The Exy Awards

Hello and welcome to the inaugural Exy Awards. We’re here to honor those brave men who made a significant impact on me [and my private parts] in 2013. Now please take your seats and stop eye-fucking one another. The least you can do is wait until the ceremony is over before you start rimming in the aisles. We don’t need the lovely Hilton staff who cleans the Peachtree Ballroom to discover your used condoms after we’ve all gone home, right? I’m just teasing. Condoms are for cowards.

[Hold for applause.]

Well let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? Our first Exy of the evening is for Fastest Drive-By Hook-Up and that goes to Bald Guy With Pelvis Tattoo who was passing though Lafayette on his way to New Orleans after a weekend at Austin City Limits. You didn’t say a whole lot and then you bailed immediately after. Good job.

Most Drastic Grindr Picture/Real Life Discrepancy goes to Guy Who Picked Me Up From F&M’s That One Night. You looked nothing like your picture, but I was blackout hammered and queasy from eating cheese fries so I just wanted to sleep. Also, thank you for bringing me back home the next morning. Sorry I didn’t talk to you for the entire 45-minute drive.

The Oh C’mon Really? Exy goes to Guy Who Refused To Take Off His Spanx During Sex. Bruh, lighten up and burn that silly thing. I’m sure it’s not that bad underneath. And if it is that bad, start running around the block and stop eating chips.

Most Fumbly Threesome goes to Couple I Met After A David Sedaris Book Signing. I didn’t know what was going on and then you got in a huge fight about whose idea it was. No one enjoyed it, especially me. So I hid in the guest bedroom and fell asleep to the sounds of you both crying. This award should have gone to Horny Baton Rouge Couple, but they’ve got their system on lock. You could learn a thing or two from them. They really know how to bone a stranger together.

The Exy for Best Sex Playlist goes to Jewish Guy. Because nothing goes better with lounge chair intercourse than the sweet, melodious sounds of The Weepies.

Most Regrettable Hook-Up is a tie. The first recipient is Guy With Foot Fetish. I can overlook the fact that you smoke more weed than Rihanna at a planetarium. But I draw the line at foot-sucking. I fully support your right to sexual freedom, but that doesn’t make the bad memories go away. You share your award with White Guy With Black Baby Mama. We shouldn’t have done what we did. Now I’m always looking over my shoulder, terrified that someone is going to pull my hair.

The Exy for Douchiest Bro goes to Bisexual Divorce Attorney. You invited me to a party at your friend’s house and then you picked me last for your flip-cup team in front of everyone. Who does that?

Our next award is for Worst First Date and that goes to the 19-year-old Singer/Gymnast From Monroe whose grandmother had a heart attack while we were browsing an art opening. At first, I thought you were just lying to me because you wanted to leave, but turns out you were telling the truth. Sorry for your loss.

Best First Date goes to Unhappy Softball Player. You picked me up at home, we had dinner at Capdeville, and then we went to play in the Warehouse District — all of which you arranged. I kissed you in the street and it was like a scene from a movie where one person dies of terminal illness at the end. You and I would never have worked out, but I’m glad we can still be friends. Send me a nude. Cool?

The Exy for Best Name goes to Mike Jones, who wins by a cosmic margin.

Exboyfriend of the Year goes to Jacob. It was basically a race between you and Hairdresser from Lake Charles, but he went off the deep when we broke-up and yelled at me in front of Agave, so you win by default. One of the things I liked most about you, Jacob, is that I never had to amp up the masculinity around you like I might for another guy. The way I walked and talked was completely unaffected in your presence. From the moment we met it was instant comfort. We had very little in common, but we always had something to talk about. Plus, your skin smelled like Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

And finally, the last Exy of the evening is The Sparky Award. The Sparky is given to the person who made me most profoundly feel that little spark that ignites in my chest, brain, and genitals. Maybe it’s love. Meh. That person is Tall Asshole From North Louisiana Who Had A Boyfriend The Whole Time. I’ll see you in hell.

In fact, I'll see all of you in hell. Congratulations!

XXXboyfriend Material

I just started reading Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem, wherein the author closes her preface by saying that “writers are always selling somebody out.” That being said, I would like for everyone to know that my best friend — John Fournier — talks to himself when he watches porn.

As besties, John and I are shameless when discussing any number of personal topics, including: penis size, political party affiliation, personal hygiene, irrational fears, regional tricking patterns, body image, stool abnormalities, annual salary, weight, Taco Bell orders, current top/bottom preference, lube toots, and masturbatory habits, among others.

“What exactly do you say?” I wondered. “Do you like command them to do stuff or just narrate?” He chuckled and shrugged, saying “I just kind of cheer on the performance.” I screwed up my face like I was creeped out, which I really wasn’t. I was more intrigued than anything. “Like, what do you say? Give me an example.” He rolled his eyes and suddenly seemed self-aware. “I don’t know,” he said. He made a fist and mimed jacking-off. “Something like, ‘Aww yeah, pound that little bitch. He likes that.’” I stared at him with my mouth open. “Oh dear,” I said. “Do you say it in your normal voice, or do you make yourself sound all deep and rough to intimidate everybody?” He rocked his head back and laughed a little. “Deep voice.”

Full disclosure: I have my own weirdness when it comes to porn viewership. First off, I have a deep, severe fear that I will see someone I used to date in a video. Although I’m not really doing anything to avoid it, it’s usually in the back of my mind. On the other hand, if an actor looks enough like an exboyfriend, I’ll stick with it and project all my unresolved issues onto him — imaging that my surrogate ex fell on hard times and has resorted to bareback on-camera fornication so he can pay for hair school. The only way this works is by knowing it’s not really him. If it really was him, I’m not sure if my brain or my dick could handle it. But I’m pretty sure I would just beat-off anyway.

While John vocalizes his experiences, I internalize them. I watch people have sex and I wonder who they are in real life. And I find it difficult to focus on anything else. I question their motivations and what their loved ones think about it, if their loved ones know at all. It's more about the angles and less about the morality. For me, theorizing about who the actor really is gives the viewing experience some dimension.

I few years back, on a trip to Dallas, I hooked-up with an up-and-coming porn star. I didn’t know he did porn at the time, but I learned shortly after when he told me so. These days, he’s kind of unbelievably famous — like one of the most famous gay porn stars on the planet. The kicker is that he and I are Facebook friends, which complicates things for me because I’ve seen him do unspeakable things with an immeasurable amount of people and I’ve also seen him at his cousin’s birthday party and taking selfies with his grandmother in the hospital. His Facebook says he works at Olan Mills Portrait Studio and every time I come across one of his adult videos, I imagine him picking up Subway on his lunch break before hurrying back to work to find the appropriate lighting for a newborn and show some stuck-up high school senior a bunch of glossy proofs. His Facebook also says he attends the University of Texas at Arlington, which forces me to picture him in some big lecture hall surrounded by a hundred or so bored General Studies majors who are also ignoring the lecture. Do they know that he has more than 30,000 Twitter followers? Do they know he caused a stir at the 2012 Grabby Award for blowing someone on stage? And if so, do they talk amongst themselves about him? Do they have difficulty not picturing him naked? Are they mean to him? Also, what's his family like? I mean, I've seen pictures of them, but I want more. I want to know if his mom really knows where he goes when he jets off to Los Angeles for the weekend. I want to know how far his money is going and if he keeps his job at Olan Mills simply for appearances. And I often wonder if anyone in his family has found the courage to Google his name.

It's got to be difficult to get the image of someone familiar having sex out of your mind once you've witnessed it. I bet it's tough to see anything else when you look at him or her. I'm only speculating, of course. It just fascinates me. In the same why I'm enamored by Fundamentalist Mormons and people who wear Tweety Bird jean jackets, so am I with the personal lives of adult film stars. I doubt I'll ever find out for myself what it's like firsthand, but you never know. Plus, tax season is upon us and I'm pretty sure I'm going to owe something outrageous so I plan on keeping my income options open, and if need be, other things too.

For Mom And Dad

When it comes to traveling, my mother hates two things: airplanes and any destination that doesn’t offer waffles in the shape of Mickey Mouse. This generally sucks for the rest of us, but on more than one occasion, it’s worked in my favor.

A few years back, I took my mom’s place on a seven-day Alaskan cruise for two that my father booked through his company. It was just Dad and I, and we spent the entire week on Holland America’s Zuiderdam enjoying what we considered to be luxuries compared to the hellscape of the Carnival Holiday — a budget cruise ship that carried our entire family to Cozumel and back nearly a decade before. The Holiday was our only basis for comparison, so we found the Zuiderdam to be a lot nicer in just about every way — most notably the grade of passenger. While the Holiday was a showcase for obesity and the varying results of what happens when people from Alabama fuck each other, the Zuiderdam was basically a slow-moving retirement home where geriatrics in scratchy sweaters shuffled from one buffet line to another and never used their outside voices.

During our fourth sunset at sea, Dad and I had drinks in a bar with panoramic views of the glacial landscape named "The Crow’s Nest." Dressed in dark suits without ties, we sat in plush maroon lounge chairs, sipping our drinks and gawking at the sky; a majestic explosion of purples and oranges. I was making a mental note to write about the sky later and use the word “majestic” to do so when a cocktail waitress swept by and asked if we needed anything. We looked at each another and shook our matching tumblers of Grey Goose on the rocks; our shared drink-of-choice. “Nah, we're good,” said Dad. “Hold on,” I said, cocking my head in his direction. “By the time she comes back with a new one, I’ll be ready for it.” He rolled his eyes. “So order another, smelly. It’s not like you have to drive anywhere later.” I looked back to the waitress. “If you would, please bring me another one of these,” I said. “Fuck it. I'll take one as well,” said Dad. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I groaned. The waitress tossed her head back and service-industry-laughed before touching my shoulder and heading back towards the bar. We gulped from our glasses in unison, and without looking at me, my dad said, “Man. I think she thinks we’re a couple.” I readjusted my jacket and crossed my right ankle over my left. “She doesn’t think that,” I said. “I might be a lot younger than you, but I’m clearly out of your league.” And without missing a beat, my father said, “Please. I could do way better than you.” A few seconds of silence passed between us, and then I said, “Whatever, man. I wouldn’t even let you buy my drinks.” Dad raised one eyebrow and leaned across the arm of his chair, clinking his tumbler against mine. Then he said, “But you already are.”

The thing that’s always fascinated me about my parents is how much they shouldn’t be like they are. My dad is a hyper-masculine lifelong athlete and food and beverage salesman who prides himself on his dual abilities to intimidate and charm. By contrast, my mom has spent her entire life working for small cardiology practices on the Westbank and avoiding any trip across the river at all costs. By all accounts, they shouldn't be as open-minded about the gay thing as they turned out to be.

Throughout my childhood, my father coached me in baseball, soccer, and basketball. But when he noticed I wasn’t taking to sports like the other boys, he brought me to the library on weekends and purchased tickets to every Broadway touring production that passed through New Orleans. And when I was in fourth grade — at the height of my Spice Girls obsession — he checked me out of school early so that I’d be the first kid in my class to see Spice World at the movie theatre. Mom wasn’t as proactive about fostering my “unique” interests as Dad was. She thought buying me the Young Magician’s 50-Trick Magic Set for Christmas was weird, but she got it for me in a heartbeat when she noticed the next item on my list: a My Size Barbie. Then one day, when I was a sophomore in high school, my mom came home from work and asked for my username and password to the home computer. I refused, a Mexican stand-off ensued, and I ran upstairs to my room to wait for my dad to come home. I never gave my parents the password, but I did admit to watching gay porn, which in my option was a lot less mortifying than having them look through the search history for themselves.

I didn’t officially “come out” to my parents until my 19th birthday, when I told them I was "bisexual." As expected, they got annoyed and said, "We've known you your whole life and you're definitely not bisexual. You're clearly a gay person.” Since then, they’ve met six boyfriends and never questioned anything on my Christmas list. Last year, I asked for a knit infinity scarf from 21Men.com, and on Christmas morning, there it was on top of my pile of presents. I yanked the scarf around my neck and from across the room I heard my dad scream, “OH, THANK JESUS IT’S A SCARF! We thought that was some sort of girl’s tube top sweater! It still looks ridiculous, but Christ Almighty!”

Even though they’re wonderfully accepting, that shallow trench of intolerance is where I like to mess with them. I get an immeasurable amount of pleasure from making them uncomfortable with my sexuality. Every so often, I’ll show up at my parent’s house, unannounced and wearing something overtly homosexual. One time, I snuck up on my mom in the kitchen wearing a deep V-neck under a thigh-length button-down, with cut-off shorts and cowboy boots, and she wouldn’t even look at me. Now, I like to threaten her with potentially fruity outfits just to watch her squirm. The day before Thanksgiving this year, I repeatedly told her I had something "really special" planned for dinner and the only clue I gave her was "Two words: sexy pilgrim." For the remaining 24 hours, I watched her bite her nails off and wordlessly shake her head at me like she was waiting for the impending murder in a horror movie.

I give her a hard time, but my mom is an endless source of support and guidance when it comes to my dating…I don’t know what you’d call them. Ventures? She doesn’t get invested in a person until I tell her it’s safe, and otherwise, she just tactfully dispenses advice and asks non-prying questions. I can tell she worries about me, though. She worries that I’m not taking my relationships seriously and that I’m burning bridges along the way. She worries that I don’t want a family and that I’m going to spend the rest of my life bouncing from one guy to another. She worries about whether I’m being safe and if I’m getting enough sleep. She worries if people are laughing at me and if my boots are heavy. She worries, but she doesn’t have to because I’m doing my best to make her proud.

My blog notwithstanding.

I won the parent lottery, really. And not just because they're generally great parents, but because they’re great parents for me. I have a father who encourages my behavior and a mother who frets over it. A dad who cheers and mom who shushes. He gives me rope and my mom worries it’s long enough for me to hang myself. And when I write my first book, I plan on dedicating it to the both of them. Not just because it seems like the poignant thing for a person who writes a book to do, but because dedicating a book to my parents would piss them off immensely.

Because if there’s one thing my parents share, it’s the fear that I’m going to write about them.

Sorry bout it.

A Visual Companion To Rick Ross

So I dropped my phone in the toilet on Thanksgiving because I was drinking chardonnay like I was running for Junior League President and my mom was like, "Welp, I guess now you're going to the Apple Store at Lakeside Mall on Black Friday. Good luck with that." And I was like, "Hand me that box of Uncle Ben's Rice. You're upsetting me." So I kept my phone in rice for a few hours and when I pulled it out, it was fine. Then I went to the sink to brush my teeth, left the water running, turned my back for five seconds, and when I turned back around, the sink was overflowing and my phone was floating in a puddle next to it. It was okay [again], but upon further inspection I noticed that a grain of rice had lodged itself in the charger port. And that's when I started to cry.

Anyway, the whole ordeal must've shaken something loose, because I kept getting "Not Enough Free Space" notifications, so I deleted a bunch of apps before turning to my camera roll. That's when I came across this. It's a video I recorded back in February, and I can't tell if I did it consciously or not. Apparently, I'd met someone at a bar and thought it would be interesting to take photos and capture a video of the car ride back to my place. The funny thing is, I'd actually written about this experience before in a blog post called Rick Ross, and now I have a visual companion to accompany the text.

More importantly, I actually got to witness myself talking to another guy in the wild as an observer. And as you'll see for yourself, it's pretty mortifying.

Here is a photo of "Rick Ross" from the back:

And here are the two of us in his truck, both drunk and attempting to run game:

Well, how did it go? you might ask. Well, here's a picture taken the following morning:

And now everyone knows this about me. Happy Holidays!

What's The Matter With Misty?

This essay was originally published on ProfessionGal.com, a website aimed at career-oriented women who are looking to manifest their talents and personal styles into occupations. So read more essays like this, visit ProfessionGal.com.

When I was 18, I closed out my second semester of college and went back home to New Orleans to live with my mom and dad for the summer. Within the first six days of being home, I’d fallen asleep in the bathtub at 1:30 in the afternoon twice, eaten four bags of Sweet & Spicy Chili Doritos, and snapped a plank of wood inside the loveseat from habitually throwing my body onto it.

My parents were equal parts pissed and confused. To them, I'd shown so much growth and maturity while I was away at college and then seamlessly reverted to a human slug under their roof. And when my dad told me to get a summer job, I let my shoulders and knees go limp, and I collapsed onto the floor. This was my childhood reflex to being told to do something I didn’t want to do; a reflex perfected over years of being woken up and ordered to cut the grass. Every Saturday morning, my dad would call up the stairs for me to “Come see,” and when I’d arrive on the landing, he’d remind me what day it was. Then, overwhelmed by the idea of having to put on dirty old sneakers and push a lawnmower around in the South Louisiana heat, I would release a feminine moan and implode from the inside — causing my body to flop like one of those push puppets that’s kept under tension until a button is pressed. Everyone in my family picked on me for doing this, but they still found it kind of cute in a frustrated-gay-adolescent-quirk kind of way. But at 18, with a year of dorm living under my belt, that shit was not cute anymore, and it caused my dad to come unglued. Between whining, “Finals were really hard! I need to rest,” and “But I just started reading He’s Just Not That Into You!” he swatted at me and called ma “lazy bitch.” So I got up, snatched the keys to my 1996 Ford Explorer off of the bar, and ran out the door.

Halfway down the street, I realized I was still wearing the same clothes I’d been lounging on the couch in: drawstring cut-off shorts, flip-flops, a ball cap with a flaming cayenne pepper embroidered on it, and an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt that read “Life Of The Party.” This wasn’t exactly job interview attire, but I certainly wasn’t going back home where my father would definitely slap me with my gently used copy of He’s Just Not That Into You, so I kept driving.

I stopped at a tanning salon half a mile from my subdivision and asked the tall blond behind the counter for an application. She eyed me from cap to flip-flop and handed over a piece of paper and a pen. Once finished, I asked if I could speak to the manager. The blond wordlessly retreated to a back room and shortly returned with a woman who looked like she’d be about as tall as a barstool if it weren’t for her black denim 6-inch strappy platforms and the haphazardly yanked-together bun on top of her head. Her mascara was clumped together like black birds on a wire and her jaw dropped and rose with every smack of gum. “Hey, I’m Misty,” she said, her voice sounding like a shrill kazoo that was manufactured in some swamp town trailer park on the outskirts of New Orleans. The tall blond slinked away to the back room and Misty gestured for me to take a seat. She kept my job application facedown in her lap and asked me questions about sunless tanning. “Oh, I’ve never used a tanning bed before,” I said. “Gingers tend to burn real easy. I can’t even get too close to the TV.” She snort-laughed and used her long, French-manicured nails to fan her eyes to keep from crying — which is a weird reaction I will never understand.

I could tell she liked me already, and I liked her too. Mostly because she looked like a pocket-sized drag queen. I imaged her on stage in a miniature tutu, next to an Amazonian version of herself, voguing in-sync to “When I Grow Up” by The Pussycat Dolls, which distracted me for the duration of the interview until she put her hand on my knee and said, “Do you have a problem acting a little, well, gayer?” I took a moment to collect my response. Finally, I nodded and said, “What now?” She straightened up. “We’ve never hired a boy before, and I just want to make sure our clients feel comfortable with you,” she said. “Women get naked behind those doors, and if they need something, they might feel super awkward around a masculine guy.” I was stunned. “I’m pretty gay as it is,” I said. “You want me to like bat my eyes a lot or something? Or, I don’t know, act like a black lady?” She looked confused. “Act like a black lady?” I shrugged. “I’ve noticed that really flaming gay guys are just imitating black ladies.” She looked astonished. “You’re so right!” she yelped. “Ugh, all the neck-rolling and finger-waving. It all makes sense now! Yeah, do that. Can you start Monday?”

Working at the salon was a breeze, and I liked hanging out with Misty. She was my boss, but she never really asserted herself like a boss. Then one day, she burst through the door, threw herself onto the carpet, and began sobbing. It was the mid-morning and at least three patrons in the shop were within listening distance, and also nude behind closed doors. I ran over and picked her up by the wrists, before dragging her to the back room. “Miss girl, are you okay?!” I said, forgetting that I didn’t have to keep up the gay-gay act around Misty. She’d gotten into a fight with her boyfriend and he’d threatened to throw her out of the house; a hovel in Westwego I imaged to be sloppy with cast-off bras and stinking of Hamburger Helper. She recovered fairly quickly, but a few hours later, I discovered her facedown and bottomless on a tanning bed, crying into her balled-up booty shorts.

At the time, I was involved in my first real same sex relationship with a boy I met on Bourbon Street named Chadwick. Being that we were both 18 and equally lacking the emotional wherewithal to be in a gay, committed, long-distance relationship, we fought all the time. So I’d come to work frustrated and then Misty would roll in like a goddamn hurricane of weave and runny eyeliner, and we’d both listen to “Big Girls Don’t Cry” and sulk like two miserable old bitches; Misty being the oldest and most miserable. Over time, I began to notice that Misty really didn’t have any boundaries or filter. She would smoke cigarettes inside and provoke screaming matches on the phone right in front of the store. She would often overshare about her rocky sex life or her boyfriend’s personal shortcomings, which made me whatever the opposite of horny is. And then one time, when I was wiping down beds, I overheard her fighting on the phone with her boyfriend and she called him a “stupid faggot.” I stopped what I was doing and walked out into the waiting area where Misty had her phone wedged between her shoulder and cheek while her free hands tied her flannel shirt into a knot just under her boobs. “I need to go home,” I said in a stage whisper. She waved me away with her long French tips and I never came back.

I didn’t leave because she said “stupid faggot.” I didn’t leave because I’d had it with her outbursts. I left because I was scared. Misty was a grown woman in a managerial position who routinely behaved like she was unhinged. And it frightened me that someone like her could be given the keys to the building and the autonomy to hire and oversee other employees. Later in life, I would understand that this happens quite often, but at the time, I was mortified by her rampant unprofessionalism and the idea that there might be other bosses like Misty.

On the way home, I stopped at the Applebee’s near my neighborhood and filled out an application because I didn’t want a lapse in my resume or a sidekick to the dick from my father. Misty called me again and again and left a bunch of angry voicemails; none of which I returned. Then, on a Tuesday, I started work at Applebee’s, where the chicken finger baskets are consistent and no one ever asks you to act gayer than you already are.

Ewok Boner

"Ewok Boner" is a dialogue that requires two alternating readers or one crazy person with alternating voices in his or her head.

On Grindr, I thought his picture was attractive, even though he was wearing shades and making a duck face.

On Grindr, he opened with ‘Hey Hey Hey,’ which — to me — seemed overly eager and reminded me of Fat Albert.

On Grindr, he introduced himself as ‘Chuck,’ which is one of the names I hate; along with Carl, Hank, and Lester.

On Grindr, he said his name was Ryan and that he worked in advertising. I guess he thought I’d be impressed?

On Grindr, we made small talk and traded pics, one of which was a full-length selfie of him wearing the smallest jock strap I’ve ever seen.

On Grindr, I sent him some pics and he immediately asked if I wanted to hang out. It must’ve been the jock strap.

On Grindr, it looked like he was squeezing a hot pink Tamagotchi through his crotch.

On the way over, I smoked a bowl and listened to Kennedy. The drive to Lafayette usually takes about thirty minutes.

In the bathroom, I smoked cigarettes and listened to the new Cults album. I had about thirty minutes, I guessed.

Through the window, I saw him fidgeting. He looked nervous.

From the sofa, I watched him climb the porch steps, so I positioned myself so that I appeared both casual and masculine — although I am never either.

At the front door, I knocked.

At the front door, I side-hugged him and made a mental note to tell him his Grindr photos didn’t do him any justice. Even though he was two inches shorter than I am.

In the living room, I finally got a good look at him. Definitely bangable. But tense.

On the sofa, I said he looked like Edward Norton, but nugget-sized.

On the sofa, I told him I get the Edward Norton thing a lot. But it has more to do with the way I speak than the way I look. The exchange felt conventional and recycled.

On NBC, Edward Norton was hosting SNL, which we both felt was too bizarre to pass up. So we watched it, until he needed a smoke break.

On the porch, I told him I’d just moved back from Manhattan and that I was practicing interior design here. The story I told sounded a lot more glamorous than the whole truth.

On the porch, he was dodgy about his past, but it felt like he was trying to protect me from it. Still, I found him adorable in the way Ewoks are adorable. Ewoks with boners. Also, I could see his boner.

On the sofa, I deliberately sat closer to him. He smelled like English Laundry cologne, isolation, wet skin, piña colada-scented moisturizer, and skepticism.

On the sofa, we discussed curtain fabric, the peplum silhouette, Terry Richardson’s hackneyed portfolio, and the appropriateness of certain kinds of art in kitchens.

On the sofa, we mostly talked about gay designer crap — the crap I live and breathe — but at one point, he said, 'In [his] opinion, people who eat pizza without toppings don't want to be happy.' And I couldn’t stop laughing.

On the sofa, I made him laugh.

On the sofa, he told me about the tranny who works at the Circle K around the corner who often lets him leave without paying for his beer or cereal bars.

On the sofa, he introduced me the late-80s New Orleans rapper, Bust Down. I felt ashamed that I wasn’t already familiar. “Nasty Bitch” is clearly a hometown classic.

On the sofa, I felt ashamed for sending him that jock strap picture.

In my stomach, I felt churning. I think I wanted him to like me.

Under his shirt, I felt gurgling. And then he farted. On me.

Behind my eyes, I fought back tears. I was mortified. But then he started laughing and pressing down my stomach — trying to make me fart again. Then I started laughing too and we wrestled around.

On the sofa, he pushed me away, but I wiggled on top of him and pinned his hands above his head.

On the sofa, he kissed me.

In my head, there were issues of hyphenated last names, and what I was going to eat later, and safe sex, and being single, using my tongue to its fullest potential.

Outside, the wind was blowing the lanterns that hung from our old crape myrtle around. 

In all honesty, I wanted to stay over, but it was already past midnight and I had to meet a client in Youngsville the following morning.

Under different circumstances, I would’ve asked him to stay over. But I didn’t want him to bail on me after we had sex. So I said, 'I’m going to need to crash soon.'

On the porch, he held my face with both hands when he kissed me goodbye.

Under the covers, I waited for him to text me when he made it home. He never did.

In the morning, I told him that I passed out as soon as I got home, and he said 'S’all good.'

Throughout the day, I thought of him often. But since he was few years older then I am, the reigns were in his hands. The senior should take the lead in my opinion. Right?

Around sundown, I asked him if he wanted to hang out. He said, 'Sounds good.' But I’m not stupid. His day-length silence and clipped, detached responses were meant to throw me off. This motherfucker was definitely into me. Right?

On the porch, we smoked cigarettes and listened to Yeezus. And when I told him he’d lost me on a rant about the predispositions of Capricorns, he said, “Ketchup, mustard!”

On Tuesday, he said he had to work late, so instead of going back over to his house; I poured over floorplans and jacked-off to a group scene on Rocket Tube.

On Wednesday, he came over and we watched Modern Family and American Horror Story. After, we had sex and my mind barely wandered.

On Thursday, I didn’t hear from him until twilight. Was he still playing hard-to-get? That seemed a little unnecessary. We already did sex.

On Friday, we went to dinner at Agave. I liked the way he looked in lighting that wasn’t native to my home. Actually, I couldn’t stop looking at him.

On Saturday morning, I woke up in his bed. I sat up and pressed the palms of my hands into my eyes and he reached around my waist and nestled his shoulder into my hip.

On Saturday morning, I woke up and he was in my bed. His skin smelled like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I didn’t want him to go, but at some point I would need to take a dump.

At his friend Dustin’s apartment, we ate gumbo for dinner, and at one point, he asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him to the store for a bottle of Vitamin Water.

In the car, I told him I sometimes get social anxiety and I just need to get out and go for a drive.

In the car, he held my hand and I wondered why everyone thinks they have social anxiety. No one likes forced conversation or big crowds or heavy silences. But that’s part of human interaction.

In the car, I felt like I had overexposed myself.

In the car, I blamed his 'anxiety' on the YouTube generation. His generation.

In the car, it got quiet. And I began to feel anxious.

In the car, it got quiet. But I didn’t mind because there was talking ahead of us, just not at that moment.

In the car, I wanted to know what he was thinking.

In my head, I was screaming, ‘Jesus, if you want to know what I’m thinking, just ask!’

In my heart, I wanted to control his internal dialogue so that I didn’t have to wonder.

In his eyes, I could tell that he wanted to know if I liked him.

In the car, he smiled at me and said, “Catch up, mustard.” And I finally got it.

Nightmare In North Louisiana

The following is an Exboyfriend Material spooky story. It’s written in third person, which is weird, but just get over that. Happy Halloween, tricks.

North Louisiana scared Ryan, so he didn’t venture up there very often.

In fact, the last time he found himself above Alexandria was in 2009 to see Britney Spears on the last leg of her Circus tour. There, in Bossier City, he witnessed young moms with delusions of living in Dallas, as evident by their exaggerated accents and exaggerated hair. He also watched grown men in Aeropostale t-shirts spit dip down the necks of empty beer bottles. The food at a nearby restaurant tasted like plastic and made his face greasy. And then there was the Britney show: a loud, dismal hellscape of drowsy choreography and inaudible, nasally yelps punctuated with heavy breathing. In his heart, he knew he couldn’t blame Britney for the regional oddities, but she wasn’t exactly bringing the sunshine, and for that, he held her accountable. The next morning, after accidentally leaving his new Circus Tour t-shirt in the hotel room and eating four sausage and French toast sandwiches at the local Shoney’s, he watched Shreveport-Bossier shrink in his rearview mirror, vowing never to return.

Until three years later.

On Wednesday afternoon, Ryan received a call from Courtney, the manager of the Baton Rouge Barnes & Noble. They met a few months earlier at a David Sedaris book-signing when Courtney mistook Ryan for the author in disguise; a mix-up perpetuated by Courtney’s staff. Now, they were Facebook friends who sporadically liked one another’s posts. She told him that Sedaris would be back in Louisiana the Friday before Halloween, and she asked if he’d be interested in working the event. “Absolutely,” said Ryan. “Where is it?”

Enter if you dare. But I wish you just wouldn't. 

Ryan arrived in Shreveport just after twilight, but not before experiencing projectile diarrhea in a gas station bathroom, breaking the zipper on his weekender, and getting a speeding ticket for going 85 in a 70 through Mansfield, Louisiana. Still, with all his misfortune, he was happy to be there. He smiled at the marquee of the Strand Theatre that read, DAVID SEDARIS TONIGHT ONLY, and even greeted the people waiting in line as he breezed past them and through the side door reserved for important people like him. When his beloved author arrived, Ryan shook his hand and played it cool, and when the reading and signing ended, he texted his friend Jude to see if he would like to join him for a drink. “Of course!” said Jude. “I’ll meet you at Corner Bar in ten minutes.” Ryan had never been to a gay bar in this part of the state, and he looked forward to seeing how their breed celebrated Halloween weekend. But what he would soon encounter would disturb him to his deepest gay core, which is probably located somewhere in his butt tube.

Where were the amazon drag queens in various Marie Laveau? The go-go boys in tiny masks and assless Andrew Christian briefs? The tacky, over-the-top décor and flashing lights? To Ryan, the paper skeletons and jack-o-lanterns taped to the walls were frightening, but not in the way they were intended to be, which I guess isn’t frightening at all. The decorations would have been better served on the bulletin board of a kindergarten classroom. This looked like the kind of place where if “YMCA” came on, everyone would get really excited. Except the place was dead, and that’s not a Halloween joke.

Ryan was already taking a few steps back towards the door when Jude spotted him and waved him over. Bailing was no longer an option. Jude sat on the far end of the bar with two guys and a girl, and Ryan approached them with the unease of child to a pile of corpses. Jude introduced the girl and the first guy as his work colleagues and the second guy as his boyfriend, Beau. Ryan thought Beau was cute and he thought he and Jude looked good together. Still, Ryan decided all the pleasantries of Corner Bar, which included the lovely gay relationship of Jude and Beau and nothing else, would be better appreciated if he were drunk. So that’s what happened.

He drank Absolut on the rocks, segmented with shots of Fireball. And every now and then, Jude would order a round of Jäger, which Ryan would toss back and chase with vodka. Jude’s boyfriend Beau asked Ryan who David Sedaris was and Ryan laughed in his face. “No really,” said Beau. “What books has he written?” Ryan finished his vodka and looked Beau in the eye, saying, “If I start listing book titles, I’ll be wasting my breath because you clearly don’t read at all if you don’t know who David Sedaris is.” This sent Beau into a rage and he screamed, “I have two degrees! I’m a goddamn LPN! That really pissed me off! You think I’m stupid because I talk this way?!” Ryan was completely caught off-guard. And he felt like an asshole, so he did his best to apologize and calm his friend’s boyfriend down. Things were tense after that until Jude finally suggested they all head home, inviting Ryan to stay at their place.

Though he was tanked, Ryan thought Jude and Beau’s house looked straight out of a horror movie. It was tall and white with dark windows and four slim columns out front. They rounded the back and up a flight of stairs into the kitchen, which was small, but very colorful. Beau poured them each a glass of red wine and asked Ryan if he would like to have a cigarette with him on the porch. Grateful for the truce, Ryan joined him. They talked about Jude and how charismatic he was; always the life of the party and the star of every room he entered. When Jude appeared, now on his third glass of Merlot, they stamped out their cigarettes and headed back indoors. They changed into gym shorts and collected on the couch where they watched one lame YouTube video after another of former RuPaul’s Drag Race contestants performing music video parodies. Ryan excused himself and headed for the guest room to go to sleep. Jude followed him, but branched off towards his own room. From the doorframe, he hissed at Ryan and beckoned him into the bedroom. Ryan shook his head as if to say, “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I don’t want any part of it.” In a stage whisper, Jude said, “Just come watch TV in here.” Still woozy from the drinking marathon, Ryan went over and sat on the bed across from Jude. They were thirty seconds into a ridiculous Jessie J. live performance when Beau walked into the room, grabbed Ryan by the back of his head, and kissed him.

The Jäger sloshed in Ryan’s belly and his head spun. He impulsively kissed back and tugged at his shirttail. On a primal level, he thought Beau and Jude were hot, but he wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do. Everything was black, but he could hear belt buckles clinking. His head moved in circles. Everything was moving. The room went dizzy. He was sweating. And then Jude asked him if he really wanted to, and he nodded “yes” just as he felt himself falling down a funnel of blackness that swallowed him whole.

But then no one had any lube! AHHHHHHHHH!

And then they all did poppers, and no one could get hard after that! AHHHHHHHHH!

And then Jude and Beau got in a fight about whose idea it was, so Ryan had to slip out and stagger naked into the guest room! AHHHHHHHH!

And the last thing he saw before drifting off to sleep was a litter box and Ryan has terrible cat allergies! AHHHHHHHH!

THE END.