Later that night, I went for drinks with Ryan. Ryan is smart and financially successful. He’s also generally attractive so he doesn’t worry about being smart and pretends that he isn’t.
Ryan asked me how my “slut summer” was going. We’d agreed that I needed to expand my sexual activities; Ryan had said it wasn’t normal to have sex with just one person in your life. I’d agreed but told him I wasn’t cut out for this slut business. I almost set up a date with a guy, but then I cancelled after finding out he was a principal at an elementary school.
“What’s wrong with a principal?” Ryan asked.
I told him that when I imagined the sex, I was worried that I would think about his elementary school students and that made me uncomfortable.
“Gross,” Ryan replied.
I wasn’t explaining myself well. Therapist says that I do that sometimes.
Ryan looked frustrated and said, “If you don’t want to know you’re fucking a principal, stop asking them what their job is.”
“I can’t help it,” I replied. “The conversations go from, ‘hey’ and ‘sup’ to ‘top or bottom’ and then I think, well, what if this guy works for McDonald’s, and then I’m sucking the dick of some guy who spends his days greasing his forehead with chicken nuggets?”
Ryan laughed really hard for a moment then corrected me. “That’s classist—and you love chicken nuggets. What you need to do is just go for it. Just set it up, no questions, and let your freak flag fly, girl.”
It made me uncomfortable every time Ryan called me “girl.” Therapist said it’s because I have internalized homophobia, but I tried to explain that it was the word they used to call me before fists would come at me and my mind would go black. I told Ryan I didn’t love chicken nuggets.
Later, when we were walking down the street, Ryan pointed at a man and said that he had a hot body. I asked if he knew that he was a homeless man, but Ryan said that he still had a hot body.
“Yeah, but from doing too many drugs,” I replied. He said I was being classist again, and then said, “Where do you think those guys with giant muscles get their bodies? Drugs.” I nodded in agreement. Therapist told me that my body dysmorphia is normal and common among gay men.
2.
“What do you like to do for fun?” I said frantically, trying to cover over my disappointment. He was not a very attractive man, and the picture on his profile used shadowing and was cropped in close to make him appear to be something else. I wondered whether people knew exactly what they looked like. I wondered if I think I look one way, but everyone else sees another me.
“You mean sexually?” he smiled.
“No, I meant for fun, like, in public.”
“Oh, regular stuff, I guess.”
“I like to knit. I know that doesn’t sound exciting, but my mind tends to go into overdrive and so when I think about something that makes me think about something else and then something else and soon it’s five in the morning, and I can’t remember where I started. One time I didn’t sleep for almost two days.”
We stared at each other for a moment. He tried to sip from his coffee cup but realized it was empty. I attempted to change the conversation. “What do you get up to on your days off?”
“Sexually?” He smiled again.
“I meant not sexually.”
“Oh … I don’t know, hang out with friends.” He rolled his cup around on its edge in a circular motion. “I guess … I like reading books.”
I started to sweat. I was still wearing my coat, but I didn’t want to take it off. I began to wipe the sweat from my forehead in case he noticed.
“Uh … what do you do for work?” I asked
“I work for a bank. It’s not really fun, but it pays the bills.”
The sweat from my forehead became unmanageable. The more I sopped it up, the more he would notice. Therapist made a joke once that my anxiety must be great for my skin. I said to the guy, “I have to rush off. I forgot that I have to meet with a friend in a few minutes.”
He offered to walk me back to my place. I agreed, since his place was along the way.
“So, like, what kind of sexual stuff are you into?”
“I’m pretty conservative,” I said. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”
“Nice, we’ll save that for tonight.”
He gave me a hug and kissed me on the cheek. I told him I was at my block, then ran seven blocks in the opposite direction, deleting his number along the way.
3.
He walked up to me, handsome and smiling, and introduced himself. He had a thick European accent; I couldn’t quite place it.
“Let’s go for a walk.” He placed his hand gently on my back and we began to walk toward the east side of town. It was late summer so I wore a T-shirt and shorts. I had a few drinks beforehand so I was still warm from the alcohol.
We talked about our jobs. He was becoming a lawyer, or a city planner. I wasn’t really paying attention; I was focusing on how I would explain my career.
I stood there quietly for ten minutes until he told me that he had better head off; he had plans.
4.
Ryan uses Botox. Ryan is twenty-nine. When we were sitting at the coffee shop, I asked him why, and he said it was to keep his face smooth. I said he was too young to be using Botox, but he said he was already getting wrinkles. I am twenty-seven.
We stepped out of the Blenz coffee shop. Ryan sipped his hot coffee through a straw and recounted the dates he’d had that week. Ryan goes on a lot of dates. I do not go on a lot of dates. My therapist says that I should try and go on more. Ryan’s descriptions of his dates were paired with a list of deformities: Too fat, too old, hairline receding faster than his interest in the conversation, too ethnic, too rich, too poor, too boring, too caring, not caring enough, too lazy, too gay, not gay enough.
Ryan asked me about my week, and I told him about work. Work is boring. Ryan agrees. This week I Googled my name every day, but there’s this other guy with my name, and he’s much more successful than I am. Ryan tells me I have to stop Googling myself because nothing will come up. I know he’s right, but I will keep Googling myself.
We rushed off to Numbers to get out of the rain. Ryan ordered a pitcher and a couple of shots. The bartender was dancing to the remix of a Cher song. There were only two people in the bar, and they were sitting alone at opposite ends of the pub. Ryan pulled out his phone and began to type.
“You know,” he said, “what you need to do is set yourself up with some sexy photos on your Grindr account. Look at your profile. You can’t wear a hat in your photo!”
I told him that I liked my photo. Ryan stared blankly at me and sipped his beer. He said I looked like a fag in that photo. I corrected him and said that was homophobic, and Ryan agreed.
5.
I pulled up to his place, got out of my car, and headed toward his door. He opened it before I could knock. He looked out from side to side and fist-punched my hand as I went in for the handshake.
When we sat on his couch, I sat too far away from him. He looked at me awkwardly so I asked him questions about his life. We talked about hookups, and he mentioned he kind of hated them. I agreed. We talked about long-term relationships and brought up our ex-boyfriends. He started to get worked up and emotional. I went to touch his knee as a sign of comfort, but I was sitting so far away from him that I had to lie on the couch to reach him. His knee jerked in response and he thanked me for a good night.
I walked back to my car and drove home.
6.
I slid under his arm, and he pulled me in, making sure that a pillow was tucked neatly under my head. My head was warm. I looked up at him and felt safe. I normally don’t feel safe. I noted to myself to remember that I felt safe. He giggled and said he wanted this to last forever. He talked about work, the weather, his underwear being uncomfortable. I talked about work, the weather, my underwear never bothering me.
I told him about the sensitivity seminar
we had at work about racism. After the seminar, I went online and noticed all of the racist comments from friends, even deleted a couple of my own comments. When I finished talking about the seminar, he pulled me in for a kiss. I said that some racism is so ingrained some people don’t even notice it. He asked for examples. “Like when people say all Asians are bad drivers,” I said. And he nodded in agreement and said, “They really are bad drivers.”
I told him I was tired. I waited until he fell asleep, grabbed my clothes, and left. I didn’t feel safe.
7.
I triple-checked the address in my phone. Buzzer 308, I repeated to myself. I pressed the buzzer, waiting for him to ask who it was, but he just buzzed me in.
He was much shorter than he’d said and had a weird tattoo on his left arm that looked like a mix between a wizard’s wand and a melted chocolate bar. The four glasses of wine I drank before the date kept me from running away. Therapist says I have a tendency to run away. He smirked, and I rushed toward him. My mouth smashed his face and our teeth clanged.
“You’re an eager one.”
I didn’t respond. I was thinking of anything but this. Mostly about the laundry I could be doing. I had a load of whites in the washer, and I didn’t want to put them in the dryer before I’d left because I was afraid the house could burn down unless I was there. So they were just sitting in the washer, and they get that weird smell when they’re left in there too long. When I refocused, he had already removed all of my clothes. He undressed himself to reveal several more tattoos—a few Asian characters, some tribal tattoos, and something that looked like Tinkerbell. It was probably Tinkerbell. He was not Asian. Some people would assume he was a good driver because he wasn’t Asian, but that’s not true, that’s racist. I never liked Tinkerbell. She was so small; it always seemed as though someone could crush her in their palm. I didn’t like most Disney films. Some adults still go to Disneyland. Therapist says we hold onto our childhoods sometimes.
“You like when I hold your hands down like this?”
“I guess,” I said. He held down my hands as he began to lick my face. He began to grunt. I began to laugh. Therapist says I laugh when I’m uncomfortable. The laughter stopped when I felt a series of sharp pains.
“Do you like when I pull your balls?”
“It kinda hurts,” I replied.
“But, like, a good hurts?”
“Is there such a thing as good hurt?”
He stopped and looked at me. “Are you even enjoying this?”
“Yeah. Sure, it’s fun.” I wasn’t sure if it was fun. Ryan always says that it’s better to just agree during sex even if it’s not fun.
He smirked again. “Yeah, this is kind of fun, isn’t it?”
I thought about laundry again and all of the things I would miss if my apartment burned down.
8.
I met him at the beach, like he requested. He showed up in sunglasses and didn’t take them off even after sunset. He pulled out beers from his bag, and we drank them quickly. I asked if he had cups to put them in but he laughed. He asked me to come home with him. He was handsome, so I said yes.
His place was dirty and smelled like garbage. When we sat down, he quickly leaned in for a kiss. We made out for a while until he stopped and asked if it was okay if he smoked some weed. I said okay. He asked if I wanted any, and I said, “No, I get paranoid and sleepy, and it makes my heart feel like it’s going to beat out of my chest.”
He smoked the weed then kissed me again. He asked if he could do some coke before we continued. I said okay. He asked me if I wanted some, and I said no. I tried coke once because Ryan said it would make me feel better, and then he had to rub my back as I breathed into a paper bag.
He inhaled the powder and kissed me again. Then he asked if we could just cuddle instead. I said okay. We got into his bed fully clothed and he held me, then held onto me for what felt like an hour before he fell asleep. I got up and left him in bed. When I was grabbing my jacket from his living room, I noticed all of the framed photos—there must have been about forty—of him with another man. There was a cold breeze from an open window that told me to leave. On the way home, I had chicken nuggets and wondered if Ryan was right, that I was classist.
9.
I met him at the corner, and he asked if we could walk toward the ocean. We walked for a couple of hours around the Seawall, and he told me everything he could think of: He told me about his childhood, he told me about his first dog. When he said we should head back to his place to get more comfortable, I held back for a moment and watched him walk forward. I waited for him to notice that I was gone and turn back, but he kept walking. He walked until he was out of sight. I never saw or heard from him again.
DATE: TOMMAS12
Ryan was finishing prepping the dinner for Tommas12. When the doorbell rang, Ryan felt a weird twinge in his chest. He shook it off and welcomed his guest in.
Ryan poured red wine for them, and they chatted on the couch. Blank is friends with blank, and I know blank from the gym who knows blank because he works at the bar. Ryan gulped the last of his wine to calm his nerves. His skin was tingling.
“Tom, should we open another bottle?”
“Charlie, actually. Tommas is my last name. Don’t worry, I get that all the time.” Charlie leaned in and kissed Ryan, awkwardly missing his lips. “Sorry, I’m actually blind in one eye so I don’t have proper depth perception.”
Ryan was about to make fun of him, but his skin turned hot.
“I’m kidding.” Charlie leaned in and kissed Ryan.
The second bottle of wine came out, and Ryan could feel his nerves calm down.
“Can I be really honest? I actually really hate your profile on Grindr.”
“Why?” Ryan laughed.
“Well, you write about what you don’t want on your profile, and it comes across as really bitchy. Also, ‘hiking buddy’? Really?”
“To be really honest, I fucking hate hiking,” admitted Ryan. He laughed and felt his muscles clench. The light was too bright. He went to turn it down.
“Getting romantic already?”
Ryan laughed nervously. “Sorry, I just have light sensitivity sometimes.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know.” Charlie reached out and touched Ryan’s hand. Ryan felt his chest tighten further. He pulled away and went to the kitchen to put out the dinner. Charlie moved to the dinner table. They ate quietly, Charlie closing his eyes every time he put a morsel of food in his mouth.
“You’re a really good cook!”
“Thanks, I’ve always liked cooking. Kind of wish I went to culinary school.”
“You should!”
“Well, I did once, but I dropped out.”
“Why?”
“I just didn’t like it, I guess.”
Charlie continued to eat until his plate was clear. When he finished his wine, he looked at Ryan. “Can I tell you something? This is actually the first time I’ve agreed to go on a date with someone I hooked up with.” Ryan cleared the plates and brought over another bottle of wine. Charlie moved back to the couch. Ryan sat next to him, and Charlie moved in closer. He wrapped his arms around Ryan and kissed his neck, saying “This feels nice.”
Ryan felt the room move. His chest tightened quickly and he felt dizzy. He tried to breathe, but the dizziness had set in too fast to breathe away. His skin was heating up.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” Ryan stumbled to the washroom, locked the door, and lay down on the cold tile floor. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled her number.
A polite and quiet voice answered. “Ryan?”
“I … I,” Ryan stammered, lying flat on the floor.
“It’s okay. Breathe slowly. Think of something to calm you down. Remember the summer in Banff?”
Ryan coughed in acknowledgement.
She continued, “When Dad was keeping nickel candies in his drawer? We always stole the candies just moments after he hid them, and he would alway
s wonder where they went.”
“He … he thought it was Mom. How’s Mom?”
“She’s good.”
Ryan unclenched his fist from his chest. “I need to call you back. I have a date over.” Ryan pressed end on the phone. He got up, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands. He walked back into the living room. Charlie was looking at his books. “You okay?”
Ryan nodded. “I am just really tired. You should probably go.” Charlie gave Ryan a gentle hug, said that they should do this again, and kissed him. Ryan’s skin began to vibrate. When he left, Ryan went back to the bathroom and felt the cold tile floor cooling his skin.
Ryan texted “Hey, come over.”
MuscGuy responded, “Get into bed, leave your door unlocked.”
THE LICENSE
He sat back and rustled his shirt in annoyance. He was not supposed to be here, and he was going to do everything in his power to make it known. A group of young men and one young woman sat around the room. He would go in and out of listening to their stories. One of them had been going to a party and was pulled over for swerving too much; one had been getting off work late, was too drunk, and hit a pole; one was off to a club and went through a road block; one ran a red light and severely injured a family.
His son pulled up in front of the building. He fumbled with the door handle then immediately complained, “I have a couple drinks and then I am a drunk. Who say that? Who say I’m a drunk? When I was your age, I had a coupla drinks, then I go home. No one bug me. In Italy, everybody drunk and then they drive home. And no one say a thing. I remember, it was maybe forty years ago, we would go have a few drinks and then you head home. You remember that? That’s when Elvis died. I bet he drive and drink. Remember when Elvis died?”
“Dad, I was born in 1985.”
“Yeah, I guess you too young to remember.”
The car pulled up to his house. He awkwardly fumbled out of the car. Once inside, he put on a small saucepan for the pasta. He ate dinner quietly in front of the TV. Cleaned his dishes. Turned off the TV.
///
He rushed over his words as the rest of the younger kids in the group looked at him. “I dunno why I’m here. I had a coupla beers and then they take my license and tell me I can no drive. I don’t know. You have a bit of wine, and then you go play at the casino and have a few beers. The government, boy, they all crooks. Just want my money. In Italy, I could drink and then drive everywhere. Here, you drive a coupla blocks and you in jail. Not like you kids, you too young. You don’t get it.” He fiddled with his shirt, pushing against his thumb, the muscles of which had been tightening making it impossible for him to open his hand fully. Age, closing his fist. “And we gotta work. Well, I don’t anymore, but these kids, they gotta work. I dunno.” He fixated on his thumb. “I dunno.”
Everything Is Awful and You're a Terrible Person Page 7
