Binge

by Tyler Oakley

  I had a vague memory of crashing into the elevator of my dorm, tangling into each other as soon as the door shut, half-sloppily making out and half-giggling uninhibitedly. Another vague memory of crashing into my dorm room, interrupting my roommate and his girlfriend, who were celebrating the holiday in their own way on the top bunk. I covered my eyes with my hands and told them not to go, not to let us interrupt their fun, that we’d be quiet. As if my sober roommate from Texas and his girlfriend wouldn’t mind some gay bottom-bunk rocking in tandem with that of their top bunk. Angrily, they leaped down from the top bunk, storming out with their blankets—heading somewhere I couldn’t care less about, as Adam and I laughed and fell into my own bed. Then it hit me in a flash what had happened next.

  Now, the next day, I carefully turned my body and angled myself toward him. There he was, the prize possession of telemarketing, soundly snoring in my bunk bed. It’s crazy how the carefree and ravenous things you can do with someone at two in the morning can make complete sense at the time, but in the glow of dawn just five hours later, they unspool a skein of questions and implications. How drunk were we? Surely we both were consenting adults, but with alcohol involved, was he going to freak out waking up with a man? Will we even speak to each other tomorrow at work? Was it his first time, as well as mine?

  Head pounding, I slipped out from under the covers and tiptoed to the bathroom as quietly as I could. I peed, brushed my teeth, washed my face, drank a glass of water, took two Advil, and looked in the mirror. Holy shit. Last night actually happened. I looked at my reflection and laughed under my breath at the ridiculousness of the situation. I was still unable to believe that the guy I had a crush on was in my bed. Through the pain of my hangover, I grinned.

  Intending to sneak back into my sheets, I delicately opened the bathroom door and was surprised to see Adam, clothed, on the edge of my bed and tying his shoelaces.

  I broke the silence. “Good morning . . . how are you feeling? Crazy night, no?”

  “Yeah, the party was fun, thanks for letting me tag along,” Adam replied nonchalantly. As if the most eventful part of our evening happened at the Jewish frat party. I froze in my tracks and looked at him, puzzled. Was he going to act like nothing had happened?

  “Hey, uh, thanks for letting me crash, I should probably get going.” He never met my eyes. I’d never seen anybody take such intense interest in his shoelaces.

  “Oh, yeah, no problem,” I said as he stood up. “You sure you have to go so soon?” I offered the glass of water I had poured for him, but he slipped past me.

  “I’ll see you at work,” he said, already halfway out the door. And just like that, he was gone.

  Holding two full glasses of water, I stood for a long time in my underwear, in the middle of my dorm room.

  “What the fuck was last night?” my roommate, David, asked. We were paired for cohabitation randomly by the school, but we got along surprisingly well. He was from Texas, and when we first found each other on Facebook and exchanged information, he terrified me. We talked on instant messenger, where he revealed that, for fun, he and his friends surfed—pulled by a truck—in the muddy trenches on the sides of roads in Houston, Texas, after it rained. I was sure that I would be rejected as soon as he realized that, for fun, me and my friends sucked dick, rain or shine.

  But he turned out to be great. Sure, we had our differences, but he respected me and my lifestyle, as I did his. One of the strange things about going through the different stages in your life as a gay man is that you experience coming out over and over. I had been out for more than five years, and I was comfortable in my skin, but going off to college and having a stranger as my roommate made me relive the entire process.

  I came out to David one night at 2:00 a.m., after returning from a dorm party full of liquid courage. He was up on his top bunk watching Planet Earth when I stormed in and wasted no time word-vomiting my confession: “David, I need to tell you something I’m gay but that doesn’t mean I’m going to try to have sex with you or anything I just need you to know because it’s just who I am I can’t help it, I was born—”

  “Dude, obviously, I know.” He chuckled, pausing Planet Earth. “Is that all?”

  Coming out always feels like it’s going to be a bigger deal than it ever ends up being. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “What time is your first class tomorrow? We should figure out our showering schedule.” Just like that, he had moved on to more important things, like clocks and grout. Here’s a picture of when I ran into him one night at the Whiskey Barrel Saloon, a line-dancing and mechanical-bull bar. Behind us, you’ll see Rachel and Dolan, my two friends from high school that I made my YouTube channel to keep in touch with.

  But let’s go back to March 18. I was sprawled out, still recovering from my hangover. I looked over toward David’s desk, where he had been hunched over studying. As a mechanical-engineering student, he was always studying. As a communications student, I was always in bed struggling through a hangover. This was us in a snapshot.

  “I don’t know what last night was. It was so spur-of-the-moment and out-of-the-blue, and Adam’s straight, or at least he says he is.”

  “Okay, well, he’s not straight. If he was straight, he wouldn’t have slept with you.”

  Well, that was a fair point. My flip phone vibrated.

  “He just texted me,” I squawked.

  Hey you. Wanna grab dinner tonight?

  “What do I say?!”

  “Well, do you want to get dinner with him or not? That’s your answer.” Again, structurally sound.

  I said yes. Then, after waiting for hours to pass that felt like an eternity, the time came for our date. I made my way down the hall and waited in line outside my dorm’s cafeteria entrance, tapping my wallet in my pocket in anticipation. As I neared the entrance, I scanned the tables.

  There he sat, looking down, tapping away at his BlackBerry—his brown hair flipped effortlessly, his stubble just the right length. He was so put together, and I felt so disheveled. I still couldn’t believe the night I’d had with him. I blushed just thinking about it.

  “ID please?” the cafeteria worker asked. I broke my longing gaze and fumbled for my wallet, just as my phone started vibrating in my other pocket. I fished that out too, and three words lit up on my screen: I see you.

  I glanced in his direction and was struck by his gaze; his eyes met mine, and he perched his chin on the palm of his hand. He had the slightest smile. This boy is going to wreck me.

  In between scoops of Chinese orange chicken and white rice, we talked about everything except the night before—his estrangement from his mom, the clubs I was in during high school, his hobby of refurbishing furniture, my fondness for Scrabble, his adoration of Céline Dion’s greatest-hits album, my love of wraparound porches—everything, everything except what had happened the last night. I didn’t want to scare him off by bringing it up, but I also couldn’t go on pretending that it didn’t happen or that it wasn’t a big deal for me.

  “So about last night . . . ,” I started.

  “Listen . . . I’m sorry I ran out this morning. I was planning on acting like I was too drunk to remember what happened, but that wouldn’t be fair. It was just a lot.” He lowered his voice. “I’m straight, though. You know that, right?”

  “Right, of course. Let’s go back to talking about Céline’s greatest hits.”

  He didn’t so much as smirk.

  “Will you hand me my phone? It’s on my desk,” I whispered, pointing. David Archuleta, American Idol’s adorable Mormon Monchhichi look-alike, was up next to perform “Angels” by Robbie Williams, for Inspirational Music week. I was ready to be moved to tears. Adam handed me my flip phone, so I could prepare to vote via text for as long as was allowed.

  It had been twenty-four days since St. Patrick’s Day, and since then, American Idol nights had become our thing. Adam would come over twice a week for dinner in my building’s cafeteria, we’d watch Paula Abdul floun
ce for an hour, and then we’d vote while chatting about anything and everything. I’d always vote for David Archuleta: Adam would vote for whoever he thought was best that week. Such a fair-weather fan. We didn’t call our American Idol nights dates, but they did include a meal, a social activity, and an adult activity—so if we were to continue with no labels, I was 100 percent fine with that.

  As Ryan Seacrest was about to introduce David Archuleta, I shushed Adam authoritatively, despite that he wasn’t talking. Adam’s phone began vibrating, and I glared at him with a look that said, If you are taking this call, you are taking it in the hallway—DAVID ARCHULETA IS ABOUT TO SING.

  “I should take this,” he whispered. He leaned in to kiss my neck before scurrying out of the room. If a kiss was involved, I guess one interruption was allowed.

  David Archuleta was slowly circled in a wide-angle camera shot, which then zoomed in on his adorable, lovable face. His voice quivered as he sang and played the grand piano center stage. Thirty seconds into his rendition of “Angels,” I was already crying. There was just something about this guy. It could also have been the song—a cherubic boy with a heavenly voice was singing something so sweet and tender. It was all too much for me.

  Halfway through the performance, Adam reappeared. I shushed him again, even though he had been completely silent. He leaned against the doorway and watched the performance, holding his phone to his ear. Even Adam, who was usually a steel trap emotionally, had tears in his eyes. Behold the power of David Archuleta.

  Thunderous applause, a heavy sigh from me, and American Idol cut to commercial. I turned my head and asked who called.

  “That was my dad. My mom is dead.”

  If I had to pinpoint the exact moment when Adam was ready to stop the charade and accept that we cared about each other—and that we might have a future—it was that night. It was the first time he invited me to his dorm room, the first time we cuddled instead of fucked, the first time I saw him cry, and the first time I didn’t deflect with humor. We were stuck there, in that moment, with only each other. For the first time, we were unafraid to lean on each other.

  When someone you care about suffers a devastating loss, there isn’t much you can say. In almost any situation, I typically give honest, blunt advice. A friend stole your man? Set her front lawn on fire. Your roommate doesn’t wash his dishes? Shatter those dishes and delicately lay them under his sheets. Can’t decide which shirt to buy? Buy both and a third, because American Apparel gives you a discount if you purchase three of any item. Mom dies? I’ve got nothing. This was one of the first times I was left speechless, and I felt like I was speechless for weeks. What I did know to do was to hug him more than he’d ever ask for—so that’s what I did.

  “Thank you for being so . . . there,” Adam said, putting his hand on my leg. He always drove, I always sat in the passenger seat. We’d been seeing each other for a few months now, and we had developed our little ways. His hand on my knee was one of them.

  “You would do the same for me,” I said. I brought his hand up to my lips and kissed his fingers softly. I thought about what I was dying to say out loud but was too terrified to reveal. Something I’d never been quite sure of before with anyone else, but was so undeniably positive I was feeling now: I loved him.

  With our first year of university coming to a close, we said our good-byes. Adam packed up his dorm room into his SUV. As he lifted each box, his lean, muscular arms flexed, and I melted. As he reached up to close the trunk, his T-shirt rose and exposed his tan, hairy midriff. I stood on the sidewalk, arms folded, frowning melodramatically. The weight of separation felt so heavy.

  “Fourth of July isn’t that far away,” he said, as we walked back into his dorm’s empty hallway. Most of the people on his floor had already moved out, and his need to hide his affection for me wasn’t in the forefront of his mind. As I stepped into his empty room, I heard him close the door behind me. I looked out his window at the parents helping their kids pack up their stuff in the parking lot below. “I can’t wait to watch the fireworks with you,” he whispered into my ear, and he wrapped his arms around me.

  I was staying in the dorms as a sports-camp counselor that summer, and Adam was heading back to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where he was from. He’d invited me to come up to his hometown for a few days for the Fourth of July, and it would be my first trip to the Upper Peninsula.

  Leading up to the trip, time seemed to stand still. I counted down the days by crossing them off on the calendar I kept fixed to my door.

  After what felt like an eternity of waiting, I packed up my car and started my road trip. I was speeding so much that I got pulled over twice within hours. The first time, the police officer simply gave me a ticket. The second cop asked when the last time I got pulled over was, and when I replied, “Today,” he began screaming at me about how I’d more likely die than reach my destination.

  I pocketed the tickets and viewed them as fees I was happy to pay to see my boyfriend sooner. I arrived way ahead of schedule.

  During that trip, I played the role of Adam’s “college buddy” here to visit for the holiday. The charade was sometimes thrilling but always frustrating. I felt so close to him in private, but in public he virtually looked through me. If I’d known better then, I wouldn’t have developed a relationship like that. The little things kept me hooked, though.

  He showed his intimacy in small ways, just for us. When his dad asked one night during dinner if Adam had a girlfriend, he smirked at me with a devilish grin. I was his dirty little secret. Under the table, I ran my foot up his leg to stake my claim.

  One day, we took a hike through Marquette’s woods to a local landmark, the Blackrocks. It’s a cliff overlooking Lake Superior where brave locals jump off and free-fall into the numbingly cold water. We wore our swimsuits, just in case the water was tolerable, but the unpopulated cliff indicated that it was way too cold for anyone today. One dip of a toe in the water confirmed that there was no way I’d be voluntarily taking the leap. So, of course, Adam elected the involuntary route. While I was looking out at the water from the edge of the cliff, Adam took a running start behind me, grabbed me around the waist, and leaped. The two of us fell, screaming, until we hit the impossibly cold water below. Gasping for air, I swore I could kill him, but before I could even begin to yell, he wrapped himself around me and kissed me, deep, long, and full. I barely remembered that I couldn’t breathe. I swam to the edge, climbed out of the water, and stomped up the hill. I was soaked, freezing, and out of breath, but also grinning ear to ear.

  We spent Independence Day itself adventuring through his town. While walking from his house to the Fourth of July parade, we took a detour through a neighborhood of cobblestone streets and houses with large wraparound porches. Young, dumb, and infatuated, we talked about what kind of dogs we’d want when we became grown-ups or if we wanted kids someday. Golden retriever, multiple kids, perfect. We walked past a few toddlers playing in a front lawn, and he leaned over and said, “You’re gonna be a good dad.” This was my version of talking dirty.

  That night, we threw on a couple sweaters and made our way to one of Marquette’s other landmarks, the ore docks, where the city launched fireworks over the lake. We sat on the large rocks on the edge of the lake as the show began, watching the sky illuminate. “I love you,” Adam whispered into my ear. I melted.

  After that weekend, I made my way back to the dorms, absolutely head over heels in love. I had months to go until school started and I would see him again, but in the meantime, I was beyond smitten, reeling. Never before had I felt this.

  While a lot of my time that summer was spent working with the visiting sports campers, the rest was spent waiting for Adam’s calls or texts. One way I kept occupied was by watching seasons of Grey’s Anatomy and living vicariously through the doctors and their love affairs. That summer, everything spoke to me and everything reminded me of Adam. The sound track to Grey’s Anatomy, especially, took over my brain
, and one song in particular embodied how I felt about Adam: “Part of the beauty of falling in love with you is the fear you won’t fall.”

  I had Joshua Radin’s “The Fear You Won’t Fall” on repeat. While I now look back and cringe, I even made a music-video montage of me looking pensive in different spots of our university’s botanical garden. Graciously, Adam called it cute, but looking back, I was crazy. I couldn’t help it. I blame love.

  “How many people here are in a relationship with someone else in the class?”

  Hands flew up by the pair, the lovebirds glancing at each other, giddy.

  “By the time you finish this course, almost all of you will have broken up.” As if shot from the air, the hands dropped, and the lecture began.

  It was fall semester of my sophomore year, and I was in COM225, a course at Michigan State University about relationships and love—taught by a married couple. I would enroll in plenty of classes by Steve and Kelly, but this was my first. It was a popular class, one almost every upperclassman advised freshmen to take. So, when figuring out our schedules, Adam and I both enrolled. The subjects seemed pertinent.

  During the class, the instructors took turns teaching us lessons about love, statistics about relationships, and warnings for any couples that sat in the lecture hall together. Instead of paying attention to information that might have saved our relationship, Adam and I doodled dreamily on each other’s notebook.

  Scrabble tonight? he wrote.

  YES, I wrote.

  Only six points for yes, better up your game.

  ACQUIESCENCE, I replied.

  After class, we walked back to our dorm building, the same one I had lived in the previous year. The biggest difference was that this year Adam was my suite-mate. As an RA, dating your residents is strictly forbidden, but considering he was still very much in the closet—even to himself—nobody was going to find out, but people speculated. One time, we came back to our hall to find FAG in Sharpie all over my door. I sighed, exhausted by the mountainous paperwork probably entailed in filing a report, not to mention that as an RA I’d surely be expected to call a hall meeting to discuss feelings. A moment later, Adam was appalled to find FAG BF scribbled all over his door. I thrilled a little that we were official now, at least according to one hateful vandal, but he was clearly humiliated.