by Seth King
I mean thong.
I smile and try to stand taller. “Oh, I’m a dangling modifier.”
“A what?”
“Sorry, it’s an English major joke. Anyway, no, I won’t be in anything crazy, so you won’t have anything to worry about. See you around, okay?”
“Okay, then…”
As I walk away, I get a text from Ryan:
Ryan: Change of plans. I look so good in my modified dress, I’m entering the costume contest at Club One. Just meet me there in an hour-ish?
I shrug. Club One is Savannah’s biggest gay club, and it honestly sounds better than where we were going before.
Josh: Whatever. As long as I get drunk and have access to hot men, I’ll be fine. See you there, I guess. I’ll Lyft.
Ryan: See you soon, xoxo
I sit down on my bed, still feeling more than a little unnerved by the Harry conversation.
That was even more awkward than our first meeting, if at all possible. Because Harry and I had the opposite of a “meet cute.” Whatever the worst meeting in the world is, multiply that by ten. It was moving-in day, and I got in early and started unpacking. I was super excited that I somehow got a three-bedroom unit with only one roommate, and I was…shall we say…christening the guest bathroom when he opened the door on me.
Yep, as if the sex encounter wasn’t bad enough, the toilet day was how we first met. He opened the door while I was sitting there, scrolling through my phone and doing my business. Maybe it’s no wonder our dynamic never recovered, and we never truly became friends. I’d never forget it if I were him, either. There are some things people just don’t want to see, and that is one of them.
But still, tonight something felt…off. I just felt it instinctually. He was nervous, and he is never nervous. What was I missing? It couldn’t have been that he caught me staring, because that’s happened before. But just the way he was looking at me…he was curious about something, in a way that made me shiver. And I didn’t like it.
But what was he curious about?
And what, exactly, was the problem?
Harry Young
Confession time: I didn’t ask Joshua whether he was staring at me because I was offended.
I asked him because I wanted him to be staring at me.
I asked him because I wanted to feel what it felt like for him to want me.
And spoiler alert: it didn’t really feel bad at all.
In fact, I kind of enjoyed the hell out of it…
~
I work on my traps and then start on my biceps. For months now, this little gym has been my only place of solace, the only cure for the storm in my head. But tonight, none of it matters anymore. Because as soon as I finish my workout, I am dressing up in disguise and going out to a costume party…at a gay club.
And I know, I know – me, Harry Young, star running back and reputed ladies’ man, doing something like that – I know it sounds shocking.
But if you knew me even a bit, it wouldn’t be shocking at all.
As a very young kid I always knew I was a little different from the other boys. Just…softer. I didn’t know what it was, what exactly the difference could be called, but…I felt it. I noticed it. So did everyone else. In the early days there was like a forcefield around me that repelled other boys and made their parents make comments about how “artistic” I was.
One day my father picked me up from school early and brought me to a therapist. I had no idea what was up, and was I half afraid he was seeking her help to tell me of a divorce or something, since my dad was a drunk for a time and my parents’ marriage was clearly not really on good ground. He left me in the waiting room and went in to talk, and it dragged on and on.
Soon curiosity got the best of me. I crept into the hallway to pretend I was on the way to the bathroom, but I stopped outside the therapist’s door and listened in.
What I heard changed my life forever:
I can still hear my dad’s anguished voice, after all these years.
“I’m sick of ignoring it, I’m sick of my wife saying it’s normal…”
“He doesn’t even have any male friends, even today when I walked into the cafeteria to pick him up, he was surrounded by girls…”
“He won’t play any sports, he doesn’t even know which way to swing a damn baseball bat…”
“His voice is so quiet, and he’s too into all this artsy stuff, and I just…I just…”
The therapist finally broke in and said something in a gentle, but horrified, voice about how you “cannot change the nature of a child,” but I fled into the waiting room as soon as I could, shell-shocked and mortified.
My dad came out soon, red-faced and annoyed, and said we had to go. I assumed this meant the therapist had refused his order to somehow “change” me, and we left in a huff.
But I was never the same. That was the day my dad decided to start “changing” me, therapist be damned. When we left London and moved to America, he made me join the fifth grade football team to “Americanize” me, and surprisingly, I was good. Really good.
And I enjoyed it. On the field, all the noise inside me died out, and I only had to focus on one thing: football. For the first time in my life, nothing else mattered, and I savored the mental white noise. I rose through the ranks, going from star middle school kicker to star high school kicker to star college kicker. Eventually I was able to successfully bury the part of me that had horrified and confused me as a child. I dated girls and joined the jock squad and became a new person, and that was that.
As I grew older, I was somewhat shocked to learn that I really did enjoy sex with women. Did I struggle to form romantic bonds with them, besides that? Yes. Deep down, I knew I probably wasn’t living as myself, but my father’s warnings had sent me a message: being different isn’t a possibility.
So I listened to that message.
But this autumn marked the first time I’ve ever even really thought about any of this on a serious level. The memory just kind of faded, but then it came roaring back: proof that I was not the person I was trying to be. Deep down I realized I’d become bored with my life.
And it was all because of Joshua Nash.
As soon as we moved in together, I was instantly kind of fascinated by his life. I’d never met anyone like him. Not even close. Up until then, my whole life had been structured around workouts and football camps and protein intake. Suddenly I was watching him parade in and out with drag queens, boys in dresses and beards, friendly lesbian girls who smoked weed at all times – all kinds of fun, free-loving people I’d never encountered before. There was just something about him – he was never not smiling or laughing.
I thought we were becoming casual friends. And then things got…weird.
One night I opened his door to ask about the Apple remote and locked eyes with him, and another guy was…well, inside him. Fucking him. From behind.
When it happened, I just stared for a moment. I got a strange, guttural, carnal thought: I wanted to be doing that. I wanted to know what that was like. I wanted to try it.
All at once I realized I wasn’t just interested in his lifestyle.
I was interested in what he was doing in his bedroom.
And then I turned and walked away, but the curiosity didn’t leave so quickly. Over the next few weeks I started getting these…these thoughts. Sometimes I’d want to talk to him, sometimes I’d be enraged by his very presence and leave the room. But I thought about him more and more.
For a period of time I was able to mostly ignore this and focus on my life as it existed, as I always had, since repression was all I knew. But three weeks ago, everything changed.
I woke up one morning with a strange feeling in my stomach, like I had to vomit even though I hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. It got worse and worse, and no vomit came – and soon I knew it was no ordinary flu. That night I went to the ER, and everything happened so quickly I barely remember most of it. They did a scan and told me my appendix h
ad perforated, and it was making my blood toxic, and they had to do surgery immediately.
I mean, I know it wasn’t the riskiest surgery ever, but when they rolled me down that hallway to the operating room I saw my whole life in stark relief. Instantly, much of the confusion I felt about my situation just slipped away: from that moment on, I decided, I would do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted to do it, because life was too fucking short.
I recovered quickly, but I still wasn’t exactly in a mood to go out and find a lover or anything. My resolve was strengthened a few days ago, when I got a call from an international number and found out my great-grandmum had died in Singapore. (She had a great life, it was her time to go, my family is grateful for the outpouring of love, etcetera.)
But suddenly I was reminded again: I was living half of a life.
And I needed to change it.
Something about Joshua’s experience was enthralling to me, and I wanted to know why he was so happy all the time, how he could wake up every day and seem like he genuinely enjoyed being alive. Was it all involved with him being gay? I mean, I wasn’t stupid enough to think that being gay was some “happy pill” that just made you smile all day for no reason. That’s ignorant. But what did he and his friends understand about life that I didn’t?
Last weekend happened to be Pride here in Savannah, since it’s too hot here to do it in the early summer, the usual time. I walked out of my cycling gym downtown and watched the floats go by, and I became more fascinated than ever. I’d never seen people who were so…free. Thankfully I didn’t see Joshua; I don’t even know what I would have said. But that made me positive: I was going to check this thing out.
Smash cut to yesterday, when I noticed a flier while walking to my favorite coffee shop:
CLUB ONE’S ANNUAL COSTUME CONTEST – THURSDAY, OCTOBER 31. GO BIG OR GO HOME. NO COVER FOR ANYONE IN COSTUME. FREE SHOT FOR ANYONE DEEMED FABULOUS ENOUGH. TWO FREE SHOTS FOR ANYONE IN FULL DRAG. COSTUME CONTEST AT MIDNIGHT, SHARP! (THE DRAG QUEEN CONTEST WILL BE HELD SEPARATELY AS A BEAUTY PAGEANT, AS NO NORMAL FOLK CAN COMPETE WITH THAT LEVEL OF FABULOSITY.) SEE YOU THERE, QUEERS!
Instantly I realized it would be a perfect first foray into Joshua’s world, because I could show up without actually showing myself. What better place, and time, to investigate a little, and maybe try things out with a random dude? Nobody would even know who the hell I am. Everyone else would be in costumes, too. So this afternoon I stopped by a costume store and bought a mask, a Batman/Bruce Wayne thing with pointy ears that covers everything above my upper lip. Then I pulled my best tuxedo out of my closet, the one I wear to weddings. And tonight I will be going to a gay Halloween party in disguise.
To everyone at the party, I will simply be another dude in a mask. And that’s exactly how I want it.
And I mean, I know I could have asked Joshua for information anytime, but I also don’t want to put him on the spot – it’s not his responsibility to teach me about his life and his experience and his story. He did not sign up to be Professor of Gay Information 101, and I won’t do that to him. I’m almost relieved he won’t be there tonight, as he’s probably the only gay person I know who would potentially recognize me, even under my mask.
Even if I was a little disappointed when he just said he wasn’t going…
Besides, something’s been up with him lately. The guy he used to have around all the time – he suddenly vanished, and then Joshua started going on daily runs, and mixed up his wardrobe, and got some blonde streaks in his hair, which was previously kind of a dishwater color. He’s got a lot going on, so I figure I’ll check things out myself, on my own. My new curiosity, or whatever you want to call it, is nobody’s problem but my own.
On the way out of the gym room, I trip over one of Joshua’s 13,000 autumnal/Halloween displays he has around the house. I knock over an entire pile of gourds, and then despite myself, I laugh. His level of Halloween spirit makes Mariah Carey’s celebration of Christmas look like child’s play. I mean, he has so much fall potpourri left out, it smells like living in a holiday crafts store. As quirky as the guy is, you have to admit it’s kind of charming and endearing, in a weird sort of way…
Anyway.
I shower and brush my hair back and change into my tuxedo. It’s tailored perfectly, since my mum still has contacts on Savile Row from her days as a London socialite. When I put on the mask, I find that it’s the same exact shade of black as my suit and hair.
I study myself in the mirror. I look good, I can’t deny it. Maybe someone will hit on me, after all. I don’t drink, but I’m making an exception tonight, just to make sure I’m lubricated enough to deal with everything without freaking out, or getting cold feet. But that seems unlikely, anyway – right now I feel fine.
I grab my keys and take a breath. I’m about to head to the first gay club of my life, but somehow I’m not nervous at all. As I was reminded recently, life’s short – why freak out about dumb shit?
Ready, set, go.
And if all goes to plan, I will maybe have kissed my first dude by the time my iPhone reads November at midnight. Who knows?
I’ve done crazier shit. Trust me on that one.
Josh Nash
“Faggot!” some guy calls out of a passing car as I climb out of my Lyft a few storefronts down from Club One. Ugh – I knew wearing my costume in public was going to get me a few comments, even on a night like this. Oh, well! Sorry they’re so jealous!
I turn and pose. “Sorry, you’re only halfway right. I fucked girls in high school until I came out of the closet, and I liked it, so technically I’m pansexual, bitch!”
The car careens down the street, the occupants laughing wildly, as I turn and head for the club. Ugh – straight bros, amirite?!
My “costume,” like I said, is simply a black thong and some combat boots. The thong is loose, giving me room to hang down there, and I wrote the word “modifier” on my crotch, right over where my dick is – meaning that my “modifier” is literally dangling. I wanted to be slutty and clever at the same time, and I think I got it right…
Anyway, I wait in line, enjoying the night – this morning, the first actual cold front of the season swept through, and the cool air feels heavenly against my skin. Now this Halloween.
After I make it through the door, I start pushing through the crowd. God, Halloween is so fun with the gays. Everywhere I look I see drag queens in their glammed-up best, oiled-up muscle boys in cop and firemen outfits, and every conceivable costume you could think of in between: devils, soldiers, political figures, celebrities. All costumes are just cut down to miniscule size, since this is a gay club, of course.
The club itself has been transformed: the walls and ceilings are draped in cobwebs, the go-go dancers are wearing full-body skeleton makeup, and all the lights have been draped in orange filters. Heaven, if you ever asked me!
I find Ryan by the old Jukebox in the corner (why do bars and clubs even have Jukeboxes anymore, in the days of aux cords and digital playlists, anyway?!) and see them scrolling through the gay hookup apps on their phone.
I put a hand over the screen. “Ryan. You are at a club, filled with gay dudes. That’s supposed to be the point of the apps, to bring people together. You don’t need them in here, and you look pathetic, no offense.”
“Ugh, fine. But you show me someone who wants to make out with a non-binary person in a dress, then!” they cry, throwing their phone into their purse.
I frown, because Ryan has a point – a very good one. After untethering themselves from the umbilical cord of gender, Ryan has faced a much harder time finding someone who will deal with…well, all that Ryan is. Many gay guys can find their “masculinity” threatened by a man in pumps, and that will be the case until society moves forward. But Ryan will find someone, I know they will.
Maybe even tonight, with my help…not that Ryan needs it, but I’ve been known to be quite the matchmaker in my day…
Just not with myself, I guess.
“Anyway,” I say, “you followed my advice, and your dress looks great! You look like a major whore. Like, Julia-Roberts-in-Pretty-Woman levels of skank.”
Ryan blushes. “Aw, thank you! This is why Halloween is the top of my holiday totem pole. Christmas, when I have to go eat dinner with my family and hide myself and basically present as male again? No thanks. And Easter, with all the religious overtones? Not for me, although I do look good in pastels.”
“True,” I offer.
“Yep, but Halloween, baby! The one night I can be myself, and people just assume I’m in costume, instead of them wanting to kill me!”
“Hear, hear!” I say, kissing Ryan’s cheek.
“Now let’s fight our way to the bar, I need a drink before I pass out from this heat, and from this horribly stuffy eighties fabric. Polyester will kill me before some extremist nutjob does, I swear.”
We push toward the bar, but we can’t even get within ten bodies of the bartender – it’s that crowded. Ugh. I should’ve prepared by taking a shot or two before I left, but I was too busy taking an extended jack-off session in the shower, lost in one of my Harry fantasies.
Oh yes, I have multiple versions. As a rule, I usually try not to fantasize about straight guys, because I respect their whole “being straight” situation, but living with Harry has made me into a madman.
Here are a few of my fantasies:
I accidentally-on-purpose walk in on him when he’s fucking a woman, but he looks at me and falls into insta-love and realizes he wants to try dick instead. I kick the girl out of bed, she goes home in a huff, and Harry pounds me missionary style until dawn.
I’m walking down the hall late one night when I accidentally walk straight into him, and he’s naked because he was running to the kitchen for some water. We fall into a jumble together, somehow my clothes fall off, he gets caught up in the moment, and we fuck right there on the carpet.
