Sex makes me uncomfortable. Sure, I like it. Yet, the carnivorous aspect of coitus has always been lost on me. And here, in this Houston home with a red light in the window flagging down gays like the Bat Signal, everyone is ravenous.
I ran the glass over my lips, spreading the burn of the lingering liquid, and pulled out a black sweater that would be demure if not for the particular interplay between its semi-deep V and my own advantages.
A part of me — not my ass, particularly — would normally find this sort of chauvinism deplorable. Still, somewhere between traumatizing-sexual-encounter and needing-attention-from-men my indignation evaporates.
Every night, I would say buona notte as I left, searching his eyes for recognition. You’re still here, I’d think. Don’t go yet. On the last night when he was still speaking, he said it back to me, quietly, as I left the room. Buona notte.
In the mirror, I’m a barely recognizable 98 pounds — “Olsen-twin chic” as I call it. But there’s nothing chic about this at all. I’ve been self-destructive, chasing pretenses of glamour — and for what? I’m disgusted with myself.
I need more than just a drink, I need a pick-me-up, a familiar taste. After all, the pineapple is the symbol of hospitality. Why not order Stiggins’ and hope for the best?
See, this way, I can prove I’m smart — an urgent need as I continue to fail spectacularly in French or algebra. I can prove it, in particular, to my Dad. Beat him at his own game, make him proud — it’s flawless logic, no?
There are a few of us having a fancy meal and drinking a douchey French rosé called Ruse le Douche, talking about how dissecting comedy is awful. It’s the show’s host, the playwright, my girlfriend, and myself. I should have gotten more stoned.
I had tried to imagine making the first move, but my brain had stuttered and stalled. Would I be able to put my face so close to someone else’s without flinching, years of training in respecting personal space flooding my head?
