by E. F. Mulder
Ha! You’re not from Pine Brook New York, are you? I asked. I’m in West Lake, right next door.
I know.
You do?
Your location shows up, Hung told me. And that’s the one. I never even left for college. Went right there, he wrote in more tweets. We’re neighbors, and my other ones weren’t really Wangs. I did meet a guy with that surname on campus, though.
Nice.
I’m from New York too, Ethan said. Westchester County. Anywhere close to you two?
Like an hour, I told him. Small worldwide web, huh?
Seems like, Hung tweeted. Pretty cool, I say.
I’m in LA now, Ethan told us. But if I ever get back that way, let’s hook up. Maybe around Christmas. He took that back with his next message. I mean NOT Christmas. We hate Christmas! For NOEL’S BIRTHDAY.
Excellent point, Hung replied. Don’t hate your birthday, Noel. Hate stockings, carols, candy canes, and all things holly jolly!
This year, we’re taking back your day! Ethan wrote. Christmas sucks! Let’s meet up for sure. Let’s kick a Santa, un-trim a tree, and tear down a wreath. Sound like a plan?
I can’t wait, I answered.
THOUGH WE’D sort of kept in touch I was still a bit surprised—and also quite nervous—when Ethan called a few days before Thanksgiving.
“This becoming a Hollywood movie star thing has been a bust,” he announced.
Ethan wanted to be an actor. Actually, according to most of his social media profiles, he wanted to be famous.
“My parents refuse to keep supplementing it, so I’m headed back east. Joke’s on them, though. I have an audition in NYC next week. You still looking to hook up?”
Suddenly, as it started to become real, I couldn’t help but wonder why someone who looked like Ethan would want to get together with me. Maybe there was nothing real about it. Despite all that, I said, “Sure,” even though, deep in my silly, idealistic, recently broken heart, I was hoping for much more than a hookup.
“Nice. Have you heard from… what was his name? Oh yeah. Hung. How could I forget? Is he? Has he sent nudes?”
Well, that made sense. Sexy, little Ethan was really interested in Hung. I had finally found a picture of Hung, one in his college graduation cap and gown. He was tall, thin, and really handsome. His smile lit up not only his face, but the whole scene. I was tall too, but with a beer gut, one that came from pasta and bread, not hops and barley. I liked to eat. I loved to cook. I was a restaurant chef—and though I hiked and kept active, I’d never set foot in a gym and only did sit-ups when reaching down to pet my dog at the foot of the bed. “Hung and I tweet once in a while,” I told Ethan. “He’s a journalism grad—hoping to land an on-air gig—TV or Internet. Did you know that?”
“Yeah. I saw posts from the past where he talked about auditions. I thought he was competition—professionally and personally. Glad you’re still available.”
“Oh.” My breath caught. It was me he wanted after all. “No. Yeah. I don’t even know if Hung’s gay.”
The only indication of Hung’s sexuality I’d seen on Twitter was the occasional feature on human rights overseas he’d repost, or one concerning bathroom usage in the US. Some moronic government official was still always trying to stop people from using the one in which they felt most comfortable. Hung rarely ever commented on the stories he put up. Hopefully he saw the congressman in the story as an asshole too. I suddenly realized thinking only gay people would post such things perpetuated stereotypes. I was also an asshole sometimes.
“You know I’m gay, right?” Ethan asked.
“Well… yeah.” Along with daily nearly nude selfies, Ethan put up a ton of gay porn. The combination had garnered him followers in the six-digit range. Being gay and having lousy birthdays—those were still the only two things he and I had in common so far. Well, we both had pets—all three of us did. I had Red, Hung had his dog, and Ethan fed a bird that would land on his LA railing several times a day. He’d put up pics of that too. “You’ve told me you’re gay a bunch of times,” I told him, “and described most of your sexual encounters.”
“‘Most’?” Ethan guffawed. That was the word that came to mind for the sound. “We haven’t even hit the top one hundred yet.”
Despite the fact I was hearing Ethan’s voice for only the third time ever, I’d already turned the whole thing into some big starry-eyed fantasy. I was certain Ethan would sweep me off my feet the moment we met—or vice versa, since I was bigger—and we’d end up living happily ever after, celebrating my birthday every December 25 instead of Christmas. So much for keeping it shallow. I was a true romantic. I couldn’t help it. Considering how much I still hurt over what had gone on with Bart, maybe I was an idiot. The jury was still out.
“I can’t wait to add you to the list and tweet about us doing it.” Ethan had no problem making it all about sex.
“You run out of guys to fuck in California?” I cringed. It was a dumb thing to ask, pretty sarcastic too. I added a chuckle, hoping it would help.
“Not yet. But it’s good to have something lined up for the East Coast too.” Ethan’s laugh sounded just as insincere. “I’m horny now. Wanna Snapchat?”
“Well… I’m at work. Outside at the moment, but I have to get back to the kitchen.”
“Whip out your dick near the food. That’d be hot. Come in someone’s pumpkin soufflé or something. You must be doing all sorts of pumpkiny things at the restaurant right about now.”
“We are. And I’d like to still be working here when we switch over to peppermint and gingerbread, so I better not.”
Ethan huffed. “All right. Chicken.”
“Is that a dare?”
“Could be. If that’s what it takes. But I’m kind of in a hurry here, so we can’t pussy around too long, sexy.”
“Sexy.” There was a word I rarely heard. It made me want to cooperate. “All right. I’ll… do it in the walk-in freezer.”
“Sweet. Hurry up.”
I chuckled. “You are horny. Where you calling from?”
“My apartment.”
“Naked?”
“Almost always.”
“Prove it.” I was getting hard. I hadn’t been expecting the turn the conversation had taken, but now I was into it.
“There you go,” Ethan said. “I sent a pic.”
I clicked on the JPEG as I headed for the big cooler. I recognized the picture right away. It wasn’t a live shot, not a digital image taken right then, but rather one that had been up on Ethan’s feed all along. It showed off his face, chest, and abs, but stopped at the pubic bone, at a thatch of neatly trimmed hair. I had two thoughts then. One, I wished I’d done some manscaping that morning—or even recently. And two, I was disappointed and a little annoyed Ethan hadn’t sent a depiction representing the moment. Still, I followed through on my end of the promise, shutting myself inside the freezer.
“How much do you want? Body or just dick?” I asked.
“Just dick is good for now. That’ll give me something to look forward to when I see you in a few days.”
“Aww.”
“Hurry up.”
“Oh. Okay.” I shivered, and then I dropped my pants. It took only a few strokes to get fully erect, but I needed three shots before I got one without my gut. “It’s cold in here, remember.”
“Gotcha. Tick tock,” Ethan prompted.
“Okay. It’s coming.” I hurried to pull up my pants as I hit Send. I waited for a reaction. It was as if the line had gone dead. “So?”
“Nice,” Ethan said. “Hot. Can’t wait to suck it.”
“Soon,” I reminded him. If there was one part of my anatomy I wasn’t insecure about, it was my dick. Still, I was left to wonder.
“Yup. See you then. Gotta go.” And then Ethan hung up.
As I turned to exit the freezer, there it was, that night’s special, like a metaphoric flashing neon sign staring me in the face. We were serving catfish—again.
; 2
I’D ALWAYS had a rule when it came to pursuing a man, even before the fiasco with Bart. If things seemed to be going well, but then suddenly stopped, I gave it two more chances, a “What’s up?” call or tweet, followed by a Facebook poke, like some relic from the 90s, or a few “likes” or “favorites,” just to remind the guy I was still around. A lack of response after that meant game over. Of course, none of that was possible with Bart. As for Ethan, as hard as it was, I never sent the What happened? e-mail or the frantic texts or Twitter shouts. I wanted to. Did you change your handle? Is your Internet down? Did your cell phone or cable company drop you? Did aliens snatch you up?
Ethan had gone radio silent. I pictured him with Verkathrap on Mars in a large plastic tube all naked with Bart. Ah well. At least someone’s getting to probe their asses, I thought.
“Wait.” That I said aloud and Red gave me the look. “What if someone—the same someone—is screwing with Daddy’s head again? Hoaxing or spoofing or phishing me? Ethan knows my birthday…. So did Bart. Can they steal my identity with that?”
Once again, Red offered nothing.
As a few more days passed, I fretted about my bank account and kept a close eye on my credit card charges online. I had practically given up on Ethan, but on the Monday after Thanksgiving, he texted me.
DTF?
Then he called, almost immediately, not even allowing me a chance to answer. “Gimme your address. I can be there in an hour.”
“I can’t,” I told him. “Not today. My six-year-old goddaughter, Emily, is in a show…. Sleeping Beauty. I have to go.”
“You’re going to give up sex for that?”
“I am.” My answer was definitive.
“I hate kids.”
I laughed, though I wasn’t sure he was joking. “How about tonight… or tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you back.”
Though he’d sounded slightly pissed, he actually did call, quite late that night. Maybe playing hard to get should have been my go-to all along.
The minute the holiday season began, the restaurant was busier than usual. Still, I managed to get the next day off, even with little warning, to spend in Manhattan. Laurie, the manager at Amber’s Bistro, was a sweetheart. She’d do just about anything for me, including support my love life.
“I’m sorry it’s so last-minute,” I said to her. “He wants to get together today.”
“If you think he’s the one, I’ll put on whites and man the stove myself. Go.”
The plan was to meet at a Starbucks near Grand Central Station. I was at least 75 percent certain Ethan wouldn’t show after I’d turned him down the day before. I was 50 percent sure he was Bart, and around 15 to 20 percent convinced that he was still after my not-so-great credit limit.
“Howdy, handsome.” But there he was. He waved and then greeted me with a hug. He was even cuter in person—and shorter, barely hitting my chin—literally.
“Ow. How did your audition go?”
“I think it sucked, which usually means I did pretty well. So, we’ll see.”
“Cool. I hope so.”
“How was Thanksgiving?” I’d practiced some conversation topics on the way down.
“Oh. My family doesn’t do that. Too many carbs.”
“Do you have siblings?” I had never asked him that.
“Nope. Just me. I get all the attention, and that’s the way I like it. When my mother started fawning over the cat more than me, I made her give it away. Coffee?” Ethan was at the front of the line already.
“Sure.”
He placed our orders, one peppermint latte and one eggnog. “And not in some crappy Christmas cup,” he said to the barista. “We hate Christmas cups. We hate Christmas, don’t we?” He turned to look at me.
“Huh?”
“We’re celebrating your birthday month.”
“It’s still November.”
“Yeah, but it’s after the twenty-fifth,” Ethan said, “so technically, we’re in that thirty-day period. Did you forget our whole ‘Down with Christmas!’ plan?”
Truthfully, once I saw Ethan in the flesh, all I could really think about was seeing more of it. “Oh. Yeah.” I played along. “No Christmas cups! Christmas sucks. I hate Santa… and all his dumb little elves.”
“Easy on the elves now,” tiny Ethan said.
“I hate Mrs. Claus, then. And the reindeer. The whole thing. Screw Christmas!”
The girl behind the counter smiled. What else could she do? I made sure to keep the tone silly, not belligerent. Still, I left her an extra-large gratuity for her kindness, and also because she gave us the regular year-round cups, not the ones with the holiday design. I hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble. “You think customers come in and actually demand these?”
“Could be,” Ethan said. “Remember the whole fracas from last year—when people were up in arms because the Christmas cups weren’t Christmassy enough? Maybe this is their solution—Christmas cups for the ones who think ‘Happy Holidays’ is too politically correct, and regular cups for those who don’t want to celebrate it at all.”
“The world is getting complicated.” I took a sip of my coffee.
“We should have asked for birthday cups. We’ll hit the next one down the block and try that.”
We traipsed around the city for the better part of the day, celebrating my birth and denouncing the holiday that took attention away from it. Ethan grabbed supplies from a small corner art-supply store, so I could hold up signs in front of several festive seasonal window displays, next to a couple of sidewalk Santas, and under lampposts wrapped in garland and topped with snowflakes even before December 1. I alternated between three. One read Merry birthday to me! Another said I hate Christmas! And the third went all the way, with Anyone who wishes me a Merry ChristmASS can kiss mine. Ethan thought that one was pretty clever. We stopped at every coffee place along the way, all three major chains, to reenact the cup scene. I was quite uneasy the first few times, but then I got into it, eventually convincing myself I was as good an actor as Ethan. “Don’t tell me what to celebrate. Screw the carols! Tear down the decorations! I don’t want to hear ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Happy Holidays!’ The whole idea and everything it stands for ticks me off!” Sometimes I would let the barista in on the joke—the annoyance I felt being a Christmas baby. Sometimes I’d forget, though. After waving my Kiss my ass sign around angrily and demanding a regular cup instead of something “crapified with red-and-green Christmassy bullshit,” I just stormed out of the last place, because the clerk had told me that was all they had. I was sort relieved to hear it, actually. How many cups of coffee could one man drink, anyway? “I’m going to need to use the bathroom in the next place, so let’s skip the show.”
“No way. You’re really getting into it now,” Ethan commented outside the Dunkin’ Donuts ten feet down the sidewalk. “I’m kind of impressed.”
“Okay. One more time.”
I was actually breathing hard when we came out, but at least I didn’t have to pee anymore.
“Best one yet,” Ethan said.
“This was really fun. I haven’t acted so immature in quite a while—not in public, anyway. But maybe we better stop. I think I’ve released all my yuletide frustrations and pissed off half of New York.”
“Eh, you’ll never see any of these people again.”
“It’s probably time to head for the tree lighting anyway.” Despite our position on celebrating the holiday, I was actually looking forward to it. I’d never seen the Rockefeller tree lit in person. It was kind of exciting. Naturally, with the crowds that were expected, we had to get there early.
“THREE… TWO… one…. Merry birthday!”
It was a spectacular moment, one that made me rethink my entire stance. Maybe my thirtieth year was the one where I was finally grown up enough to share the spotlight with the far more popular occasion. Then Ethan suggested the one last stunt, before we returned to Grand Central to head back upstate.
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br /> “Naw. That’s okay.” I was willing to take a pass on baring my ass to an eighty-five-foot evergreen.
“Come on. It’ll be the ultimate act of seasonal defiance, your final immature deed, before you have to act all adult and old.”
“Thirty’s not that old.”
“It is to a six-year-old like me. Come on. Hurry up.”
“We’ll do it from here,” I suggested. “The middle finger. I’m keeping my pants up.”
“Dude, we’re so far away, people’ll think you’re saying f-you to Charlie Brown’s tree. Give it ten minutes, and we’ll be able to get real close.”
I gave in, mostly because I was hoping to take Ethan home and drop my pants there.
“Straighten out that middle finger. Give the tree the bird.” Ethan pretended to be a fashion videographer once we finally got close. He started singing. “‘Dumb Christmas tree, dumb Christmas tree, fuck you and these festivities.’ Now you. You still have that ChristmASS sign?”
“In my pocket.”
“Whip it out.”
I did, so he would later.
“Yeah. Nice. Hot!”
His words prompted me to really play it up. I repeated his impromptu tune, holding up the sign and conducting the accompanying imaginary orchestra with the middle finger on my other hand. I finished with a long, drawn out “I haaaaaaaaatttttttte Chrissssssttttmmmaassssss!” as I noticed a few other spectators filming me along with Ethan. “Okay. That’s enough.” I was suddenly camera shy and shoved the sign back in my pocket.
By the time we got back to my house, my throat still hurt from singing and talking so much, and my cheeks hurt from laughing. “Even if I don’t get a birthday day on the twenty-fifth of December, today more than makes up for it.” After greeting Red at the door with several kisses, I tried to let Ethan off the hook. “I’d like you to stay, but… I also have a second bedroom, if…. We… we don’t have to sleep together.”
“Fuck that,” Ethan said. “Why else would I have spent the day with you?”