It’s Not Really All That Bad
Timothy Oleksiak

        I lost my cherry in Michigan. No, really. I was at another gay club (it makes avoiding conversation easier) enjoying my Maker’s on the rocks with three cherries when some queer in baggy pants and a T-shirt that queried “Want to Fuck?” bumps into me hard. Glass drops, Maker’s spreads itself thin, cherries and ice slide across the floor. Now, when two gay men come into abrupt, physical contact, a number of things happen in a very specific order. There is a tensing of the body, and a lexicon of bitchy statements comes to the forefront of the brain. Dry and witty? Painful and direct? An initial scan of the offender makes the decision easier: if the crotch and chest analysis computes, and both men are of equal aesthetic value, then “sorries” are exchanged and the two gays go on their ways. If there is an unequal aesthetic distribution, then the hotter of the two will scoff; the less hot gay can either feel horrible about yet another rebuffing or get bitchy. Being in a relationship, looking preppy and having a drink or two prior, I scoffed. I did not hear any bitchiness from the baggy-panted gay.
        “That sucks.” This was my boyfriend. He liked to think he was smart, but his two-syllable phrases led me to a contrary conclusion. Let’s call him P___ to protect his name and pride if his eyes ever dare to venture into the literary pursuits. Not likely, of course, but I like to play the high road.
        “It sure does suck.” I pause to see if conversation will continue in this vein. Extend the pause… end it with a slight breath. “You want to get me another drink?”
        “Yeah. Sure.” And he did. That’s the great thing about P____, he had some money and no future plans so he didn’t mind buying top shelf. I find these types—money, no future plans—to be the best transitional lovers. A scenic rout on way to more comfortable locale. P___ was surely scenic, and I refuse to believe that claiming his best quality was his physical appearance makes me a shallow expression.
        When two people of different aesthetic levels date, there is an uneasy tension in Gayland. The tension is easily explained by the desperate loneliness that permeates queer culture. It’s a power balance. The less attractive man fears that a more attractive man may enter only to take his lover away, and the more attractive man fears that a less attractive man desires nothing but his body or face or sexual skill. P___ and I didn’t have this problem. We are both cute. A similar tension exists, however, with differing intellectual abilities. I don’t fault P___ for being less intelligent than me, no. People value different skills and talents. Hell, I could not compete with P___ if I had to role a joint or identify which gay was on which club drug. No way. Not at all.
        I have very clear non-verbals when I am not having a good time, and the fact that P___ never picked up on them or did not care convinced me, from the beginning, that our relationship was not a good one. But sex in a bad relationship is still monogamous sex, and monogamy has always been my standard. This evening’s clearly-displayed non-verbal was the speedy intake of my heavily-alcoholic beverage while desperately avoiding eye contact. P___ moved about in his chair to the music slowly sipping his Grey Goose and cranberry.
        “You want some pot?”
        Thank fucking Christ, and then calmly: “Yes.”
        Downs the drink. Places the glass on the bar. Turns to me and smiles cutely. “Let’s go.”
        And we move on the dance floor rather far from the front door, right next to the speakers, conduits for Gloria Gaynor’s big hit. It’s just that type of gay bar. P___ produces two joints, expertly rolled, and lights his first. Yes, I notice things like this. I am standing in a smoky gay bar with “I Will Survive” in my fucking ear and this prick lights his joint first. This is not stupid, it’s insensitive, and in my head I am placing the weight of everything wrong in the world on P___’s shoulders. I mean I go as far back to the Boer war. Yes, P___ is solely responsible for the Boer war. Both of them. And though I am not sure how that could be (as he is slightly younger than I am), I consider the probability of his guilt. He hands me a joint and the mother fucking lighter and I stew on my Boer War dilemma. I resent P___ and take my first drag.
        “Good shit?” There’s the cute smile again.
        “Yeah, oh surely this is some superior-tasting? shit.” I begin to laugh at the absurdity of my diction and the rate with which I speak: drawn out and then quickly at the end. But really this laughter is pot induced and the conversation in my head continues. What kind of pot smoker says “surely” while referring to the quality of the product? This one. Everyone looks at me as I smile like a high bastard. Damn my jaw hurts and my lips feel funny because of it. Good beat. Good beat. P___ looks hot in red. I should kiss him now. And I do. I grab his shirt a bit too forcefully, catch him slightly off balance, pull him close to me and kiss him on the right corner of his mouth and cheek. But the kiss is not very long because I throw my head backwards in a big guffaw. It is so from my belly that the laugh almost seems fake. And P___ smiles again.
        “You’re cute.” I am starting to sound like P___, but it’s okay if I do because I’m on pot.
        “You think so?” It’s hard to explain the inflection of P___’s “you think so.” It was confident, like he knows he is cute, but playful in that way that makes you smile back and want kiss him proper.
        “Yep. And you know what else I think?” A bit of a laugh and a swoopy turn of the head toward the door.
        “We should jet?”
        “You’re so smart.” Not condescending, but encouraging. “Let’s biz ounce.” And we do.
        It’s orange and deep blue outside the club, and the streets are wet and black with melting snow. It’s two a.m.. Near the exit the smells are the oddest. The smoke-filled bar competes with the frozen air, and my body wants all the filth, the smog and the pot and the menthol cigarettes, to leave so that the cold can come in and wake me up. The sounds are odd as well. Gay dance music loud—think Amber’s "This is Your Night"—and indecipherable conversations mix with the sounds of a passing car, the wet street.
        It’s beautiful.
        I look at P___ and I think I want to be with him for a little while longer. He smiles at me with that cute smile, and I forget that when he talks to me I want to hurt him. P___ puts a hand out and makes a grabby motion. I stand and look at his hand, gloved in black cashmere, reaching for me. It’s only a moment, but it seems like more than that. If life is measured by our moments and our worth decided by the abundance of good ones, then I want this one to go on my record. I take my hand out of my jacket; it is naked, and the air steals the heat away from me. I put my hand in P___’s and we walk to his car. He walks close to me; his hip blocks mine from its natural swing. We are far away enough from the club to notice the ringing in our ears and the smoke on our clothes. Melted snow covers P__’s car; it’s different from a car wet from rain. Shrinking snow flakes aren’t the same as droplets of water, and in the orange light his blue car looks like night. Getting into a cold car is loud, the woman who opens a wrapper during Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte just before Tamina moves into a high note. The car doesn’t start. He left the lights on.
        “Oh Fuck,” he says and hits the wheel little puffs of fuck popping into the air. “Oh Fuck. Oh Fuck”—puff puff—"Fuck, fuck”—puff puff. And then two quick ones: “fuckfuck.”
        I see the man in the baggy pants walking across the parking lot to his car. He’s alone and without a coat. It’s started to snow again, and he’s holding his hands under his arms. His breath climbs up toward the orange street light and trails behind him before disappearing all together. Hand in pocket. Out come keys. Opened door, closed door, starting car. Tires turn and turn until he’s home. Checks personals ads. Sleeps uncomfortably.
        I look at P___ still trying to figure out what to do with his car that won’t start. There are four things I can think of that will make this situation better and two that could make it a very bad night for him—as if it could be a good night for him right now. Of my six options I choose the last one.
        “I had a good time tonight.”
        “Really?”
        “Yes.” Another lie. I want this next part to come out very controlled. If P___ knew me like he should have, he would have heard that something was different. But he doesn't. I take my hands out of my pockets to speak—
        “You think I’m stupid don’t you?” His brief moment of insight hurts, and I long for a man who shares such insights before we’re stuck in soon-to-be-snow-covered parking lot in a car that won’t start.
        “No. I just don’t think you’re my type of smart.” It’s the type of statement that’s honest enough, and I feel a turn in my stomach three inches above my belly button. The place where anxiety resides. I walk to the horizon.
        “Excuse me?” His question startles me.
        “Huh?”
        “You said something, what was it you were saying?” I feel P___ getting sadder, and I am starting to fall in love with his vulnerability. When a man lays bare who he is, he is at his most attractive and his most seductive. P___ was sad, I believed his emotional self was sharp, and I wanted to do something I should not.
        “Nothing important, just a song in my head.”
        “I am smart, you know. I am. You don’t think you can talk to me, because you think I’m dumb.” He speaks like a frightened child trying to find the strength to confront a bully. It snows harder, and I can hear the queens packing up their trunks. I exhale and can see my breath. Not the same breath as baggy pant man, but it will soon join his if it ever catches up.
        “Why didn’t you?” I am not even sure what the question is supposed to mean, but I let it stand on its own. Right now, in the freezing car with a man who is finally able to say something interesting, I am not thinking about being manipulated by P___. I turn to kiss him and we do. He moves closer to me; I hold him back with an open hand on his chest. It’s colder outside when it snows, not because the temperature is lower but because you feel the wind outside.
        “Trinity! You bitch, give me a ride.” I shut the door to P___’s car.
        “You want a ride, motherfucker? What you gonna give me?”
        “I suck your titties.”
        “You can suck this.”
        “Whore.” By this time I’m at her car and we hug. Her hands are strong, and she smells good: perfume and cold air.
        “Tough night, baby?”
        “Not for me, no. Surely not for me.”

   
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