The least of them continued



I had heard of this bar from a guy I jerked off in the back seat of a bus.  "If you're ever in Indy…" is how he started the conversation.  I wasn't looking for him, tonight.  His dick had disappointed me.
That is why I only offered my hand.
I was looking for someone to take me home.  I was looking to be admired.  A new face in a crowd of gay men is always fought over.

Once, I wrote a short story.  Each paragraph started with the name of a man I fucked.  I alphabetized their names.  A-W, no Q, U, V, X, Y, or Z.   I can never complete anything.

I've never been a good liar.  I've always called it fiction.

I went out with Eric and four of his friends.  They were more beautiful.  They all got hit on.  I got the drinks.  They danced and took drugs.  I smoked a cigarette outside.  Behind the rope with all the other smokers.  Sometimes smoking is the only thing I have in common with people.
The highway at sunrise.  I hope I will have left his bed before dawn.  Hopefully, he'll still be asleep.  And, hopefully, he'll sleep in the nude.  I'll take a quick photograph with the flash off.  He'll never know how much of him I take with me.
I was leaving the midnight movie.  A tiny movie theatre is one of New York's tiny neighborhoods.  I lit a cigarette.  He asked for a light.  He had watched the film, too.  I didn't want to talk about the film.  He didn't want to talk.
"I don't live in town.  I'm staying with a friend," I tell him.  "We'll have to go to your place."
"That is fine.  I live with two other guys.  Sometimes they like to join in.  Or, at least watch.  You okay with that?"
"Do you have any weed?"
"Yes."
"I'll be fine."

"Did you just break up with him because of your infidelity?"
"I broke up with him because we never talked.  Because we didn't connect anymore."
"What does that mean?"
"I would cry in the living room some nights.  He would just sleep.  Once, I told him I had been crying.
He knew.  He did nothing about it."
"Sometimes there isn't anything anyone can do to help you."
"I know.  And, that is why I broke up with him.  If no one can help me… why do I need to be with someone?"
"He was more than that.  Relationships are more than that."
"Relationships aren't anything.  They're ways to fill our needs without guilt.  Ways to get sex and attention without being whores."
"You don't believe what you're saying."

One guy asked me what I did.   I have always been afraid of this question.  I have anxiety about this question.  How to define myself.  How do I answer?  My interests?  My hobbies?  My job?  I just excuse myself.

There were three of us.  Our bodies wrapping and folding across and over each other.  We were a quilt in progress.  Our fingers were clumsy and quick.  One sat in the corner and watched.  He wanted to film us.  I told him he couldn't.  I told him I am never on this side of an image.

The men who approached me at the bar:
Mike and Steve, a couple looking for a third
Phil, a guy I went to high school with
Greg, interested in tying me up
Ian, asked if he could fuck me without a condom on
Chad, too stoned already
Keith, the guy I went home with.

I posted an ad on craigslist.  I was looking for someone to have an affair with.  I titled it 'An Affair to Remember.'  I didn't plan on answering a single person.  I wanted to know how many men would willingly enter into an affair.  In two hours, eleven men were willing.  That was all I needed to know.  I took the ad down.  I am no different than anyone else.

She asks what is wrong with me.  She knows my sexual history.  She has heard stories and asked questions. 
She knows names and positions.  She knows places and times.  She knows hair color and cock size.
She doesn't know why I exist the same way, every day.  There are no answers for most questions.

Last night, I numbered the last page of his body.  I used my tongue and tattooed the number seventy-six across the bottom of his foot.  He was a novella.

I could always just walk away.

END