Just Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here I am.

Eating alone at a restaurant.

And then I think of Jaime.

And I completely understand what he meant.

It's too painful.

It's all too painful.

Dear Brother

Dear Brother,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you will never be labeled with a slur again.

You are someone.

You are all of us.

Dear Faggot

Dear Faggot,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you will never be labeled a faggot again.

You are someone.

You are all of us.

The Ending

We met on Grindr and dated for five months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

We moved fast.

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

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

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

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

I finished getting dressed.

I went to work.

I worked until 5PM.

I went home.

I didn’t hear from you.

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

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

---

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

I owe you an apology, don’t I?

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

At least once a day, I feel guilty.

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

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

And one last thing.

You left your charcoal-colored cardigan at my place.

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

It can be someplace public.

And I promise not to make it weird.

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

It still smells like you.

And I love that smell.

Everything About Your Body

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

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

I don’t earn anything for this, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I’m proud to know what I know.

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

Feed

Come over here.

Do you have a second?

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

Do you have a second to talk about racism?

Before you say no, let me clarify:

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

Do you want to react to something racist?

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

Take a stance on #blacklivesmatter?

#alllivesmatter?

No?

Okay, then.

How about politics?

Hate Trump?

Love Trump?

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

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

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

Do you know who I am?

I am your Facebook Feed.

And I changed my mind about bothering you.

Do you want to spend the entire day together?

Just Cum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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