It Didn't Work Out, But I Don't Remember Why

You posted those pictures just to frustrate me, didn't you? 

Oh, you definitely got my attention, you smug little prick. Look at you posing on the beach all sun-kissed and happy to be alive. Ugh, you're giving me diarrhea. And this picture right here. The one of you in a speedo and a flat-bill. You're just walking the line between angel-faced teacup chihuahua and smoldering sex god, aren't you? You just want me to lick my iPhone screen, don't you? And you knew I'd see all these photos from your family vacation in Galveston and I'd feel flustered and uncomfortable. All because I broke-up with you in a text message.

Sure, it might have felt completely unexpected to you. But I gave it some serious thought, bro. And, to be honest, I think I was very nice about the whole thing. If you recall, my exact words were: 

"Hey. I didn't want to end things without an explanation, so I'm going to be direct with you. I don't know if now is a good time for us to keep this up. If you want to try again in a few months, I'd be willing to reassess our relationship. Take care."

See? I could've said something less considerate. Or worse: I could've just bailed without saying anything at all! And it's not like I owed you anything, buster. We only talked for two months and had sortasex one time. But now, you're prancing around my Instagram with red cheeks, windswept hair, and a body that stops me in my tracks every time. And once I see you, I have to follow the curves of your traps and trace the insides of your thighs with my eyes. I should be working, but instead, I'm studying the color of your nipples and the shadow pattern on your crotch. God, you're beautiful. But you're distracting me, and that's not very mature of you.

Now, I don't really know where you're coming from, and it's impossible for me to gauge your level of investment in this ploy to make me lose my cool, but you seem committed, and I'm impressed by that. I guess that's another item I can add to the list of things I like(d) about you. I'll pencil it in between "the way he smiles" and "his ability to do a backflip." It's not like any of this matters anymore, though. You're trying to get a rise out of me, but it's not happening, chief. Uh-uh. Not happening. Tough nuggets.

So what if I save the all pictures you upload? Each one is an opportunity for me to rally outrage from John and Nick with photo captions like, "Are you fucking kidding me with those forearms!?" or "God almighty, he's burning the house down with that ass!" Oh, but don't mistake this for flattery, Mr. Photogenic Dick Shaft. But this is what you want, isn't it? You want me to break down and send you the "sup?" text. 

That's the subtext, right?

Alright, fine! I'll admit it. I don't remember exactly why things didn't work out between us. I think it had something to do with you not being into me enough. I don't know. You were always getting high after work and forgetting to text me. And sometimes, I wouldn't hear from you until late in the afternoon the next day. That sucked, man. Because I really liked you, and I gave you another chance every time you asked for one. I broke it off with you because you made me feel crummy. And no one deserves to feel crummy or get heavy boots in the beginning of a relationship. But now, looking at these pictures of you, I keep thinking, "It couldn't have been that bad, right?" and "Maybe I was being overly sensitive." And now a nagging piece of me feels like I missed out on something.

When I was 20 years old, my boyfriend got drunk and hit me in the face — giving me a black eye. We broke-up, but a few weeks later, I let him back into my apartment and I had sex with him for two reasons:

1. He was [and remains] the most attractive person I've ever seen.
2. I romanticized our relationship and intentionally blacked out the bad parts.

And on a lesser scale, that's what this feels like, buster. I "forget why it didn't work out" to justify wanting the good parts of you (see: red cheeks, windswept hair, smile, forearms, backflips, etc.). It's my way of passively giving you the benefit of the doubt. So enjoy it while it lasts, stud. I have a date with an LSU grad student tonight, and I can't spend another minute imagining myself doing body shots off your immaculate torso.

But if you wanted to send me something private, I wouldn't be angry.

My Name Is Chip Chance

When I first started going to the gay bars in New Orleans, I would never tell strange men my real name. This was during the MySpace administration, and kids (including me at age 15) still used aliases on their Internet profiles because child molesters could, and would, find you by your last name in the phone book. The term "social networking" hadn't been invented, yet. All we had was AOL Instant Messenger, MySpace, and a new feature on cellular phones that allowed you to send short, typed messages from one phone to another for only ten cents a message! 

On Saturday nights, I'd tell my parents I was going with Liam and JP to play Halo at Bobby's house, and then Liam would pick me up at home and drive us to Bourbon Street. We'd sneak into Bourbon Cowboy and The Frat House, and eventually, I'd break off on my own and head to Oz, telling the guys I'd meet them outside Cat's Meow at two o'clock. I wanted to remain anonymous among the elder gays, so I never outright offered my name to anyone. But if I was asked, I'd stick my hand out and say, "I'm Nick Ducote." This was the name of the first guy I'd ever fallen in love with, and after he stopped talking to me for reasons I'll never know, I assumed his identity and even gave his number to guys I didn't particularly want to have sex with. I imagined Nick getting phone calls and maybe even text messages on his Nokia cell phone from foreign numbers, and the exchange going something like this:

Unrecognized number: Hey Nick.
Nick: I don't have this number saved. Who's this?
Unrecognized number: This is Dylan. We met at Napoleon's Itch last night.
Nick: Huh? Ummmmm I was in bed last night.
Dylan: This is Nick Ducote, isn't it?
Nick: YES?!?!
Dylan: And now you're going to pretend you didn't kiss me by the cigarette machine?
Nick: WHO THE FUCK GAVE YOU MY NUMBER?!

I fantasized about this situation playing over and over again until Nick developed a very real suspension that he might, in fact, be suffering from waking blackouts, a là Ashton Kutcher's character in The Butterfly Effect, wherein he meets unattractive gay men and then forgets he did. I haven't had a reason to use that fucker's name in years, but I was reminded of him when I met a guy in New Orleans last February.

He said his name was Chip Chance, which might as well have been Flava Flav or McLovin. Upon seeing him on Grindr, I ambushed him with flattering pictures of myself until he agreed to meet up with me. I was staying with my parents that weekend and he was "temporarily staying with friends," so neither of us could host. So, remembering that my friend Karen was out of town for the weekend, I asked her for the code to her vacant apartment in the warehouse district. Chip said he "didn't have a car at the moment," so I would have to pick him up from his job in the French Quarter, which isn't terribly far from Karen's apartment, considering the size of New Orleans.

Now, I'm sitting in my Ford Fiesta in a rainstorm at the corner of Royal and St. Philip, waiting for someone with a fake name to walk up and have sex with me in my friend's apartment. Well mom, at least I'm not on drugs, right? From across the street, I see a tall man with a messenger bag jogging through the rain, towards my car. I unlock the door, he sits down next to me, and I immediately text my best friend John these words: "This guy I'm about to hook up with is so hot that it hurts. My boner is literally making me lightheaded."

Chip Chance looks like former a child star, and I mean this in the best way. He is very tall and muscular, with sculpted, classically handsome masculine features and deep-set sockets that hold sparkling, emerald eyes. The sleeves of his denim, pearl-snap shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing bright, colorful tattoos. Owls, and squid, and flowers, and skulls swoop around his forearms on waves until the break on shores of his wrists. His smile is not a smile; it's a smirk. The kind of smirk that only John Krasinski, Zac Efron, and Barack Obama have perfected. But the most striking thing about his appearance is, without question, his hair. Which is green. Somewhere between inset chlorine and mint sorbet, Chip's hair doesn't demand your attention, but instead, beckons you closer to have a conversation with it. He's been in my car for less than a minute and I'm having to restrain myself from running my fingers through it. He is the human equivalent of a kaleidoscope; the type of boy you'd see on the Urban Outfitters homepage and hate for hitting the genetic lottery.

In Karen's apartment, we drink her Abita Strawberry and trade basic information followed by canned responses.

You're the baby of the family? I bet you got away with everything, huh? 

You work in advertising? I bet you're like Don Draper around the office. 

Living in the Bywater must be really exciting. That neighborhood is just booming!

I've only been to Lafayette once, but it was a good time. So much culture, man.

I'm on autopilot, and want nothing more than for the talking to end and for Chip Chance to take his shirt off. And then it does, and then he does. When he kisses me, my right hand slides down to his forearm and my left into his hair. I can kiss cute guys anytime, but how many times will I have the opportunity to trace a squid tattoo with my fingers or tousle seafoam hair? This is worth it, already.

By the time I drop him off at his house in the Bywater, I like him. Not like him-like him, but I think he's interesting beyond his looks, and he's got a story. He climbs out of my little car, and I ask him to tell me his real name. I don't plan on looking him up on Facebook later, but I still have to add his name to my list, and I'd feel better if it wasn't made-up. He tells me his real name and I say goodbye, promising to text him later. On the ride home, I rub my belly, and even though it's gotten more robust in a few short months, I feel content. I've been meaning to lose weight, but if guys like Chip Chance keep banging me, I don't really see the point.

I wish I had the physical magnetism as Chip, but I don't. Still, I bet I can capture some of his magic. And maybe not tonight, but at some point in the near future, someone will ask me my name, and I'll extent my hand, smile with the confidence of a man with green hair, and say, "My name is Chip Chance."

Great Expectations

I've been standing at the bar for less than ten seconds when Tung grabs me from behind, swings his arm around me, and demands the bartender put my drink on his tab. "Whatever he’s drinking, I got!" he says loud enough for everyone within a 50-foot radius to hear. "You really don’t have to do that, buddy," I say with disingenuous bashfulness. He smiles as wide as he can. "It’s so good to see you, man!" He's radiating happiness. I smile back and I mean it. "You too," I say. It's been 11 years since we've seen one another.

The girl hands me my drink and Tung ushers me through the crowd and onto the patio. I expected The Bulldog to be much more swamped than it is, what with it being Jazz Fest weekend and all. Every twentysomething this side of Carrolton Avenue with a bachelor’s degree should be here, but they must be as exhausted as me. Tung and I cut through the patio and under an archway that leads to a private courtyard. Here, somewhere between 15 and 20 of my schoolmates from St. Andrew the Apostle have gathered for our reunion. Tung barrels past me, waves his hands in the air, and yells, "Hey, y’all! RYAN’S HERE!" Everyone looks at me, and I try really hard to appear gracious and shocked, even though I knew this was coming. People woot and raise their glasses and a few even clap. I see Adam sitting near the front of the archway and we smile and roll our eyes in tandem.

Adam and I were classmates from Pre-K through high school. We even carpooled for a few years. Then, when we were juniors, we began dating two girls who were also best friends. We have a lot of history, me and him. Now, when we see each other at the gay bar in Baton Rouge, we screech when we talk and refer to one another as "Britney" and "Christina." It doesn't matter who's who. As long as I'm Britney.

When we bumped into each other at Splash three months ago, we couldn't stop talking about our collective anticipation for the reunion. We threw our heads back and cackled about what a fuckmess it was sure to be. I said I wouldn't leave until tits came out. Mine or someone else's. It didn't matter. But now, standing here in the courtyard, scanning the crowd for stray breasts, I can see this is not what I had in mind.

With the exception of Tung, who is shithoused in the way that my dad's friend Buster, who owns a gas station and drinks Taaka and crushed ice out of a to-go cup gets shithoused, everyone seems pretty mellow. Adam is sitting next to Kathryn, who is still one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in person. I say hi to them, then make my way around the courtyard, asking questions about everyone's careers and families, and fielding questions about three very specific topics:

1. My recent promotion.
2. My sassy, offensive Facebook posts.
3. My blog.

I spend 20 minutes speaking to Ashely Adler about the recent suicide of a mutual friend. I discuss Cameron Yorke's plans to go to culinary school. Everyone looks just like their Facebook pictures. Everyone is doing great. No one grew up to be a disaster. No one is faking enthusiasm. My former classmates are just as happy to see me flourishing as I them. This isn't what I had in mind, but that's okay. Still, one rogue titty would've been welcome.

I circle back to Adam and Kathryn. "No one got an introduction like you did. Just saying," says Kathryn, smeyesing harder than I've ever seen anyone smeyes before. Adam leans across Kathryn and says, "I’m going to The Pub at midnight. Come." "I don’t know," I say. "I’ve been at Jazz Fest all day. I’m whipped and don’t think I want to be around a million fags right now. You’re enough."

It's two hours later, and I'm standing on the balcony at The Pub overlooking Bourbon Street with Adam and a bunch of fags. "That was nice," I say. "I wish some of them would've gotten fatter, though." "I know, right?!" yells Adam. "No fatties at all!" "More than half of them are still in school, though," I say. "I've been out of school since 2010 and I've advanced in my career every year since. I'm kicking ass aren't I?" He looks down at his phone. "Shit, my boyfriend just got here. I gotta go run downstairs and meet him. Stay here," he says. He leaves and I'm alone with my drink. I see my friend from Alexandria, Brandon, across the balcony, so I walk over to say hello. Standing closely behind him are five guys — none of whom appear local. Based on their unified effort to show the world that tucking t-shirts into belted jeans is a good idea, I guess Central Louisiana or somewhere swampy like Thibodeaux, maybe. One of them is wearing a blue, gingham button-down and he’s cute in the way that stuffed animals are cute. But among the other men in his immediate area, he’s clearly the most attractive. While Brandon and I discuss the benefits of living Uptown versus Midcity, I keep an eye on the Monchhichi doll in the gingham shirt. I don’t catch the last thing Brandon says, but it sounds like he’s waiting for a response, so I say, “I know, right?! Plus, Whole Foods is right there, and Uptown traffic isn’t really a thing until carnival season. Hey, are those your friends?” I say, gesturing with my chin to the gaggle behind him. “Yeah. Do you want to meet them?” he asks. “No, not really,” I say. “Just the cute one."

"Ryan," says Brandon, motioning to the man in the gingham shirt. "This is Joel."

Joel works for a bank that does banking for other banks, so you can imagine how exciting and funny he is. Which he isn't. But he is handsome and he smells like cinnamon gum. He talks about work and I wonder what his face looks like during sex and if my friends would like him. I can tell he's into me and also very anxious, so I do this thing where I bite my lip and I look down at my feet saying, "I know this is going to make the next few seconds weird, but I think you're really cute and I'm actually kind of nervous right now." In my head I just made a basket from the free throw line. He offers to buy me a drink, I decline, and then I give him my number and tell him that I have to meet some friends across the street but will come back a little later. Then, I leave.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect him to text me immediately. But he didn't. And later, when I returned to The Pub, I couldn't find him anywhere. At three in the morning, I say goodbye to Adam, Brandon, and the rest of my friends, and walk alone to my car on Royal Street. I listen to Alice Smith on the ride home, and when I get there, I quietly unlock the front door so I don't wake the dogs. Before heading upstairs, I kick my shoes off and grab a family size bag of Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos from behind the bar. In my bedroom, I strip to my briefs and sit Indian-style in front of the TV. In my head, I compartmentalize tonight's events — rolling the memories around and wondering how exactly they'd led me to being naked and alone in my bedroom, eating Doritos by the handful and watching a black guy confront a white guy who was pretending to be a black girl on MTV's Catfish: The TV Show. This isn't what I expected to happen. But then again, that seems to be the theme of the night. From my St. Andrew reunion to my encounter with Joel, the banker with Monchhichi hair, my expectations were met with objection. The wild titty rumpus turns out to be a mature get-together among old friends. The career-oriented gentleman whose underwear I'm charming off turns out to be not so interested in me, after all. I wouldn't call this feeling disappointment. It's more like surprise. The type of surprise you feel when you learn an offbeat science fact or that Norah Jones is the daughter of Ravi Shankar.

I smile to myself when I recognize the irony of Catfish being the show I settled on, and chip-by-chip, I finish the entire bag of Doritos.

The Adults

Austin is attempting to tell me the ending to Oblivion, but I can't understand him because he's whispering.

"Wait," I whisper back. "I don't think I heard you right. That sounds exactly like the plot of Moon. Say it again. What's going on with Tom Cruise, now?" "YOU'VE SEEN MOON?!" yelps Austin. Mrs. Jana and Jill stop their conversation and shush us. I mouth "sorry," even though I wasn't the one who raised my voice, and me and Austin continue our conversation about the nuances in Sam Rockwell's performance with exaggerated facial expressions and elementary sign language.

In the master bedroom, Austin and Jill's baby, Emma, has just fallen asleep. Here in the living room, we're enjoying quiet discussions peppered with reminders that "the baby is sleeping." Mrs. Jana, Jill, and Granny sit in high-backed chairs across the room while me, Austin, and John lounge on the couch. John's dad is in the kitchen listening to Anita Baker and scraping Granny's birthday cake off of plates and silverware. So far, this has been the type of Sunday most families picture themselves enjoying but never seem to get all the pieces together: late sleeping, coffee on the back porch, phantom hangovers, mimosas at brunch, outdoor shopping, sunshine, an intimate birthday party, easy conversation, and the sweet victory of winning the Didn't Do Shit Olympics. It's fucking sublime.

Jill put Emma down nearly ten minutes ago, but I'm still anxious that she'll wake up and start fussing. I'm not very familiar with the sleeping habits of two-year-old people. Come to think of it, I'm not familiar with babies at all! We don't have any in my family. Not that I know of, anyway. Being the oldest of three, male, 24, and a Southerner, I feel like I should have fathered something by now. But as my exboyfriend, Wit's End, used to say, "Butt babies don't live."

I think about Emma on the other side of the wall, stirring while her mom, dad, uncle, grandparents, and some fruity gentleman her uncle dragged over talk about their co-workers and the plots of awful Tom Cruise sci-fi movies, and then it suddenly dawns on me. We are the adults in the other room. I AM ONE OF THE ADULTS IN THE OTHER ROOM. 

This can't be true, right? I know I'm in my mid-twenties, but how did this happen? I still watch cartoons for Christ's sake! Seriously, I regularly watch Adventure Time, Bob's Burgers, and Gravity Falls and I'm sure I have episodes in my DVR right now that I'll watch when I'm finished with this. I also watch ThePuppyChannel.com, [but in my defense, I learned about it from Ira Glass]. I wear TOMS to the office and child size briefs from Target. I want a tattoo that says "Don't go. I'll eat you up I love you so," because I love Where The Wild Things Are and another one that says "Adventure is out there," to honor Up. Sometimes, I shotgun buffalo sauce. And at this very moment, I'm wearing a neon yellow zipper bracelet that I bought at a gas station.

I've slept with cruise ship dancers and hairdressers and delivery boys and bag boys and go-go dancers and cheerleaders and art students and general studies majors and lifeguards and DJs and waiters and aspiring singers and aspiring gymnasts and aspiring actors and aspiring anythings. Clearly, ambition is not a quality I require in a sexual partner. Actually, one time I had a one night stand with a guy who later claimed to have been released from prison the day before. I burn things after I get dumped. I think gumbo tacos sound delicious. The last time I searched for free porn on Google, I just typed in "two guys doing it."

Whenever I visit a bar bathroom and I'm shitfaced, I set my beer on the urinal and I talk to it. I'll usually say something like, "Hey, buddy. I'm holding my wiener right now, but it's not for long, so try not to get all room temperature, okay?" or "If you can hang on this incline for like ten more seconds without sliding, we'll be cool."

Even though I used to write the housing market report for my parish, I still have no idea how a mortgage works. I don't know who the Secretary of Defense is and I just learned today that John Kerry is the Secretary of State. And I'm the guy who wore a Kerry/Edwards button on his backpack when he was 15 years old. One time, I asked a transgender woman if she "wanted some fries to go with that dick." One time, I told a guy who I was dating "I can barely function as a human, let alone a top."

I genuinely care that Chloe Grace Moretz and the Fanning sisters succeed.

And my hidden talent is chugging beer without swallowing my gum. 

But on the other hand, I do listen to NPR and podcasts of Selected Shorts. And I've only had to ask my parents for money once in my life. Speaking of my parents, I did move out of their house when I seventeen and I've been supporting myself ever since. I came to Lafayette without virtually any friends, but now I can't get a haircut without seeing someone I know. I've worked my way up from intern to part-time copywriter, to full-time copywriter, to Senior Copywriter, and now I work as an Associate Creative Director. I have bills and a 401(k) and my resume is loaded with advertising awards. I honor my own word. And I keep my promises.

I look around the room at everyone, and I take in this moment of adulthood. It feels comfortable. I smile at John just because, and I can tell he's anxious to head back home. "You ready?" he asks. I look down at the neon yellow zipper bracelet and I say, "Yeah. I'm ready."

Once Around The Block

I get writer's block more often than a writer should. But normally, it's nothing a walk around the block can't fix.

Yesterday afternoon, I drafted an entire blog post about the uncomfortable small talk that happens before sex with someone you barely know. I was going to call it something like So, Where Are You From? Watch Your Teeth! — focusing on pre-fucking banter feeling a lot like the social equivalent of microwaving popcorn. I thought it was kind of funny, but the tone was all over the place and I couldn't really get a grasp on the message. So before publishing it, I decided to sleep on it. And I did. Now, I'm editing the post to meet a fantasy deadline, and I still don't really care about the story. So fuck it. I'm going for a walk.

I slip on my wayfarers and say "I'll be right back" to no one in particular. I exit the side door of my office building and head west down Congress with my back to the park. Before I make a left onto Jefferson, I decide I'm hungry for breakfast food, so I round the corner and walk a block to the nearby Subway. Across the street, a guy and girl are waiting for traffic to stop before coming over to my side. The guy is wearing a t-shirt and jeans with tennis shoes and a navy blazer, and looks approximately 20 years old. The girl, a few years younger and six inches shorter, has red and gold highlights and has chosen a lovely cropped baby t-shirt that is showcasing both her midriff and her basketball-size tits. Together, they cross Jefferson and head for the Subway, just as I'm reaching for the door handle. The guy slides between me and the door and pulls it open for his lady friend to enter. She does, and then he turns to me and says, "I like your haircut."

This haircut.

Last Saturday, I asked my hairdresser, Katie, to shave two lines into either side of my scalp, inches above my sideburns. Coupled with long curls on top and tightly clipped sides, the lines complete what I consider an edgy haircut — especially for a professional. Since leaving the salon, no less than 80 people have commented on it, which is highly unusual for someone who has spent a major percentage of his life deflecting insults about his coarse, puffy, ginger afro. So standing here in front of Navy Blazer Guy, I still find it difficult to accept compliments. But I say "thank you," and walk past him, towards the counter. 

Basketball Tits immediately sits down at a table and Navy Blazer files in behind me. The three of us are the only customers in Subway at 9:30AM on a Thursday. I'm greeted by the Sandwich Artist, but before I can order, Navy Blazer pokes me in the shoulder and says, "I was going to say that your haircut was pretty, but I didn't want to offend you." I'm mildly started, but I half-smile and say, "It's fine. Pretty's fine." I turn back to the Sandwich Artist and order a subwaysunrisescramblesurprise on flatbread. Then, Navy Blazer clears his throat and asks, "Hey, are you gay?" I stare at him for what feels like five seconds, then I do that thing Jennifer Aniston does when her character is charmingly confused by her male opposite; where she mouths the first syllable of the word she's searching for while making glottal sounds and blinking. I do that, and then I manage to say, "I am." I can feel my face getting warmer and I'm pretty sure the goddamn Sandwich Artist overheard us. Navy Blazer shakes his head, clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and then he says, "Man. That is so cool."

I nod to myself and ask Sandwich Artist #2 to add spinach, tomatoes, black olives, salt, pepper, and honey mustard. I ask for a Vitamin Water, too. At the register, I hear Navy Blazer ask Sandwich Artist #1 if they're just serving breakfast or can he just get whatever. Sandwich Artist #1 tells him the whole menu is available. Navy Blazer responds, "Oh, we're from Denver. Didn't know if it was the same rules." Then he turns to Basketball Tits and asks what she wants. "Let's just split a sandwich," she says. "Like what kind of sandwich?" he asks. "I don't know," she says. "Chicken?" "Chicken and what, motherfucker?" he says, exasperated. I look at the cashier, he looks at me, and I can tell we're thinking the same thing: These two are either retarded or assholes or both.

On the walk back to the office, I decide the weirdest part of the experience is this: The guy in the navy blazer is the first person to ask me to my face if I am gay since my freshman year of college, which wigs me out a little bit. Because today I'm wearing a v-neck shirt with tiny pockets on the sleeves; skinny, red chinos; brown combat boots; a leather cuff; a leather Coach bracelet; and this wonderfully attention-seeking haircut. I look gay, don't I? There really shouldn't be any question, right? I live my life in a way that no one should question my sexuality. From the way I stand to the way I scream when I see a lizard in the house, I'm gay-on-sight and I know it. Hold the phone. Do people still walk around asking one another if they're gay? Was that ever a thing? Nothing makes sense. I'm starving.

I toss my wayfarers onto my desk and unwrap my subwaysunrisescramblesurprise on flatbread. It's delicious. And in this moment I'm grateful for three things:

1. This heavenly breakfast sandwich.
2. The idea that someone out there (asshole or not) genuinely thinks it's "so cool" to be gay.
3. A remedy for my writer's block.

45 More Gay Things That Give Me Anxiety

A lot of things give me anxiety. Most gay things give me anxiety. It's a wonder I leave the house.

15. Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka

1. Otters
2. Bear Night
3. The New Normal
4. Scoop neck shirts
5. When someone refers to his "bussy" in public
6. Shorts with dress shoes and no socks
7. Whether it's acceptable to wear TOMS with socks or not
8. Twirling
9. Bicep tattoos
10. Public screeching
11. Capri pants 
12. The thought that one day, David Sedaris will be dead
13. Upgrading from gay fat to fat fat
14. Fashion shows [of any kind]
15. Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka's relationship [because I want it to work forever]
16. Tina
17. Gaybies
18. The "Mean Gays"
19. When drag queens high kick
20. When boyfriends move in together
21. XS t-shirts
22. Tricking with a stranger you meet on Grindr
23. Hosting
24. Sounding
25. Docking
26. Fisting
27. Fleet Week
28. Whatever's on Bravo right now
29. NeNe Leaks' hair/wig
30. Circuit parties
31. Joan Crawford references I don't understand 
32. RuPaul's Drag Race references I don't understand
33. People who still watch Glee
34. People who still want me to care about Britney 
35. The pressure to get married once it's legal [because then, I'll be out of excuses]
36. The pressure to grow facial hair or not grow facial hair [because I can't and I don't want to]
37. House remixes
38. Tim Gunn's opinion
39. My own obsession with Ann Coulter
40. Having "disposable" income
41. Pooping during
42. The idea that we as a community aren't reading enough
43. The idea that we as a community don't love one another
44. The idea that I'm not doing enough activist work
45. What people think of my outfit at brunch

The Man In The Park

I pass Joey and Jacque on the track and notice that Jacque is smoking a cigarette mid-jog.

Joey is two weeks into his Ideal Protein program and he’s taken up jogging to increase his weight loss chances. Now, he and Jacque go to Girard Park every evening around six to run-walk a couple laps around the mile-and-a-half track. Today, I’m tagging along. After stretching, we take off in separate directions, me against traffic and Joey and Jacque with it. I run anywhere from three to seven miles a day through the Saint Streets, but I haven’t run in Girard Park since I was a freshman in college. It’s familiar territory, but the track is made of loose dirt and I’m used to running on pavement. At a quarter-mile, I can already tell my ankles will be next to useless in the morning. But three laps sound manageable.

I keep right, but still have to weave around skinny, determined sorority girls and large, oblivious women in nursing scrubs. In my earbuds, Madonna’s “Turn Up The Radio,” roars followed by Diplo’s “Butter’s Theme” and TV On The Radio’s “The Wrong Way.” I pass a basketball court and catch glances of nearly 30 black guys jeering and hustling and sweating. Each one is ripped within an inch of his body, and upon seeing them, I’m suddenly aware of my bitch tits and back fat.

I’ve made my way to “Shoelaces” by The Submarines when I look to my left and stare at the sun-bleached plaster building on the hill. This is Fletcher Hall, home of UL Lafayette’s College of Arts. The music fades to a low hiss and I hear the florescent lights above me steadily hum in unison. I wind around the crotch-level stools and the intrusive, cement columns that bear Fletcher’s ceiling. Somewhere, someone is using a jigsaw to cut wood and someone else is spraying workable fixative on a piece of newsprint, though I can’t see anyone around. It’s dark outside and I’m alone in Fletcher in 2009. In my four years of undergrad, I never took a single class in this building, nor was I even a student of this college. Mine was Burke-Hawthorne Hall, the Liberal Arts building on the other side of campus. Even so, I spent a lot of time in Fletcher over the course of my third and final years. I round the corner and see a man who appears to be tinkering with a glass structure at one of the sprawling worktables. He is sitting with his back to me and he is wearing a baby blue t-shirt, yellow gym shorts, and a navy blue baseball hat. Walking closer, I notice the structure isn’t glass, but the clear plastic covering of one the overhead florescent lights. The man is bending the strips of textured plastic into what looks like a corset. He’s still facing away from me and even though he’s sitting, he’s still taller than me by about two inches. His arms and legs are beefy and the nape of his neck is covered by shiny, platinum blond hair. I don’t have to see his face to confirm that he is my boyfriend. “Hey, stud,” I hear myself say. He doesn’t turn around, but in a deep, baritone voice, he says, “Hey, sunshine.” Neither of us know it yet, but in one year, we will break-up. In three years, I will start a blog and I will call him by a nickname. And in between this moment and the present, I will have five other boyfriends, but my grandmother with still ask me how he’s doing. Behind me, someone yells, “Right!” and I snap my neck over my left shoulder to see a tall, Middle Eastern guy sprinting up behind me. “I Love It” by Icona Pop picks up and my stride falls back into the beat.

I finish my third lap, and out of breath, walk over to the south end of the park to meet my friends. Jacque carries a stale loaf of bread, and he and Joey stand at the edge of the pond tossing whole slices at the frenzied ducks.

"I'm whipped. And now I have to dump out," I say.

"What are you doing this weekend?" asks Joey. "We might be coming here for Holi Fest."

"My friends from Los Angeles are gonna be in Nola and I'm gonna meet them in the Warehouse District Saturday night," I say.

No one says anything.

"That might be the coolest sentence I've ever said," I say.

I grab a slice of bread and piece it apart with my fingers.

"No Gourbon?" asks Jacque.

"Nah," I say. "If I don't ever go back to Gay Bourbon, it'll be too soon. There's nothing for me."

"There's something for everyone on Gourbon," says Jacque.

"You can get a house in Vegas," says Joey.

"I think I'm good. I'm always one step ahead of butt crickets, anyway," I say, lobbing a pinch of bread at a duck the size of a Rottweiler.

There's a cypress tree behind Jacque and at its base sits a man with dirty blond hair and the build of a baseball player. He's wearing a pullover v-neck windbreaker and khaki shorts. He's holding his knees against his chest and he's staring into the water. And when I take all of him in, I lose my breathe. I can tell he's aware of us. I mean, how couldn't he be? Three screechy homos in short-shorts? We couldn't be more present than if we were twerking on his face.

He looks at me and smiles. I pretend I don't see him and flex my calf muscles when I toss a piece of bread in the air. Holy shit, he's hot. He turns back to the water and I snap my fingers at Jacque. Jacque looks at me and I mouth the words, "Give him a piece of bread." Jacque looks confused, but then taps him on the shoulder and says, "You wanna feed the ducks with us?" He smiles, nods, takes the slice, and portions it before throwing the pieces into the air. 

I should go talk to him.

But what if he's not gay?

So? He looks friendly.

I'm all sweaty and I didn't wear underwear and I smell European.

Wouldn't it be nice to meet a guy in a park?

No one meets anyone in parks anymore.

Unless they're "meeting up" in a park. But no one does that anymore either, right?

We three run out of bread and the boys start walking away. I'm left alone, ten feet from the man of my dreams. I look at him and notice the white waistband of Ralph Lauren boxer-briefs stretching across his lower back, poking out the top of his shorts. That's my favorite type of underwear. Joey calls to me and I start walking back up the incline towards the car. I look over my shoulder to see if he's looking back at me. He isn't. C'mon, turn around. He doesn't. You think I'm sexy and you want to see if I have  a nice ass. He's still staring ahead. I reach the sidewalk and Joey blows the horn. I turn around and he's looking at me. I smile with one side of my mouth, nod my head, and whisper to myself in a voice only I can hear, "Hey, stud."