The Chase Ends

Chasing Austin - Part III

It’s just after midnight and the amateur strip contest is finally underway.

The first guy looks like Ben Foster with half-inch spaces between each tooth, and he’s dressed the way I assume someone from the Mid-West dresses. Persana Shoulders stands to his left in a red, sequined pillbox hat with a long peacock feather sticking out from the top and six-inch eyelashes — looking at him the way I look at Taco Bell. Fulfilling her role as the Effie Trinket of the New Orleans gay club circuit, Persana leads him by the hand to the front of the stage where she slaps him on the ass and commands him to dance. The music roars and he immediately wrenches his faded t-shirt over his head and chucks it onto the floor before tearing at his belt buckle. Then he lunges from foot to foot, grinning and bouncing, while the rest of us stare with our mouths open. He suddenly stomps his legs together and pulls his carpenter pants to his ankles. When he stands upright again, one of his balls pops out from around the band of his Hanes briefs and jiggles like car keys on one of those elastic, coiled key chains. I almost drop my drink in shock and John doubles at the waist in hysterical laughter, quickly snapping back up to finish the Vine video he’s been filming. Oblivious, the guy throws himself around the runway like one of those little kids you see at wedding receptions. Then, his song ends and everyone is disappointed. Persana relegates him to the upper platform where he will stand and wait while his competitors take the runway. He is followed by a professional go-go boy, a middle-aged Brazilian man, a barely legal black boy who clearly performs in drag based on his posing skills, a heterosexual construction worker, and a twink with the same haircut and facial composition as Julia Roberts in Hook, who I refer to as Twinkerbell for the rest of the night.

Persana introduces and fondles them, and they dance terribly, except for the go-go dancer and the out-of-drag black boy who are each bringing it, respectively. John and I leave before a winner is crowned — walking across the street to The Pub where we will sit for hours, together captivated by clips of musical performances edited together from famous movies and TV shows including: The Sound of Music, Glee, Beauty and the Beast, The Wiz, Chicago, Smash, Dreamgirls, Grey’s Anatomy, Cabaret, The Brady Bunch Movie, Behind the Candelabra, Rent, and Pitch Perfect. John returned home from his scouting trip to New York yesterday, which means it’s been 12 days since we left Austin. And speaking for both of us, what we're chasing has changed considerably.

In New York, John would FaceTime me throughout the day to show off rooftop views of Hell’s Kitchen or to consult on which shirt he should buy off the sale rack at H&M. He was on a seven-day mission to secure a job, or at least con his way into an interview before moving there permanently in August. I’d be sitting at my desk when my phone would ring and he’d appear on the bow of a ferry ripping across the Hudson River. We’d chat, hang up, and then text one another about what we were doing later that night. He would be headed to some party in Brooklyn and I would go over to that guy with the foot fetish’s house to cringe and maybe ejaculate somewhere. Later, I’d wipe my stomach with a damp washcloth and think, adventure is where you make it, I guess.

Even then, Austin seemed far-removed and trivial. I needed to finish writing the story for my blog, but so much had happened since, and I just wanted to write about other things. This guy I used to date sent me an invitation to connect on LinkedIn and I’m severely conflicted about how to handle it. Also, I recently had sex with a guy who demanded I call him “daddy” in bed, but who is only nine months older than me, which didn’t seem logical or fair in my opinion. The Austin experience spins away from me — no longer something from which I can draw lyrical prose about transformation and transcendence. Life is happening right now, and other things are molding me, and my best friend is leaving, and I’ll be fine, and I’ll go to Austin again, and I’ll see rooftop views of Hell’s Kitchen for myself. I’ll chase guys, and I’ll chase different versions of myself, and I’ll chase dreams of my own. And not every story will end neatly, or teach a lesson, or have a hero.

The guy on the bar stool next to me is rubbing my elbow with his and asking me what I do. I pretend like he's not there because he might not actually be there. On the TV screens above us, “Take Me Or Leave Me” from Rent is playing out. John turns to me and asks, “Do you think it would be funny to make shirts that say AIDS SHMAIDS?”

“What?!” I yell over the music. “H. Maids?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s funny, right?”

“I don’t get it,” I say. “What does the H. stand for? The name of the show is Devious Maids. Wouldn’t the shirt say D. Maids?”

“What?!” he says, “What the fuck is DEEM AIDS?”

“I can’t fucking hear you,” I say.

He shrugs and we both shotgun whatever’s in our plastic cups before dismounting our bar stools and leaving through the front door and into the sticky, Bourbon Street ether. On Royal, we find my Fiesta right where we left her. I take us down Canal and then to Tchoupitoulas before ascending the Crescent City Connection towards home. I flip my visor open to look at myself in the mirror and a cream-colored envelope floats down onto my lap. Inside the envelope is the card I bought at Whole Foods on the last morning in Austin. John was asleep and I snuck out to buy our hosts a bottle of wine, and while I was there, I bought a card with a black and white photograph of Hippie Hollow on the front and a blank interior. I didn't write a long, maudlin message in the card, just something short that'll make him cry. I meant to give it to him before he left the first time, but I'd forgotten. I stick it back into the visor and remind myself to give it to him before he leaves again. 

In the passenger’s seat, he’s snoring, and I’m lost in a river of memories that stretches across Texas and Louisiana before carving its way up the East Coast and emptying into the Hudson River.

All The Dicks In Hippie Hollow

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The Velvet Bullfighter

Chasing Austin - Part I

I’m scanning the black marker board behind the bar because I need to look at something besides gay Mexicans, and because I don’t have anything to say to John at the moment.

Scribbled across the board in florescent pinks and greens are the house specialty drinks. The Velvet Bullfighter costs seven dollars and 50 cents. The Fat Cobra is five dollars. I try to come up with faggier-sounding cocktail names and I’m stumped. They’ve done good work. John isn’t looking in my direction, either. So far, this road trip has been one of the greatest shared experiences of our friendship, but we’ve basically only had one another to talk to since we left Lafayette Wednesday afternoon and the need for some alone time is becoming necessary. Our annoyance is compounded by the Texas-size mass of truth between us: John is leaving for New York next month and this is probably the last time we'll be spending time together like this.

We decided Tuesday that we could cut our drive to Austin in half by spending the night in Houston. So, after work, I pick John up at his apartment, we take a few selfies, and we head west. We arrive at my exboyfriend’s house in the Museum District before sunset. Nick meets us in the driveway where he introduces us to his new boyfriend. I engage him and I begin drawing parallels between him and myself because we both have romantic history with the same person, and therefore, we must have some personality traits in common. After careful observation, I note that we are the same height. Other than that, we share nothing — besides a working knowledge of Nick’s thrust.

That night, we get drunk and I meet a guy named Reece. He talks like Drew Barrymore, or at least Kristen Wiig doing a Drew Barrymore impression. We go back to Nick’s place, and we take everyone else from F Bar with us. Outside the bathroom, I see Reece. In the bathroom, he talks about his car, and I ask if I can see it. In his car, he talks about his apartment, and I ask if I can see it.

I wake up in Reece’s apartment. He drives me home. John is moaning on the couch, so I head up to Nick’s room where he and his boyfriend are sitting on the bed, watching The Avengers. Nick says someone gave John ecstasy last night, which made him violently ill. We spend the entire day indoors and only go outside at twilight to watch the fireworks from the rooftop.


Crashed. Burned.

On the drive to Austin, I listen to the June 28 episode of This American Life while John sleeps. The program is about the American government’s unmanageable process of immigrating Iraqi allies into the U.S., and by the time John wakes up, I have my own opinion on the issue.

"Can you fucking believe this?" I ask, disgustedly. "Injustice for all, right?"

"I want jerky and I have to dump out eventually," says John, waking up. "Next exit?"

In Austin, we spend the day eating, shopping, and sweating. After dinner, we head home to get ready for the night. On 4th Street, there are three gay bars in a row: Oil Can Harry’s, Castro’s Warehouse, and Rain. Oil Can Harry’s is busted and so is the crowd, so we walk next door to Castro’s. Here, I scan the black marker board behind the bar because I need to look at something besides gay Mexicans, and because I don’t have anything to say to John at the moment. But still, I have everything to say to him. I'm about to tell him I'm glad we took this trip together and it's going to be painful to say goodbye. I don't want to have a full-blown moment, but I want to reach him in the way I can with our brotherly bond. I'm about to say something to him and then the only attractive guy in the bar walks over and stands to my left. John touches my arm and performs the international signal for "Cigarette?" We walk to the patio and I turn my head to see the hot guy staring back at me.

Outside, we smoke and develop a really impressive thread of passive aggressive comments about the patrons of Castro's Warehouse. I'm laughing at something John says when the hot guy steps onto the patio and begins walking in our direction. I'm immediately aware of the way I'm holding my cigarette — like Olivia Newton John at the end of Grease — so I impulsively flick it. It lands on a nearby bench where a beige-skinned man in a pink American Eagle polo and jeans with holes in the knees pick it up and takes a drag. "Fucking seriously," I whisper to myself, just as the hot guy enters my bubble. With him is a tall, skinny guy with glasses who bears an uncanny resemblance to a young Bobby Jindal, or at least what I imagine young Bobby Jindal to look like.

"Can I bum a cigarette?" the hot guy asks.

"Yeah, yeah," I stammer, fumbling for John's Parliaments.

"Sorry to be those guys," says Young Bobby Jindal (YBJ). "But can I have one, too."

"No worries," I say. "It's our first night in Austin. Everyone seems super cool."

"Where are you from?" asks YBJ.

"New Orleans," says John. "We work in advertising."

"That's so cool," says the hot guy, inching closer to John.

"Yeah," I say, my voice loud and bombastic. "It's pretty sexy."

The hot guy bites his bottom lips and runs his right hand through John's hair. "Fuck," he says. "I love your hair. It's beautiful."

"I'm Ryan," I say, sticking out my hand awkwardly.

The hot guy pulls the cigarette from his mouth, looks into my eyes, blows a stream of smoke into the breeze, and says, "I'm Austin."

I smile with teeth, shake his hand, and then turn to YBJ who introduces himself as someone named Harvey. Austin turns back to John and wraps his arms around his lower back. He whispers something into his ear and John smiles coyly. I pretend like I don't see what's happening, and I ask Harvey what he does for a living. "Well, I'm working on my Masters in Sociology and Austin is a nutritionist," he says. Austin finally looks back at me and says, "Yeah I measure peoples' caloric intake and make recommendations and stuff."

"That's so weird," I say. "Caloric Intake used to be my drag name!"

No one laughs and I fucking hate them for it.

Later, our new friends will take us to Rain where I'll dance, and take shots, and try to keep Austin interested in me. Then, we'll all go back to Castro's where I'll shotgun one Velvet Bullfighter after another, and let Harvey breathe onto my neck, and try to leave on my own. I'll see John with his legs wrapped around Austin and I'll perform the international signal for "I'm bailing." Next, I'll wander down the street and try to hail a cab on my own. John will run up behind me and demand to come with me. I'll say, "Whatever." In the cab, the driver will laugh at his own jokes and I'll glare out the window. At home, we'll undress and flop onto the air mattress. Minutes will pass, and finally, I'll say into the darkness, "I wish you would've stayed."

And he won't say anything.

The Bounty

The entire house smells like shrimp creole, which is great because I love shrimp creole.

Mom calls my name from downstairs, so I climb off my futon and trot down to the kitchen. She's sitting at the round, wooden table with two plastic bags from Rouse's in front of her. She's peeling from one bag and discarding the shells into the other. On the stove, she's got a red roux going, and the rich aroma of butter and seasoning makes my jaw sore.

"That smells incredible," I say.

"Are you going to hang around and eat with us, or do you have somewhere to go?" she asks, rhythmically tearing shrimp from shell and sorting accordingly.

"I plan on it," I say.

"Going out?" she asks.

"Probably. This guy wanted to take me to dinner, and I don't think I'm going to like him, so I said I'd meet him for drinks," I say. I can tell she's trying to figure out what to say next.

"You don't think you're going to like him?" she says. "How do you know him in the first place?"

I sit down, pick up a shrimp, and say without looking at her, "From my blog."

"You're meeting someone for the first time who found you through your blog?" she asks. "Please tell me you haven't done this before."

I tell her I haven't, but I'm lying.

Without looking at me, she sighs and says, "Don't write about us, please."

"I already do," I say. "It's nothing bad, though."

She's still fixated on the shrimp. "Just please don't use our real names."

"What if I just call y'all 'mom' and 'dad?'" I say. "That way, no one with know who you really are."

It’s not surprising that some people (guys I’m trying to bang, in particular) find my blog threatening. Maybe threatening isn’t the word, but definitely repellent. One time, I was introduced to my friend’s friend from Dallas or Tampa or whatever and his immediate response to my handshake was “You’re not going to write about me, are you?” His tone was serious and he had genuine fear in his eyes. “I’m just meeting you,” I said. “My name is Ryan Rogers, by the way. And no, I don’t think I’m going to write about you. Unless you want to do mouth stuff in the DJ booth.” He did not.

But I get it. I write about people, change some details, and then put it on the Internet. I completely understand why you wouldn’t want to get involved with me. Which is why I’m pleasantly surprised when people (guys I’ve never met before, in particular) read my blog and then want to meet me. Most of the time, I say thank you and chat a while, but sometimes, the guy is too hot to pass up, and I invite him to dinner. I’ve met quite a few guys through exboyfriendmaterial.com, and many of them turn out to by nice, well-meaning gentlemen who just think I’m funny, or insightful, or smart. They compliment my writing and ask me if it’s all true. And I blush and squirm because I really hate discussing my writing without a computer monitor to hide behind.

First, there was the guy who picked me up outside of F&M’s for dinner that one night. In pictures, he was handsome and chiseled, but in person, he was lanky and reminded me of a praying mantis. In the morning, he drove me from his place in Mid-City to my parents’ house on the Westbank, and we didn’t speak throughout the duration of the ride. I saw him a few weeks ago and he made me laugh a few times when he talked about the way I amplify my sexuality when I’m drunk. “You wiggle,” he said. “Like you’re listening to music.”

Next, there is the guy who came from Monroe on a Friday and stayed at my house in Lafayette until Sunday. I really liked this last guy, but I didn’t watch his car drive away because I knew it would make me sad. He drove back to Monroe, patched things up with his boyfriend, and I haven’t heard from him since. I’ve written two blog posts about him, and he didn’t deserve either. And I won't give him another sentence after this one.

In April, there was the Jewish guy with the beautiful apartment and the stellar taste in music. He liked The Weepies and I did, too. We draped ourselves across his bed and he played songs I’d never heard before by Foals, Husky Rescue, Deb Talan, Blackmill, and Timmy Curran. He had a lovable face; which made me think he had a lot of friends. We showered together and I split my focus between trying to identify the colored flecks in the bar of soap and sucking in my stomach. Even though this guy had just seen me naked from multiple angles, standing upright in the shower with a thin veil of steam between us made me feel overwhelmingly aware of every imperfection. My marshmallow fluff chest, the birthmark on my pelvis, and my thin, skeletal wrists were all exposed under the pale glow above us. He didn't try to kiss me in the shower, but I preferred it that way. If he were someone I loved, I would've wanted him to kiss me. And maybe we’d even slow dance. It would've felt natural with the music playing; an Alice Smith song I recognized from when I used to bartend. But instead of kissing or dancing like people with tomorrows, we passed the speckled soap and traded places when it was time to rinse off.

Then, there was Mr. Talented; a 19-year-old gymnast/singer/cheerleader from Shreveport. I was ambivalent about meeting him until he actually showed up at my house, and then I started tripping over my dick trying to impress him. Mr. Talented was sunshine personified; extremely handsome and radiating confidence. We ate together and then met my friends at Art Walk. Outside one of the galleries, I talked to a Production Assistant from Malibu while he took a phone call. Mr. Talented interrupted our conversation and said that his grandmother had suffered a heart attack. He looked genuinely disoriented, like someone had just struck him in the head with something heavy. I drove him back to my house and forcibly put him into his car to begin the long ride back to Shreveport. After he left, I got drunk with my friends and we voted on whether granny really had a heart attack or if Mr. Talented was just having a bad time and needed an escape. In the end, it didn't work out, but I don't remember why.

Tonight, I'm meeting a guy who has the same name as my dad, but I can't say the name because my mother forbid me from doing so. He plays softball and he's twice my size. He thinks I'm funny, or insightful, or smart, and I think he's too hot to pass up.

In the kitchen, my mom finally looks up at me, stands, and brushes the errands shell scraps onto the floor where the chihuahua and the pomaranian tear into them. "The ladies I work with have daughters. They follow you on Facebook. I don't want to hear about myself in one of your gay sex stories, understand?" "I swear," I say. "I won't use your real name and I won't talk about you having gay sex."

There used to be a seafood restaurant in Belle Chasse called The Bounty. It was known for serving huge portions of fried catfish, oysters, crawfish, and shrimp, and even though it's been closed for nearly 15 years, I have vivid memories of stuffing myself until I had to be carried out. I really hated fried oysters, but I ate them anyway because they were there; mixed in with the catfish and the shrimp. It was difficult for me to pass up the oysters, even though I didn't have a taste for them, simply because they were in front of me. "Maybe I'll like them this time," I'd think. "And there's so much other stuff on the table that I can always get the taste out of my mouth with something different. But who knows when I'm going to have the opportunity to eat oysters again? And maybe one day, the oyster will be extinct and I'll always wonder if I ate enough while I could. But right now, there's an abundance. So I'm going to give them another shot."

Just A Quick Note

Sometimes, the notes I take in my phone are way more interesting than any piece of writing that I might labor over. The following is a selection of stray thoughts that may cause severe boners.

Live every day like it's your bachelorette party in Vegas.

Hey, if you watch more than five minutes of Dance Moms, you develop what physicians call Permanent Noodle Dick (PND).

I could totally angryfuck to every song on Yeezus.

Create a series of greeting cards that all say "I Blame You" on the cover. Perfect for Father's Day, Mother's Day, Valentine's Day, or condolences.

Watch Mermaids: The Body Found on Animal Planet. Now.

Is Guy Fieri actually the guy from Smash Mouth?

LMFTO (Laughing My Fucking Tits Off)

If I see you wearing an untucked button-down with a tie, I swear to God I will hit you public. I'm looking at you, North Louisiana gays.

Use spit. It'll fit.

Buy a bar. Name it Public School.

Is God lonely?

Velveeta Shells & Cheese is the easy way out, Mom.

Apparently, I fake it with hairdressers.

This morning, I had to pick up two condoms off my floor from two separate occasions. I'm disgustingly cool.

Poem for my boner:

Ahoy, old chum. You’ve grown up fast.

Since morning have I seen you last.

Across my balls, your shadow cast.

I am the ship. And you, my mast.

I have not fathered lass or gent,

Though I feel paternal sentiment.

For you, my little pole-of-tent,

My love for you knows no extent.

But like a father, I will know

The disappointing, crushing blow

That comes whenever you don’t show.

But rest assured, I’ll let it go.

And sometimes when you do show up,

It’s not the time, my eager pup.

Into my waistband, you’ll turn up.

Next time, I’ll maybe wear a cup.

Nothings says "down to fuck" like a shark tooth necklace.

From Kroll's Show: "Excuse me baby? Are you 9/11?"

[Pause]

"Because I could never forget you."

He's giving me Little Facebook Boners (LFB).

Black people love making up nicknames for themselves, don't they?

Why do people go to college to study landscape architecture, again?

When I see a picture of three gays together, I immediate decide which two have already slept together.

This buffalo sauce isn't going to shotgun itself.

Say girl, you want some fries to go wit that dick?

"My friends from Los Angles are in town and I'm going to meet them at a bar in the Warehouse District," is the coolest sentence I've ever said.

I just farted and the force could've easily knocked down a toddler.

Moral is just oral with a little mmmmm.

Send money to thepuppychannel.com.

I can barely function as a human, let alone a top.

Valentine's Day Card concept:

[Front of card] "This Is An NSA Valentine's Day Card."

[Interior of card] "There's absolutely nothing you have to do for me. Just enjoy it. Just lay back and enjoy it."

Think with your guts. Not your nuts.

Mary Poppins. Is she like a witch or something? Why don't we ever go the bottom of that in the story And why don't they do a movie where we explore the source of her magical abilities?

I've screwed half the people in this bar. It's like I'm having gayjà vu.

Pieces Of Sky

In the beginning, there was me without you. Then you. Then the two of us.

After that, there was me without you again. And then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then them, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him.

Now, it's me without him or you, and sometimes without myself. Thankfully, God never gifted me with the capacity to feel loneliness, so I don't ever feel isolated when it's me without you or him. I just sleep alone and read more and eat less and spread love around to the people who aren't too far away. I take work home with me and stay late at the office, occasionally stepping outside to smoke cigarettes and feel crowded by the stars. This isn't making do. This isn't trying to pass for busy. I'm not channeling anything. I just operate outside of us, now.

I still miss you, though. I miss the beginning; not the way-way back, but the time when it was the two of us. Before it was me without you for the first time. I miss the way I felt when you stood next to me in my parents' living room; you meeting mom and dad for the first time. We were in the place I grew up, with the people who raised and nurtured me from birth, but for some reason, standing only inches away from you while you talked to my mother about your dreams to one day own your own architecture firm, I felt like a piece of your mass. You didn't noticed, but I rocked back on my heels and let my shoulder blade graze your chest. You were so much bigger than me, and you made me feel small. But not insignificantly small; small in the way that I could live in your orbit and eventually collide with you. I remember wishing I could see us the way my mom saw us: your body framing mine with the light from the ceiling fan bouncing off of me and onto you and then the wall behind us. My shadow. My mountain.

And then there was the time we had sex on the floor of your townhouse. You'd just moved into the place and the furniture we'd picked out from Pier 1 was due for delivery the following morning. I was rushing to make a closing shift at Johnny Carino's and you were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, tinkering with a glass vase in an attempt to turn it into a lamp. You drilled a hole into the base and fished a cord through it, while I watched you from the kitchen, brushing my teeth over the sink, as you switched it on and blinked at the the new glow. I loved you often, but I felt it profoundly in that moment. So I spat into the sink, rinsed out my my mouth, and went over to kiss you goodbye. I was wearing my uniform, a black button-down tucked into black chinos, and you were in loose-fitting gym shorts and a backwards cap. You'd forsaken a shirt. And when I bent down to kiss you, you grabbed me by the shoulders and shucked me down on top of you.

You were much stronger than me, and the best I could do when you were aggressive with me was to squirm and escape. Years of high school varsity wrestling had taught me how to kick ass and defend myself, but you were well out of my weight class, and I didn't have the upper body strength to muscle you into submission. So I usually just took your wrist and swept my legs around, pulling myself from under you and then I'd face you in a staggered stance, motioning for you to come and get me. Either that or I just let you win. In that instance on the floor of you townhouse, I let you win. My consolation prize was you. And I didn't care that my shift had started without me and that I'd have to re-style my hair before I left. I would remember this forever. Because it would never be as good as this ever again.

When you broke up with me, you were wearing a shirt the color of Merlot and it was somewhere around four in the evening on a Sunday. We didn't cry and we didn't make a lot of eye contact. I didn't accept your hug and let you leave with so much as a "fuck you." Then, I changed my outfit, met my friends for drinks and met someone else. He was everything you weren't: skinny, simple, present, unburdened, stupid, loving, modest, unobtrusive, innocent, and happy. I loved him very much, and after he moved away, we tried to make it work until I broke his heart like you broke mine, and a few days later, I received a letter in the mail with an engagement ring inside. You would've hated it. No diamonds or anything. But I loved it, and I let it break me down.

He was the first in a long list of your successors, but he was the only one to live in your wake. You don't haunt me like you used to, but sometimes I wish you would. I still scan pictures for your face and survey parking lots for your car. Your absence has made you more present than ever before.

And every now and then, I have to face that reality. I have to close my eyes and relive old memories. I have to allow myself to love you from afar. I have to write all this down, and be honest with my words, and hope you'll read it, and hope you'll miss me, and hope you'll show up. I have to take long drives, and pick out specific pieces of sky to focus on, and put all my dreams there. Maybe you've picked out the same patch. Maybe they can live there together; on a plane far and away from us.

Far and away from you and me.

David Sedaris Wants To Fuck Me

I’ve only been standing in line for ten minutes when a slender woman with blunt, black bangs walks up and shakes my hand.

“Hey there, I’m Courtney,” she says. I smile and introduce myself. “Have you been waiting here long?” she asks. “Nope. Just walked up,” I say. Around her neck, she’s wearing a Barnes & Noble employee badge with the word “MANAGER” under her name. She nods and then asks to see my ID. Without flinching, I hand it over and she looks me head-to-toe again. “Am I being Punk’d?” she asks me in a hushed voice, handing my ID back to me. “Huh?” I say. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I just drove here from Lafayette to meet David Sedaris. I don’t know what’s going on.” She looks nervous. “Wait here,” she says. A few minutes later, she returns and asks me to follow her towards the signing table. “Okay,” she says. “I’m extremely embarrassed. My employees were playing a joke on me and they told me that you were David Sedaris.” There’s a beat of silence while I stand there, unable to say anything. “And I realize you’re much younger than David Sedaris,” she says. “But you have to understand that I’ve never seen him before. Plus, I know he’s infamous for playing jokes on people and you’re about his height, right? Please let me make this up to you. Can I get you something from the café? Anything you want.”

The only words I can find are these: “But I’m 24. Ice coffee, I guess.”

All day long, I’ve been on the verge of a complete meltdown. Sedaris is my literary hero. He is the reason I write. He is everything I aspire to. And within the last five hours, I’ve smoked half a pack of cigarettes and nursed a nosebleed. I’ve never been more nervous about anything in my entire life. And now I have this bizarre Kristen Ritter look-a-like harassing me because she’s confused me for the author? This is shaping up to be the perfect storm of me losing my shit.

Courtney returns with ice coffee and a muffin and tells me again that she’s sorry. She tells me that she’s going to get David, but she’s going to take care of me. Then, she leaves for a third time. A few minutes later, I hear rumbling from behind me, so I turn around and see Courtney ushering a small man in a pink button-down and a faded navy blazer along the shelves labeled “SUMMER READING” and “TEEN PARANORMAL ROMANCE.” 

Jesus. That’s him.

Courtney shows him to his seat between two beefy security guards and with the help of several Barnes & Noble employees, she organizes the line that leads to him. Before I know it, Courtney’s hand is on my shoulder, and I’m staring at the man whose voice I hear in my sleep.

“Now that’s more like it. That’s what I’m talking about,” says David Sedaris to me. “Where did you get those boots?”

I anticipated waiting in line until nightfall, so I packed some projects from work and dressed comfortably. My ensemble includes a plaid, pearl-snap shirt; grey, cut-off shorts; and brown, nearly-knee-high combat boots. In this moment, standing before David Sedaris while he asks me about my boots, I realize I’ve never been more overwhelmed in my life. And instead of telling him the truth — that I borrowed these boots from my friend Nick more than a year ago and I have no idea where he bought them — I just start lying to my hero.

“Charlotte Russe,” I say.

“Where?” asks David.

“I got them at Charlotte Russe. It’s a clothing store for poor women in malls in bad areas,” I say frantically.

He looks at me over his glasses and says, “Well, no one could wear those boots like you can.”

I feel the ice coffee coming up my esophagus. Oh, fuck. I’m going to vomit all over David Sedaris in front of all these people at this stupid Barnes & Nobel. Courtney is standing next to me, and she looks uneasy.

“There’s so many things I want to say to you,” I stammer, hot sweat beading my forehead. “Like how I read Corduroy and Demin when I was in high school and it inspired me to be a writer, so I worked towards a career as a Copywriter, and now I’m the Associate Creative Director at an advertising firm.”

“Oh, that’s swell! What kinds of commercials do you write?” he asks.

“Um.” My mind goes blank. “I don’t know. Lots of different kinds. For big hospitals and Indian tribes and stuff.”

“Do you watch RuPaul’s Drag Race?” he asks.

“No,” I say bluntly, distracted by the abrupt change in subject.

“Why not?” he wonders.

“Because I grew up in New Orleans where there’s lots of drag queens,” I say. “And If I really wanted to watch someone do drag, all I have to do is walk outside or go to my grandmother’s house because she’s basically a drag queen and her eyebrows are tattooed on. Plus, there are better things on TV.”

“Oh, I love it,” he says. “I find it just fascinating. Do you know what a Alabama Slammer is?”

“I’m guessing it’s like a butt thing?” I bend my tone to make it sound like I’m completely unsure, even though I sincerely am.

“It’s when a man shits in a woman’s mouth and then fucks her in the mouth, using the shit as a type of lubricant,” he says, sternly.

I’m fully beside myself. But from somewhere, I hear myself say, “Cool. I guess I’d be willing to try that.”

He grins and then opens the book I’ve laid in front of him. He flips to the title page where my yellow post-it note lies. Earlier, we were instructed by the Barnes & Nobel staff to write what we wanted David to inscribe in our books on post-its. But to me, telling David Sedaris what to write is like telling Christ how to walk on water. So instead of doing that, I just wrote [something fucked up]. As he scribbles, he asks me another question: “So, you’re a writer. Do you have a blog?”

“I do,” I say

“Can I see it?” he asks.

I pull out my phone, which is coated in palm sweat, and I tap the button on the screen labeled XBFM. He takes it from me and scrolls a little through my last post, It Didn't Work Out, But I Don't Remember Why, which I wish wasn’t my last post because it’s just a rant about some douchebag and it’s not exactly Pulitzer material. He immediately hands it back and says, “There. Now I’ve read your blog.” The reality of that statement hits me in the balls. David Sedaris just read my blog. Now, I’m fighting back tears and a boner.

He has a small stack of sticker books on the table, one of which he grabs and begins looking for something specific. He flips past the marine life and the insects until he comes to a page of woodland creatures. He peels a sticker of a log off and presses it under the message he’s written to me. He gives me his hand and I take it. “It was lovely meeting you,” he says. “It was really weird,” I say. “But an honor, I think.”

I start to walk away when Courtney grabs me by the elbow and says, “Hang here with me while he signs the rest of the books. You can hear all the fucked-up shit he says.” So I do. When he’s finished, he goes upstairs and reads to us like we’re a congregation. In the crowd, I run into my friend, Jenna, and together we stare up and let his words rain down on us like Mardi Gras beads. He stops talking, shuffles his papers around, says “thank you,” and returns downstairs to sign more books.

I find Courtney and thank her for being so badass. “I’m glad I could make up for scaring you,” she says. I laugh and tell her that I thought she was playing the role of the rock band manager who wrangles groupies. I thought David Sedaris had seen me from afar and sent Courtney to feel me out before bringing me back to his dressing room. “You think we give visiting authors their own dressing room?!” she yelps. “Can I just live in a fantasy where an aging, gay, internationally famous memoirist wants to fuck me?” I demand. “Would you have gone through with it if that were the reality?” she asks. I open my book to the cover page and show it to her.

Stranger things have happened.