Mia, Myself & I

Mia's fingers are wrapped around the stem of her glass and she's trying not to unravel in front of me.

She doesn't meet my gaze and instead of the spinach bread in front of her, she's chewing on the inside of her mouth. I want to cry for her. But she's done enough crying for the both of us. I haven't witnessed this season of hysterics yet, but I've seen Mia in similar situations before. She's livid. And her anger manifests in tears. But like I said, she's trying not to unravel in front of me. And she's doing a pretty decent job.

According to Mia, the guy she's been talking to is "a jizz hampster." I tell her that sounds adorbs. She doesn't think so. "I mean, how do you share your most intimate secrets with someone and then fuck them without a condom and then bail?" she begs. I reach into my boot and pull out a pack of cigarettes. I light one, lean back in my chair and say, "You're asking me how someone could do that, or how a man who lives in North Louisiana who's still in a three-year relationship with his live-in girlfriend and who you met on Insta could do that?" "Don't be a faggot to me right now," she whines with the onset of tears. "I really liked him and I didn't want any of this to happen." She's unraveling.

Around us on the patio of Artmosphere, couples are passing for psyched or cozy or both. It's nighttime and a nearby outdoor heating lamp is casting a warm glow on a pair of cooing, heterosexual hipsters, bundled together on a wicker love seat. "They're the faggots," I say, nodding in their direction. Mia doesn't look up from her glass. "I'm sorry," I say. "He's an asshole. All men, including me, are assholes. It sounds like he's very unhappy and he used to you fill a void he'll never be able to fill on his own. None of this is your fault. He sought you out." She looks down and squeezes her eyelids shut, pushing out the tears that have been waiting at the ready – one rolls down from each of her eyes. "When will I be old enough to know better?" she asks, her eyes still closed. "I'm so disappointed in myself. And you want to know the worst part? When I didn't hear from him three days after he left, I wrote him a message on Facebook." My jaw drops. "No you DID NOT!" I scream. "What did you say?!" She wipes her cheeks and pulls out her phone, scrolling and tapping before flipping the screen towards me.

"That was brave of you," I say, still shocked. She's humiliated. "He read it immediately after I sent it, see?" She points to the read receipt that confirms this. "I hope he gets dick cancer," I say. "RIGHT?!" she screeches. There's a few beats of silence before a boy in a Merlot-colored button-down and thick, black-framed glasses walks past us and strides onto the stage, which is situated in the corner of the patio and illuminated by lights filtered through pink and blue gels. He says something I don't fully understand. "Something, something, Janky Karaoke, something, something, next up is Woody." A round of very muted applause welcomes a small man with slicked-back dirty blond hair to the stage. He saunters up to the mic and wraps his fingers around it. He looks like he's squinting and he's swaying on the spot. "That guy is fucking hammered," Mia says. I nod. Just then, the roll-down projector screen flicks on. On the yellow field, the song title and artist appear: "Let It Die" by Feist. Woody straightens up when the soft organ music that opens the song begins. Mia and I hold our collective breathe because we love this song, and this guy's about to skull fuck it. Then, Woody starts singing.

"Let it die,
And get out of my mind. 
We don't see eye to eye,
Or hear ear to ear..."
All the hipsters have stopped talking and now they're staring at Woody in silence. His voice sounds like it's been sanded and stained. He croons around peaks and dips into deep wells inside of him. He's begging, and I'm buying it. But the irony of Woody's performance isn't lost on me. I turn to Mia and she's looking back at me, too. I ask her to come closer. She leans in, and I put my mouth close to her ear. "The guy from North Louisiana is clearly fucked up and down. Don't let him make you a meaner cunt than you already are," I say. "Hate him, pity him, and then forgive him."

Just then, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's John. He sits next to me and asks me how long I've been waiting here. I tell him long enough to see Woody burn the house down. "Who's Woody?" he asks. I point to the guy on the stage who's still holding the attention of the entire Artmosphere crowd. John nods and takes a sip of his High Life, then he looks at me from across the table and asks if I was just talking to myself. I look at him like he's crazy. "No. Just working something out," I say. "Why are you drinking wine?" he asks. I look down and realize I am drinking wine. I take a few seconds to think. "It's been a weird day, bruh," I reply. That's good enough for him.

All of a sudden, Woody unbuttons his shorts and lets them drop around his ankles. The black girl behind us drops her glass to the floor and yelps. He squeezes his crotch and sings the last verse of "Let It Die" to a room of standing, hysterical hipsters. Then John looks at me and says, "Looks like it's gonna be a weird night, too. You wanna sing a Tracy Chapman song together?" And then we do.

The Woody.

Me Happy. You Happy.

He’s fucking with me.

No. He’s really on his way to my house.

I have to call John.

I have to clean my room.

Thank God I didn’t eat today. He’s going to see me naked. I should go for a run, anyway.

He’s fucking with me.

Is someone at the door?

Fuck, I’m not ready yet.

Breathe.

He’s here.

I can’t breathe.

Jesus, he’s more gorgeous than I remember.

My hair’s wet and my skin’s splotchy.

He’s about to kiss me.

He’s so tall. Stand on your tiptoes.

I guess I should cancel my plans tonight.

Why’s he here, again?

This isn’t just about us. He’s going through a break-up.

Be nice. Have sex. But don’t give him everything.

I’m starving, but I’m so skinny today.

I should take him to Agave. I’ll order tortilla soup.

There’s a lot more people here than I expected.

Why doesn’t he want shredded cheese or pico de gallo with his fajitas? Those are the best fixins! That’s not a red flag. Cool your jets, fighter pilot.

He thinks I’m funny.

I’m killing.

Control your smile twitch.

There’s something he wants to tell me.

He wants me to think he's damaged. Don’t we all, baby?

I just want to go back to my bed with him.

I don’t want him to take his hands off me.

He’s making me cuddle with him. He’s a cuddler. I’m not a cuddler. But I don’t mind this.

My back fits perfectly with his front.

It’s morning. It's Saturday. He’s still here.

I should tell him I have a work thing in a few hours. I don’t want him to go, but I don’t want him to know that I don’t want him to go.

Shit. He’s awake.

His kisses last forever. But I don’t mind that.

I want to stay in this bed with him all day.

He’s just using me.

He wants to fuck me. He wants space between him and his ex. He wants me to write about him.

Fuck him.

I’m going to fuck him.

If I feel empty after this, I going to fake an asthma attack and he’ll have to leave.

I’m in trouble.

He can see through me. That’s fine, because I can see the real him, too. He’s sparkly on the inside.

He likes poached eggs. That’s disgusting.

I haven’t texted Wesley or Heath since Thursday. I haven’t even checked Grindr once.

He’s going to break my heart.

I fit perfectly in his lap.

He’s taking a nap. I should kiss him.

I want to remember everything about his face. Even the little brown dot under his left eye.

I guess he’s staying another night.

We should go to Tsunami for dinner.

An hour and a half wait? Fuck this; we’re going to Capital Grille.

He talks more than he eats. He’s so corporate. To him, I’m a broke, brooding writer. I’m a breath of fresh air. He thinks I'm different, and he can't take his eyes off me.

My stomach hurts. I think I’m going to throw up. We need to go home.

He isn’t touching my leg like he did on the drive to the restaurant.

He’s in the shower. I should put on gym shorts. No underwear.

His body feels electric against mine.

This is what falling in love feels like.

I should ask him to say it.

Just whisper, “say it.” He’ll say it.

NO.

His arms are so tight around me. I don’t mind that.

This can’t be real. And if it’s real, it’s not fair.

It’s Sunday. He’s awake. He’ll have to leave soon.

Stay.

He wants to stay.

He can’t stay.

This was my bottle episode. And it was better than the Patrick Wilson episode of Girls.

He’ll get back with the ex. They’ll call me “The Mistake” when they fight about me.

I hope he knows I only let three other guys in my life do what he did to me during sex.

He’s been unhappy for such a long time.

He could be happy with me.

We could make each other happy.

Me happy. You happy.

I won’t watch him drive away.

He doesn’t want to let me go, either.

My heart is ripping in half.

Smile. Slap him on the ass. Tell him you’ll “see him around, bruh.”

He gave me his t-shirt. I’ll keep it until we have a big fight. Then I’ll unceremoniously throw it in the trash can and fuck someone.

He’s gotten into my bloodstream. I miss him already. Don’t watch him drive away.

I’m going to be alright.

That was nice.

I still have a few hours of Sunday left.

There’s fajita chicken in a box in the fridge.

Where did the weekend go?

I wish we had shredded cheese or pico de gallo.

I should write about this before I forget the details.

Maybe I’ll just post a chronological list of my thoughts.

That’s stupid.

No one would be able to follow that.

Collide

Wesley’s asleep, but not really asleep, so I tap him on the temple and tell him we have to take a ride.

“Wut tha hell, Rine. I have ta be ta work een three hours,” he says without opening his eyes.

Even though he was raised two hours west of New Orleans, he speaks with the affected accent of a rancher from Odessa, Texas. “I can’t really understand what you’re saying when you mumble, but I need you to please drive me back to Rehab so I can get my inhaler out my car,” I say, slipping into a pair of gym shorts I find on the floor. “It’s either my car or the ER, stud.”

He dramatically throws off the comforter and makes glottal noises while getting dressed. I follow him down the stairs and into his night, staring at his ass the entire way. Less than an hour ago, we were having sex and he told me he loved me. And I said it right back to him.

Saying the first “I love you” during sex is like converting to Christianity in the middle of The Passion of the Christ — it’s out-of-place and probably long overdue. But I said it, and I’m still trying to pin down why.

We drive until we arrive at Rehab (Clementine, Louisiana’s only gay bar) just as the sun’s coming up. I tell Wesley I’ll see him back at his place and he doesn’t even turn to me. In my car, I take a long inhale from my puffer, then put on my favorite Rachael Yamagata song, "Collide," pushing the volume all the way up. This song always reminds me of my exboyfriend, Wit’s End, and I typically only listen to it when the weather’s cold. Like Joni Mitchell and The xx, Rachel Yamagata is best enjoyed during winter. The temperature gauge says 55 degrees, so I guess I’m not breaking any rules. Rachael coos and I pull air into my lungs and push it back out in heavy, deliberate streams. I’ll quit smoking tomorrow and make an appointment with my pulmonologist on Monday.

Wesley’s apartment is dark and spooky. He let himself back in without me — not caring to wait while I caught up. In the bedroom at the end of the hall, Nick is sleeping with Wesley’s roommate. I didn’t hear noises earlier, but I assume they fucked, because neither was sober enough not to fuck. I undress and lay next to Wesley, my back to his, then I grab my phone and jot down a note before I forget:

I'm waking without you, and that's fine with me.

And I'll text you back later, at a time when I'm free.

You can still be my boyfriend, just please leave me be.

In a few hours, we’ll all wake up and we’ll all be late for something. And with socks, phone, and underwear in hand, I’ll leave Clementine with Nick, and we’ll talk about our bravery and recklessness through mouthfuls of McGriddles. Later that night, Nick and I will go out in Lafayette where I’ll meet Nick’s friend from DeRidder, Allen. Then, I’ll wake up Sunday morning next to Allen, never having said “I love you” once.

I don’t know it yet, but this is my future. My present is staring at the ceiling, listening to Wesley snore. And though I'm still, I'm in free fall. Since Heath moved away, life seems to be barreling on top of me. The days unfurl hastily and force me down rabbit holes and trap doors. I'm nineteen again and men are not men — they are mountains to climb, claim, and descend. I don't even bother to save their numbers anymore. I feel myself nearing impact with the ground and my body jolts, briefly waking Wesley and sending a shot of adrenaline throughout my body.

I’ll quit smoking tomorrow and make an appointment with my pulmonologist on Monday.

The Answer Is Yes

I lean out the driver's side window and scream loud enough for the black guys on the corner to hear me, "You could easily pass for 22!"

Maggie stumbles over her own feet and turns towards me, brushing the curly red hair out of her eyes. I might have oversold the compliment, but in this moment, she really could pass for 22. She looks like someone I went to college with, a Tri Sigma from my British Literature class. She’s standing in front of a backdrop of banana leaves and backlit with porch lights, holding her shoes in her hand and panting from the jog from my car to her front door. Maggie is pretty, and youthful, and drunk, and she wants to go to bed, but she's sincere when she asks me if l really want to fuck what I can pass for.

I don’t understand what the fuck she means, but I yell back to her before she reaches the door handle. “I guess not! Fine, you look your age! You look 30! Would you fuck yourself now!?” She’s almost inside, and she calls back without looking, “I’d fuck the best version of myself, but I don’t know her yet! Night!”

I light a cigarette and pull the smoke to the back of my throat, exhaling through my nostrils before letting it go any further. I’ve been smoking like this since I was 13 years old, never letting the smoke into my lungs and mostly just cycling it from my mouth to my nose and into the air. Because I am both an asthmatic and a pussy. It should be noted that the person who gave me my first cigarette is dead now. He was my childhood best friend and the first guy I ever experimented with. The last time I saw him, we were in the living room of his mom’s house trading oral for oral and watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air with the sound off — it was 2010. Then, last summer, he overdosed on Oxy and never made it to the hospital. Max wasn’t gay, but he took general thrill in “deviant” behavior like male/male sex and shooting up heroin — anything to put him on the fringe. We lived around the corner from each other in a tree-littered subdivision on the Westbank of New Orleans, and went to the same boys Catholic school across the river. We were painfully average, and Max resented that. He died the way he lived. Looking for a way out.

I pull into my driveway and notice that Maggie texted me to make sure I made it home. I tell her I have, and I let myself in the side door. On the kitchen table, there’s a red, heart-shaped box with a Great American Cookie Company logo on the side of it. I eat the clumps of red and brown icing and take my shirt off on the way to my room. I flop onto my bed and scroll through the night’s texts:
There’s Maggie.
Then John.
Then the gymnastics coach from Ruston.
Then the guy who lives with his boyfriend in Monroe, who I think I love. 

Then my recently exed boyfriend, Heath.
Then Wesley, who I used to date and still text.
And finally, Dixon. 

I see smiley faces, and dick pics, and lies, and I wonder if I would really fuck who I'm passing for. I wonder about all of us. Is Maggie passing for 22? Is Max passing for an escape artist? Am I passing for genuine? Would any of us fuck (or even like) the people we're projecting?

Whoever I'm passing for is disembarking this train of thought. Dixon's dick pic got me semi, and now I won't be able to sleep without taking care of it, first. I send him a text that says, "Goodnight, stud," and then I send the same text to the gymnastics coach, the guy in Monroe, Heath, and Wesley. 

I put down my phone and stagger to the kitchen wearing Heath's cobalt blue trunks and a half-boner, compliments of Dixon. I finish the remaining icing clumps and wonder if jacking-off after all my introspect is the same as fucking the person I'm passing for.

Collaboration Crush

Valentine's Day is my favorite holiday behind my birthday, Christmas Day, Christmas Eve, St. Patrick's Day, Cinco De Mayo, Jazz Fest Weekend, April Fool's Day, Voodoo Fest, Winehouse Wednesday, $2 Fish Taco Day, Brunch, Sleigh Bells Concert, Boudin Eating Contest, and my 2PM dumpout.

But seriously, it's up there. When I was waiting tables at Johnny Carino's, I would actually request to work doubles on Valentine's Day so that I could be around happy couples all day. Single or taken, I find a way to celebrate it. Because love is the most important resource we — *DRY HEAVE*

This year, with the help of my friend, Blake Lagneaux, and Black Sheep Illustration, I created Valentine's Day cards for my closest friends and fans of the blog. I also sent some to my exboyfriends, because opening old wounds is fun on a bun.

Happy Vag Day, fucksticks.

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.

Rick Ross

I lean across the table and stage-whisper to John, “I think he’s looking back at me!” John pulls his eyebrows together and purses his lips into a duckbill. “Jean jacket and jeans?” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes in tandem. “No. He's not.” “He’s stupid hot. And so tall! What do you think, six-three?” I crane my neck and look at no one in particular behind him. “I think you just want him to look back at you. And uncross your legs. You’re scaring all the dicks away.” Now John’s stage-whispering too.

I uncross my legs, but continue to stare. He may have stolen that outfit from the Brokeback Mountain wardrobe trailer, but he is one of the sexiest men I’ve seen in the wild. I reach for my tie’s knot and loosen it with two yanks, rolling my neck and closing my eyes toward the night sky. “I’m fucking choking. We could’ve gotten away with wearing tank tops to that goat ranch wedding,” I whine. Between the “V” of his fingers, John flips his cigarette and blows a steady stream of smoke between us. “Wanna go to Marley’s? No one’s here.”

“He’s here.” I flick my ash and raise the joe to my lips, nodding to the cowboy on the other side of the patio. He’s standing at a round, high-top table across from two microgays who are visibly drooling while little red hearts pop above their empty, flat-ironed heads. I can’t really make out what he’s saying, but I can hear the sound of his voice. It’s deep and clunky with no hint of a lisp or inflection. His words seem to land on the tabletop with matter-of-fact thuds. I caught full sight of his face on my walk to our table, but now, I’ve only got his profile. Still, his features are soft and deliberate. He could easily pass for an actor on The CW network — maybe for a teen soap called something like Goodbye, Beaverton or Cow Pies for Sutton. He would be the dangerous, older ranch hand who woos Miranda Cosgrove’s city girl-turned-champion-bull-rider. I wouldn’t watch it, but I’d probably see him on Tom & Lorenzo standing before a step-and-repeat and think, “I don’t know who he is, but I’d totally let him in. What the fuck is Cow Pies for Sutton?”

“C’mon. Let’s take a walk,” says John, rising to his feet and flicking the smoldering butt over the balcony. I follow him through the glass doors and across the empty dance floor. “I need to close out,” he barks to the strikingly beautiful transgender woman behind the bar. I lean against John and stick my hands into the pockets of my jacket, resting my head against his shoulder. “I’m ready when you are,” I yell over the assaulting house music. “Aw, don’t go yet!” booms a stony, drum of a voice behind me. I bite my bottom lip and slowly turn to face him. “Hey man,” he says. “You leavin?”

At point blank range, the cowboy is textbook-handsome. And seeing his face makes me instantly aware of how fat and hammered I am. But I have to focus. Charming strange men is one of the few things I can do with my eyes closed besides jacking-off and listening to girls. So I shift my weight to my hip and flip my invisible bangs. “Yeah we’re already late. We were supposed to meet some friends for Boys Night twenty minutes ago.” I never break eye contact. Neither does he. He cocks his head, half-grins, and takes a gulp of his Budweiser. I can tell he's the type of guy who has never taken a sip of anything in his life. He's never sipped, or primped, or groomed, or swished, or brunched. He's never said "breeder," or "gayby," or "Miss Thing," or "fierce," or "disco nap." He's never expressed the need to "have a kiki." Oh, of this I'm sure. But this doesn't scare me. I know his type well. And since he's still staring at me after hearing my shrill, lispy voice, I know there won't be any heavy lifting. He likes guys like me, so that's all I have to be. This might even be easy.

The cowboy drives an F-250, like he would. He says his name is Rick Ross and that he's in town for two weeks for training — something having to do with measuring shale or teaching third grade or Mutton Bustin'. "Is your name really Rick Ross? Do people give you shit for that?" I ask with my head hanging out the window, trying desperately not to womit in front of this man. "You can see my ID if you want," he offers, reaching for his back pocket. "Nah, I believe you. Make a left up here. It's the blue house with the tin roof." We park and he follows me into the house. I stumble into my room and flick the lights on. I was drunk two hours ago. Now I'm just woozy and drenched. I wrestle off my shirt and twist to crack my back. I catch my reflection in the mirror and think, "Bruh. You look like Prince Harry on K right now, but this beautiful ranch hand from Nebraska is in your room. You can either screw him or pass out. Either way, you've already won, stud." Rick Ross smiles at me in the mirror and then asks where the bathroom is. It's the next door on the left. Alone now, I lift my leg and release the fart I've been holding since closing my tab, then I slip into gym shorts, and wipe the fronts of my teeth with a towel I find on the floor.

Everything I've learned from my decade of dating has taught me to never dig through someone's  personal affects. From inboxes to search histories, you're guaranteed to discover something scary every time — even if it's just your own insecurity. I know this, but I still grab his circa 1776 LG Scoop and scan the outgoing messages. This is a picture of the last message he sent to a name I didn't recognize:

When he finally returns from the bathroom, I'm wrapped in covers and facing the wall. He curls up behind me and he nuzzles my neck. I know I smell like a biker bar, but he still tells me I smell nice. He grinds and pokes me for a good ten minutes before he starts snoring. I carefully look over my shoulder to check the time, but the glowing, green numbers are obscured by a tiny bottle on my nightstand. I squint and quickly recognize the label. It's lube. But how'd it get there? Did he transport it from his truck or was he carrying it in his jean jacket pocket all night? The thought of a person casually walking around in public with a travel-size bottle of lube in his pocket gives me the willies. But I strangely find comfort in the idea that, technically, anyone could be carrying lube on his or her person at any time. It's like the idea that any abandoned trash bag on the side of the road can have a baby in it, or any closed box can be filled with dildos.

Although he might have appeared to stand out from the herd, Rick Ross The Cowboy was nothing special. He might not have ever worn an infinity scarf or cried at a Beyoncé concert, but he was a lot like me — an aimless fag who's still looking for something exciting or someone to impress.

And while his sex appeal might make him a heartthrob on The CW, I sleep easier knowing that my unique look might qualify me for casting on a network with better quality of viewership. I remind myself to email Ryan Murphy my headshot  before slipping into a dream about gay zombies in the old west.