A Letter To The Guy I Made Out With Who Secretly Had A Boyfriend
We met at The Cock, a seedy gay bar in the East Village known for its raunchiness and dim lighting (which is a godsend sometimes during those drunken hookups, let’s be honest). It was around two in the morning when we locked eyes. It was getting to the point of the night where gay men actually just go up to you and grab your penis to see if you’re down to bone. You have to swat them away like bugaboo flies while asking yourself why you came to this sex parlor in the first place. Oh, right—it was to hook up with someone.
You were insanely tall, which was a physical trait I craved after having been with a string of shorties. You wore basketball shorts and a white t-shirt and I remember being O-B-S-E-S-S-E-D with that look. Your vibe was so “I’m leaving the GF at home while I get my David Gest on!” and I was definitely picking up what you were putting down.
We said hi and I tried to make small talk because I’m shy and like to pretend that I’m always looking for a boyfriend rather than just a hot random guy to make out with in public. You were just like, “Yeah, no. We’re not even going to do a song and dance.” and went in for a kiss. I admired your aggressiveness but was also slightly terrified. I mean, it’s jarring to taste someone’s tongue juices before you even know their name. Oh yeah, YOUR NAME. Wanna know what it was? It’s so #dark. Sergio. SER-G-OH. Wow. Anyway, you were making out with me and it felt good but also sort of desperado. Your tongue was going in deep and like Angela Chase once said to Jordan Catalano on an episode of My So-Called Life: “I don’t even open up that wide at the dentist!”
From what I can remember though, everything felt good. Your body was so long! And your butt felt nice, which is an essential thing for me. Occasionally we would come up for air and ask each other questions like “What’s your name? Are you a serial killer? Did you have pizza for dinner? It tastes good!” I learned that you went to Bard for music (?) and were a caterer on the side. In fact, you had just come from a catering job. You were nice and had kind eyes. The fact that you went to Bard made me feel better for some reason. Like, “Oh, you’re just a horny gay liberal arts boy like me. What are your thoughts on Judith Butler?!”
It was getting to the point where we had to decide whether or not we were going to have sex with each other. You were the one who suggested going home together and even though it freaked me out a bit, I couldn’t think of a valid excuse to say no. Why not? NEW ADVENTURES! I’m 22!
This is when things got weird. When I said yes, you immediately stiffened up and took a step back. Meanwhile, I was just like “K, we can walk this way to my apartment! Hello?” But you stood still.
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
“But-but you just said-”
“I’m really sorry.”
And then as quickly as it started, it had ended. You ran out the front door, leaving me solo star wasted at The Cock, swatting away gross men again. The whole thing felt like some weird dream. Had someone slipped me Peyote in the bathroom and was I hallucinating? Was Sergio real? He was. I knew it. I knew it while I was standing on that disgusting floor in that disgusting bar. You can’t just pull these tricks on a drunk person. They’re not of sound mind to deal with anything sudden. They’re going to stare at a wall for ten minutes in deep shame, thinking, “Wait. What? I had someone’s penis and now…it’s gone? Where’d it go?”
I’m writing this to see if you’re still out there, Sergio! I can imagine you playing the clarinet and having anonymous sex in the woods at Bard. DO YOU EVER THINK OF ME? What about our potential children? Is nothing sacred anymore?! Also, why are you going to The Cock if you already have a boyfriend? It’s a bar reserved for single horny men and freaks on leashes. You are not welcome there! Go home to your boyfriend and walk your dog and go to the flea market, okay? Get out of my world!
Full disclosure: I had somehow managed to get Sergio’s number during our make out session and texted him three times. First text: “???” Second text: “!!!” Third text: “WTF.” He responded with “i’m really sorry. you are really cute. i just made a mistake.” And then he EMOTICON’D me. Look, you can make out with me, tell me you want to sleep with me, only to abruptly jump ship. But you cannot apologize via emoticon. We’re done. I mean, I know we’re already over but now we’re, like, really over.
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She’ll cry, you’ll cry, and you’ll spend weeks wondering if you did the right thing or not. But it doesn’t matter: this girl is gone for good.
It was Saturday night and she was a friend of a friend of a friend.
You don’t need to be the most popular kid growing up to have the best friends. If each of us had our own stuffed tiger, think about how much less lonely the world would be.
My father was a hard-working man. I know fairly little about him considering he lived with my family until I was eight. He died a few years later.