by Seth King
I Google the sociologist, thinking he must be a gay guy who is trying to influence people to agree with his side of things – and then I gasp a little when I see he’s married to a woman, and has three children. Why would he be biased about all this?
Suddenly I get the idea to take gender out of the equation completely. Forget that Ty is a guy: what if people are just attracted to certain characteristics, no matter the sex of the person in question? My last girlfriend Caroline was a tall, blue-eyed blonde, and Ty is a…
Tall, blue-eyed blonde. The realization makes me gasp. He’s probably only three inches taller than Caro, and his face isn’t that different from hers. What if I’ve been attracted to a certain “look” all along, and I’ve just never encountered a male with that “look” until now? Is that even possible? Ty did seem to have some refined, pretty features, after all…
I search my memories for any hint that this was coming; any clue that I might have played for the male team. Shockingly, I cannot come up with even one instance. Every shower I’ve ever taken with my team…every time I’ve gotten drunk with my guy friends Thad or Shepard and slept over on their couches…every time I’ve wrestled with my buddies at a field party somewhere...I cannot recall thinking, or feeling, anything sexual for them at all. Then I consider watching some gay porn to investigate a few things, but I decide I’m not comfortable enough for that yet. So I compare my feelings from today to the feelings I’ve had when meeting girls. Strangely, they are exactly the same, just heightened somehow. But it all started the same: I would spot a nice ass or a pretty smile or a really sexy waterfall of brown hair cascading down a back, and then I’d come up to the girl and try to be funny and charming and sweet. But Ty’s biceps made me feel exactly like some chick’s boobs had before, and his smile had made me feel just as giddy as any girl’s laugh in some smoky dive bar. But the thing is, he’s making me feel even more of those things. The dosage is higher, and I have no idea why.
Then there is the whole issue of how someone like Ty would be treated in my world. I know exactly what all my buddies say about gay guys. Actually, some of them don’t say anything at all. Some of them don’t care, like my best friend Thaddeus (or Thad), whose parents were Bill Clinton voters like mine. But some of them do care. Shepard Smith, the leader of my crew who shares a name with the gay Fox News host and explodes with anger every time someone mentions it, has said unspeakable things about his namesake before. Most of my other Republican friends are somewhere in between. Some of them write off gay dudes as silly queens, rolling their eyes and smirking at them and discounting them. But the ones who actually openly disapprove of them – it can be much worse with them. They call them faggots and queers. They keep a safe distance on the street. One of my friends who was unlucky enough to knock up a casual girlfriend the summer after high school – he took his son out of school when he found out his teacher was openly gay. “I won’t have some freak teaching my kid,” he’d said that night over a beer. At the time I didn’t even think much of it, because why would I have? I thought it had nothing to do with me.
But now I feel dirty even thinking about it. I guess we all ignore things we think don’t involve us. Politically speaking, I’m somewhere between “middle of the road” and “over it.” I haven’t voted for a president since I was eighteen, and every time someone changes the TV to Fox News or CNN I tune everything out and retreat into my phone.
I close my laptop and take out my phone. Regardless of everything else, there is no denying the jump I felt under my skin when I looked into Ty’s eyes, or the thundering of my heart when he’d sat down next to me and sparked a conversation. So out of sheer curiosity more than anything else, I take a deep breath and do something crazy, something unprecedented, something wild:
With a roaring in my ears and a strange electricity zapping my fingertips, I message him back.
3
Hey, I type, my stomach fluttering and flipping. I have to admit, I’m kinda feeling the buzz of our meeting, too. And then it flashes through my mind – I am talking to a gay guy. This is really happening.
Ha! he says. Thought you’d never respond. What’s up?
Not much.
Cool. I have something to admit, he says. I Facebook stalked you. Already. And I was wondering…are you closeted?
Closeted? I ask.
Well, I know you talked to me on the bus, but we have zero friends in common, and your pictures are only with girls, so….
Ahh, I say. It’s complicated.
Oh, great.
What? I ask.
I’ll talk to you another time.
You will?
Yeah, I know how it is. I know this story.
You do?
Yep, sadly. You have a girlfriend or a wife, you secretly hook up with dudes on the side, and you’ll want to sleep with me and then keep me your dirty little secret when we pass on the street. I’m not into that whole thing. Nice meeting you, though. Really.
Okay, stop, I interrupt. That’s not it at all. The thing is….I’m straight.
Straight?
Straight.
Um. But you just agreed to hangout with me…
I pause. How did I say this in a way that made sense?
Okay. I have only dated, or even been attracted to, women before. Not even porn or anything. This is why I was so surprised and confused earlier…
Wait, really?
Yes. You are the first gay guy I have ever talked to. Ever even WANTED to talk to. Ever.
I see that he starts typing, then stops.
Oh…wow, he finally says. Wow wow wow. You swear?
Yeah. I have no reason to lie – I’m a moderate liberal. But was your “wow” in a good or bad way?
He ignores my question. Wait, so what made you realize I was gay?
Um…I could just tell, I guess? Is that bad?
Not at all, he says. I love being a homo. This is all just…new. I haven’t talked to a straight guy. Well, not publicly, at least, if you know what I mean.
I don’t think I do…
Lol. Let’s not go there, then. So…you’re straight. Or I guess you WERE. Wow.
Yeah. I don’t understand it any more than you do.
And…do you have a problem with what you’re feeling? he asks. Do you feel shame or guilt or anything right now?
Not at all! My parents are liberals, like I said. I’m not conflicted at all, I’m just…I don’t know what to make of it. I’m confused.
And you really do want to hang out and see what happens?
I mean, yeah…I think I do, I say, my nerves heightening with every word.
Well, then! That’s all I need to know. We can figure out the rest later.
Okay. How about next weekend? I’m-
Oh, I’m talking about tonight. Soon.
And my heart stops.
Wait, really?
Honey, gays don’t wait around, he says, and I laugh.
Okay. Well…okay. That’s cool.
I’m not a murderer, I promise. Let’s just have some wine and talk.
I turn my head and think, and soon I decide this doesn’t feel right. I need time. Wait, what about tomorrow? Please, I need to just…get used to this, if you know what I mean. Can we just chat?
Okay, yeah, no problem. I’m fine with waiting.
Sounds good. Let’s just talk until then. And wait – didn’t you have singing lessons tonight? How’d they go?
He responds with a laughing emoji.
What is it? I ask.
Babe, I’m not a singer. I signed up for lessons because the (gay) teacher was cute, and I just wanted an excuse to talk to him. But considering I just met you, I think I probably just forgot about him forever.
~
We talk on and off well into the night, and he remains just as funny and charming and casual as before. When I finally fall asleep my dreams are full of silver hair and blue eyes and a door at the end of a white hallway that’s standing open, but for some reason I can�
��t walk through. Something is holding me in place, no matter how hard I try to break free. And when my eyes flutter open at 7:29, just as they always do, I look over at my phone and realize I just want to see one thing staring back at me: Ty’s name. The feeling hasn’t changed or faded. I still feel the same.
I press the home button. Sure enough, along with the random emails and notifications that filter in overnight, I see it: Ty Stanton. And it makes me feel like my body is made out of air.
All that day I chat with him on and off, getting to know little pieces of his history and his family details and what he thinks is funny and what he wants out of his twenties. Our tone is friendly and casual, but more than a few times we get deeper than I was expecting, catching me off guard. But he’s still so fun to talk to: everything he says is interesting, and I never get bored with him at all. He is silly, and that is something I haven’t been in years – not since college and work and bills took that away from me. But he is playful and childlike, and it gives me this weird rushing feeling every time I think about him.
But at the same time I find that I don’t have much to tell him – compared to him, my life is boring and unremarkable. I never got into a fight with a clown at a birthday party; I never almost got arrested for protesting outside a political rally. In fact, he’s making me realize just how boring my life is. School, work, gym, repeat. Beer, football, sports bar, repeat. How was I okay with that?
We talk and talk and talk. I find out we’re both weather nerds who grew up watching The Weather Channel, and both of our favorite colors are deep navy blue. And I would never admit this, but while we chat I look at more of his graphic design artwork on Google, and it’s amazing. Soon I take what I know about him and start building out his life in all directions. He mentions being distant with his father – why? He mentions a sister he doesn’t see much – what happened? He tells me his mother saved his life – how? What did he look like as a child, and how did he behave? Was he always this artsy-looking dream boy, or did he become this person recently?
Before dinnertime I get a text that makes my heart stop. I’m mentioning that I have to go out and buy a new vacuum cleaner, because mine doesn’t suck very hard anymore and I need to clean my house before my parents visit next, when he interrupts with this:
Fuck Dyson – I know all about sucking, Henry. In fact, I’ll do it better than any girl ever has. For hours, if you want.
I stop breathing. Before I can even think of what to say, he’s sending something else:
Check your Snapchat.
Still not breathing, I open the app, which we added each other on last night. I open his picture, and it’s a lump in his pants that he’s holding with his hand. A very thick, and long, lump.
Send one back, he says, and I close my eyes and open them again. Without thinking, I point my phone down, grab my cock, which is almost fully hard, and snap a picture. He opens it immediately, then texts me the following:
Okay, you know what? I have to admit something: I can’t just text you anymore. I need to see you in person. Can we hangout?
The anxiety escalates. I turn my head and think, my dick throbbing in my pants now.
Oh, and speaking of penis…what does Ty’s look like? Is it big? Would I even be attracted to a dick, if the moment ever arose between us? I used to think dicks looked like blind mole rats wearing turtlenecks or something. They didn’t really disgust me, but they weren’t particularly appealing, either. They were just kind of…there. But would my apparent attraction to his face carry over to this other body parts? And did I even want it to?
I bite my lip. His next text comes soon after:
Wait, did I jump the gun? Is it too soon?
Before I can stop myself, I start typing. Because the truth is this: I want to see him, too. I want to see him more than I’ve wanted anything in a while, and it is shocking and enthralling and terrifying to me.
Yes, let’s hangout, I say, and then I start shaking.
Okay, sweet, I’ll be over at eight-ish. I can’t wait to Netflix and chill with you!
This stops me in my tracks. I know exactly what “Netflix and chill” means, in “straight language” at least – it means sex. And I don’t even know how to have sex with him, even though I know I may want to explore the option. Dicks don’t lie, and mine has been ready to go for hours. That’s when I decide I’m going to have to watch my first gay porn video before he comes, just so I won’t be totally clueless.
Okay, Ty, sounds like a plan.
Cool. And one more thing, he says. Are you excited?
I tap my foot and think of lying. I could pretend to play it cool and act like this is just a friendly meeting. Then chills rush over me, telling me how I really feel – so I smile and type the truth. Yes. Actually, I am so excited I am getting out a bottle of wine right now so I don’t make an ass of myself. See you soon.
I plug in my phone. After a glass of wine, I’m not so overwhelmed by the prospect of hooking up with him anymore. Or at least exploring the option. People who hang out on casual dates usually hook up, and if I had his cock in my face right now, I would have absolutely no idea what to do with it. So with trembling hands, I take out my laptop. Where do I even start? All my most-visited porn sites are full of blonde lesbians scissoring each other. How do I even find gay porn?
I search “two guys sex” and hold my breath as the pages start loading. But I am shocked to find that there are all kinds of gay porn – daddies and bears and group and twink and leather and fetish. Straight porn was pretty much a bunch of blondes who looked like past-their-prime Barbies, but apparently gays have all kinds of genres and subgenres and sub-sub-genres. Where did I even begin?
I click a video of two Latin guys who I guess look pretty handsome. They start doing things, pretty dirty things, and I study closely. They kiss, they pull down each other’s shorts, they do the thing that the blondes did to the muscle guys in my straight porn videos…
I close my eyes for a second, my strength wavering. But then I remind myself I can do this. It’s the same thing, just with a different gender. It’s the same thing…it’s the same sex…it’s the same love…
I refocus on the video. I watch how they blow each other, how they lick, and finally how they do…the other thing. The final thing. Honestly it looks like an awkward, painful position for two dudes to be in, but what do I know?
By the end of the video, I look down and notice my pants are completely wet. Oops…
Before Ty arrives, I take a shower, jack off again, comb my light brown hair, then re-comb it when I decide I look terrible. What if the bus thing was momentary insanity, and I feel nothing at all when I see him again, and I’ve given my evening away to a stranger? And why can’t I make my hair look perfect?
I’ve never given a shit about any of this before, but suddenly I can’t stop caring. To kill time and get some energy out of my muscles, I take my aunt’s little dog, Tink, who I’m watching while she gets surgery, out for a walk. On a corner, a guy wearing a camouflage hat laughs at me and shakes his head.
“Hey, bud,” he calls. “You gotta be pretty secure in your manhood to walk that tiny little thing, eh?”
He laughs derisively and walks away, but I don’t even know how to process what he’s said. Why would anyone care about the size of the dog they were with, anyway? Why was that something he’d even noticed? Big dog, small dog – who gave a shit?
I guess what I’m really wondering is this: deep down, what really is masculinity, and why does it seem to be so fragile?
~
Ty appears outside my front window an hour later, sixty minutes that feel like six years and six seconds at the same time. Ty…the openly gay guy…from the bus…on my porch.
The sight of a male form on my stoop leaves me breathless and nervous and a little panicked. What is it about this dude? Why does he make me feel like electrified pudding?
I finally open the door and look at him for a second. He’s just so…pretty. I feel more comfo
rtable admitting that now. His sharp nose and sculpted lips and heavy black eyebrows are feminine, but in a way that somehow looks perfect on a guy. And again I feel that weird insecurity, that need to impress and astound him…
“Uh…hi,” I say, trying not to sound like a moron. Still, I feel slightly more at ease around him than yesterday, since I’ve gotten to know him a bit via text.
“Hey! Can I come in, or is this a porch party?”
His voice is so low and scratchy, I have to adjust my hearing to understand him. “Oh, sure, totally, let me move, I’m being a total idiot.”
He smiles and walks into my house, and he smells fresh and clean and sexual somehow, like after you bang someone in a closed-up room, and you can just sense the sex in the air somehow – that musky human smell. He stops halfway down the hall, pointing at the wall. His general vibe is appealingly laid-back, but his eye contact is so unwavering and speaks of so much inner confidence, it’s almost unsettling. “Wait – a Lady Gaga picture? You said you were straight?”
I laugh and walk closer. “Remember, my apartment flooded, this is my parents’ Savannah house.” I point at my parents with Gaga in a white dressing room. “That was when we went to one her first shows at Radio City, when my dad’s company signed her.”
He shakes his head a little. “Signed her?”
“Oh, my dad works for Live Nation, they handle concerts and tours for people.”
“For Lady Gaga?”
“They’ve been lucky,” I nod. He sucks in some air and keeps going, stopping in the kitchen.
“Well, nice. And I’m glad we’re doing this, by the way. What should we do first?”
My stomach jumps. “I don’t know…did you eat?”
“I’m fine.” He looks from the gym bag in the kitchen nook, to the dishes piled in the sink, to the football cleats by the fridge. “And okay, maybe you are straight.”
I laugh again. I study his outfit – dark-wash jeans with a black-and-white flannel shirt and a red hat. He looks sexy, I can’t lie, like an off-duty model. He’s also wearing a dog tag necklace that sets off his tan in a really sexy way.