cheeks were flushed when you talked about how much you loved your job. You asked a lot of questions and seemed genuinely interested in my answers, rambling or clipped. “So, copywriting,” you said, chewing on a gnarled piece of pizza crust. “Do you want to do this for the rest of your life?” I looked at you and felt my eyes soften. “I do,” I said. “For the rest of my life.”

I knew you were asking about my career, but I wanted you to read into my answer. Could he mean us?

Did I mean us? I don’t know. I might have. It felt like an option, right? I believe we had potential right from the start. Do you remember this? It was our first date.

From then on, I saw you nearly every day. We exploited every opportunity to see one another. To me, every responsibility was an obstacle between myself and being alone with you.

---

We moved fast.

I met your friends and you met mine. We traded Christmas gifts. We kissed on New Years Eve. And then on Valentine's Day, we went to dinner at a fancy sushi place in the Warehouse District. We ordered four rolls and you drank sake for the first time. At one point, I reached across the table and ran my fingers through your hair because it was Valentine's Day and I wanted you to know that I was here. I was with you, right in the middle of this humming, low-lit, bottomless mine of kisses, and opportunity, and lassitude, and eventually — solace.

After dinner, we went home and had sex. We fell asleep face-to-face, jammed into one another with the mutual understanding that comes from closely studied intimacy. In the morning, we had sex again, because I heard somewhere that sex starts in the morning. “I have to shower,” I whispered before putting my mouth on yours and swiftly leaving the room.

I was digging through the dryer for fresh underwear when you started screaming at me.

You’d gone through my phone while I was in the shower and found texts from a guy I met on Instagram. The moment I processed why you were yelling, I screamed, “Get the fuck out!” without looking at you. Then, without saying a word, you slammed the door.

I finished getting dressed.

I went to work.

I worked until 5PM.

I went home.

I didn’t hear from you.

For the next few days, I took the stalemate in 12-hour increments — feeling cocky about my resistance but checking my phone with fervent compulsion. I could be vigilant, but I WOULD NOT break down.

Then one day, I realized a whole week had passed.

---

As of today, it’s been three months and 22 days since I’ve heard from you.

I owe you an apology, don’t I?

But would it even matter at this point? Isn’t this the break-up scenario everyone wants? A clean break?

At least once a day, I feel guilty.

I never told you this, but you made the most unbelievable baked sweet potatoes I’d ever eaten. They were just sweet potatoes with cinnamon, sugar, and butter baked inside, but they were delicious because you made them.

Also, my friends really liked you. They saw you the way I did; beautiful, charming, and kind.

And one last thing.

You left your charcoal-colored cardigan at my place.

If you want it back, I'd be happy to meet you. 

It can be someplace public.

And I promise not to make it weird.

But if you don't want it back, I'd be happy to keep it.

It still smells like you.

And I love that smell.

Everything About Your Body

I can say without a spot of doubt that I know everything thing there is to know about your body.

Seriously, I’m an expert. The authority on all things Your Body.

I don’t earn anything for this, though.

Not a gold star sticker or an Associate’s Degree from one of those strip mall colleges that immigrants and former addicts go to.

Still, to me, this extensive and exhaustive knowledge has certain perks.

I’m privy to the fact that you HATE your hip tattoos.

I won an “I love you” when I blew a raspberry on your belly for the first time.

I get a low moan from your chest when I bite the tip of your left ear.

I know that I can slap your back-fat and you’ll swing at me — like fully bar-fight swing at me — whether we’re at my cousin’s birthday party or not.

But I’m proud to know what I know.

And best of all, I’m the only person in the world right now that has full access to the source material.

Feed

Come over here.

Do you have a second?

I won’t bother you long, but I’d like to bend your ear about a few things.

Do you have a second to talk about racism?

Before you say no, let me clarify:

Do you have a minute to have an opinion on racism?

Do you want to react to something racist?

Do you want to get invested in your opinion and share it?

Take a stance on #blacklivesmatter?

#alllivesmatter?

No?

Okay, then.

How about politics?

Hate Trump?

Love Trump?

Do you want to read something somebody wrote and feel repulsed by it?

Do you want to feel better or worse about how much or how little you’ve traveled?

Do you want to feel stuck in that town you're in?

Do you know who I am?

I am your Facebook Feed.

And I changed my mind about bothering you.

Do you want to spend the entire day together?

Just Cum

I’m walking up to the hottest guy at 700 Club when John grabs me by the wrist and spins me around. “Don’t do it man,” he says anxiously. “Just go home and cum.”

He gestures to the guy on the other side of the room. “He’s really, really out of your league,” he says with conviction. “Please don’t embarrass yourself!” I grab my best friend by the face and kiss him on the mouth. “Angel Dick,” I say cheerfully. “I’ve got this under control.” I turn and continue onward, towards the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Over the dull roar of the crowd, I can hear John. “C’mon dude!" he screams. "Just cum!”

The next morning, I wake up alone. I have early breakfast plans with my sister Rachel, so I roll out of bed and start getting dressed. Another Broken Egg is packed, but we don’t have to wait long for a table. We are having a loud and frustrating conversation about our mother when the server swoops by. “What can I get y’all to drink?” she asks. Rachel orders coffee and I order Tito’s on the rocks. The server stares at me. “Just vodka?” she says in disbelief. “Yes ma’am,” I say. “And keep them in rotation.” She looks from me to my sister, [who is checking Instagram from behind massive sunglasses], and back to me. “Honey,” she says timidly. “You sure you don’t want to make yourself jizz first?”

I bite my lip and nod my head. “Not right now, ma’am. Just the vodka.” She deflates. “But sweetheart, if ya just shot a little jizz, you might not need—” I clear my throat aggressively and she stops talking. I shift my attention back to Rachel and our server bolts away, snaking around tables and disappearing into the kitchen.

“Let’s go shopping,” I whine. Rachel slips her to-go box onto the passenger seat and slams the door. “You’re hammered,” she says, rounding the car and getting behind the wheel. “Go take a nap and text me later.” I heave an obnoxious sigh so that everyone on the porch at Another Broken Egg can hear me. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll go shopping alone.” Rachel starts the car and rolls down all of the windows. “You might just need to cum,” she says coolly before peeling out and leaving me unsupervised on the sidewalk.

In the dressing room, I try on eight shirts and decide to buy five of them. At the register, I get a text from my grandma. It says, “You’re about to spend $250 on T-shirts. Leave the shirts at the store, go blow a load, and then decide if you really want them.” I roll my eyes and text back, “Fuck you Mimi.”

Later, I buy heroin from a guy wearing a camisole. We’ve never met in person before, but we’re already acquainted, thanks to Craigslist. He hands me a tiny plastic bag and I trade him a sweaty wad of cash. We bump fists and turn away from each other. “Aye slim,” he yells. I spin around. “Yo, why don’t you get your nut and then maybe hit me up after.” He tires to hand me back my money, but I wave him off and step away. “Nah son,” I say. “I’m straight.”

I shoot up in an alley behind a Walgreen’s and wait for the waves to rip through me. I overturn my shopping bag and dump the T-shirts onto the ground. Then I flip my hood up and sprint across the street — into a crowded Capital One Bank.

Like all banks, it’s quiet and cavernous inside, even though it’s busy. I walk briskly passed a security guard, who is nodding off in a chair by the entrance. I bypass the line and stand behind a Pentecostal woman in an ankle-length denim skirt. “Get the fuck out the way, you stupid bitch,” I whisper. She doesn’t move so I bang her head against the countertop and she drops to the floor like a cinder block. The teller behind the counter looks up at me in horror. I toss the empty paper bag over to her and say, “Fill it up.” She looks up and me, furrows her eyebrows, and sucks in air through her teeth. “Yeahhh,” she says. “Are you sure you don’t wanna knock out a load before you do this?”

I look around the lobby and everyone is staring at us: the row of tellers, the line of customers, and even the security guard, who is wide-awake now. I feel something on my wrist, so I look down and see the teller’s hand on mine. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “It’s okay. Just blow your load and see how you feel after.” I look up, from our hands to her eyes. I don’t know why, but I trust her. “Can you give me a little room?” I say just loud enough for her to hear me. She backs away and I hop up onto the counter. I unzip my pants and yank my underwear around my thighs. I jack off while making sustained eye contact every one of the customers, including an elderly Korean woman and a black guy who looks like he wants to hit me. And then, without much warning, I cum.

When my eyes open, the bank is brighter. The people are smiling. My mind is clearer. I stretch my arms and crack my back. “Wow,” I say quietly to myself. I jump off the counter and turn to face the teller. She grins, nods, and gracefully touches my cheek. “I knew you were a good kid,” she says. “Just a little misguided when you're backed up.”

There are a few moments of silence as I gather myself and leave.

I’m so taken by this new outlook that I don’t even notice I’m tracking the Pentecostal woman’s blood across the elegant Italian marble floor and out the front door.

Why I'm Not Hard

I’m sorry. I think I'm just distracted. The TV is on. I paused it when we first started hooking up, but now there’s a static shot of Tina Belcher glaring at us from across the room. Let me just find the remote. Where’s the damn remote?! Fuck it. I’ll just get up. Okay, then. We should be good to go.

Whoa, stud. That feels really good. You’re so hot. Just like that. Yeah.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Not working. It’s like you’re gargling a jellyfish.

It’s got to be the ceiling fan, which is blowing around like a hurricane. I can’t really get a bone when I’m chilly. Let me just pop up and take care of that.

Well now that I’m standing, can I grab you a bottle of water? I’m a little dehydrated, myself. WAIT! That’s got to be it! We’ve been drinking all night. That’s why I can’t get hard!

Just let me grab a water and a couple of Advil and I’ll be solid as a rock in a couple minutes. Did you say you wanted some water? Vitamin or classic? 

Alright, alright. Let’s give this another shot.

BUT FIRST, do you mind if I take a piss? I’d hate for me to finally chub up and then pee a little on you. Unless you’re into that? No? Okay, then I’ll just be a moment.

I’m back! Daddy’s home. Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. You’re older than me. You probably remember the Challenger explosion, right? Oof, I’m sorry. I’m not really on my A-game right now. This whole boner thing is throwing me off my axis. Let’s just get back into it and see what happens. Thank you for being so patient and so attractive.

Okay, buddy. Here we go.

[10 MINUTES LATER]

Son of a bitch! It’s like trying to stuff a dinner roll into a Coke bottle. I apologize. I'm really trying my best here. I'm looking at you, and you're gorgeous, and on paper, this shouldn't be a problem at all. For Christ's sake, look at your body! It’s like you were built by Ryan Murphy!

Alright, look. I've got a lot on my mind right now; the presidential race and whatnot. Plus, I’m worried I’m not getting enough calcium. Also, what if someone asks me about my position on “Black Lives Matter?” I’m not prepared for that! And last night, instead of going to the gym, I ate between nine and twelve Girl Scout Cookies in this bed. Because life is all about choices. And I will always choose Samoas over sit-ups! I'm a vaguely chubby trainwreck and I don't like the way you're looking at me right now. You're making my dick turtle back into my body. Please! Look the other way! This is so humiliating!

HOLD ON! Three months ago, I dropped off a pair of Banana Republic slacks at the dry cleaners and haven't yet gotten around to picking them up. That's got to be it! Somewhere in my subconscious, the guilt over leaving my pants in the care of that lonely old Laotian man is tugging at me. And now I can't get an erection.

That’s definitely it!

Alright, you hang out for a minute and I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. I’m just running out to the cleaners at 2AM to grab those slacks. I might be a few hours, so if you get bored, feel free to leave. Maybe we'll see each other in the future, but I'm moving to a small village outside of Prague in the morning, so you probably won't hear from me or see me around ever again. And please don't tell anyone about what happened here tonight because I want the local gay community to remember me fondly.

Farewell, champ. Help yourself to a cocktail on the way out.

Make yourself something stiff.

I'm sorry. I'll be going now.