I remember how things used to be, when sucking dick in the bathroom was merely a side effect of too many sliding powders and gliding cocktails. And yet on the night of my friend’s 32nd birthday, we were presented with a second chance: a do over.
I knew when he said, “I want you to taste,” he wasn’t talking about Rose. And yet I sashayed behind him into the stall anyway. He pulled out his semi-erect penis with shaved pubes. And just like that, we were 17 again. And with my own man at home, why was I so tempted to see this new dick?
To be fair this new dick ain’t nothing new. We met during my Woodner days. It was the mid 2000s where dreaded nights in dreads lead to some sobering mornings.
But I flirted with him anyway. I first met him at the Fireplace. Let’s call him Chris. He represented a litany of unavailable men I went for. I liked them lean, lanky and lightly attached to women. I know right, I’m cascading in cliches, dripping in diamonds and designers. Oh well, back then I considered that excellent taste.
With Chris, I tried to turn nighttime pleasantries and text messages into something more. It ended way less when I refused to have sex with him after I drunkenly took him one night. The big disease with the little name was a dark cloud on a later night. But spending the better part of decade hiding from something you can’t see is no way to live.
Although life is short, just don’t make it shorter.
A decade later, he’s still cute. But this time he’d on drugs. Drugs and gays go together like fleet and grease. It all leads to shit. That’s not sustainable for a lifetime, it’s more like a lifetime movie.
But it’s fun to dance after midnight, holding drinks and eye contact. I loved feeling on abs, soaking in the sway. Yeah, it’s always fun in the moment. I have some many moments to last many lifetimes. But when the music stops and the floors are swept, and the alarm is set — the loneliest creeps in like a Grindr hookup. It suffocates the soul like shame and regret.