Wednesday, March 16, 2011


I see him coming down the street, or I see someone coming down the street so I assume it’s him and I turn away from the window, press play on the music, get some water and yes, there’s a knock, I open the door and before I get a chance to close it we’re already making out, that moment when you dive towards what’s possible just to make sure it’s still possible, and I say I guess I should close the door. He’s this type of fag that I certainly don’t see anywhere in Santa Fe and he actually lives just down the street, where does he hide out? Curly red hair arranged in some sort of ‘80s hybrid, the oversized scenester eyeglasses, faded gray skinny jeans, maybe in the past I’d be embarrassed of my attraction to someone so trendy but the past is the past and we’re making out, cigarette breath that’s okay I’m just thinking yes, because you know how this kind of sex can sometimes I mean usually be so distant there’s no possibility of kissing or if there is kissing then it only goes in one direction. And here we are pulling off each other’s clothes, first my hands under his jacket through maybe a sleeveless shirt to the surprise of skin then his cute skinny body pale pale skin with a tattoo of words on the left and hips and the smell that means he doesn’t shower all the time, not always my favorite smell but yes, this is the kind of sex that feels like sex, a discovery, there’s even that moment when I’m not hard because I’m feeling something away from there, nerves I guess and then there’s the sucking, no more nerves, we’re going back and forth I can tell because neither of us wants to come yet. But he keeps going for it so eventually I’m there, hands all over his head, hair grease, pushing back then pulling forward holding him right there yes there and he’s choking then pulling back to jerk off, I say no -- come all over me -- and there his face in that contorted place between forward and back, the stickiness and then I motion with my fingers for his lips to mine.

Turns out he’s from Santa Fe, grew up just a few blocks away but he doesn’t live here anymore, his father had a heart attack and he came back to help take care of him. Now he lives in Olympia, but he just moved there around when I moved here -- guess where he was living for the last 6 ½ years? That’s right -- San Francisco. I say I don’t think we ever met, did we? He says no, where did you hang out?

He wants to know why I moved here, how I’m liking it. I say it’s hard to find fags around here, especially queer fags, I wonder if he has any advice but he says he has no idea. Olympia has that same problem -- I’m sure. Then he has to rush back for dinner, but there’s something in this exchange of immediate comfort, both of us queeny and queer and not hiding it, holding it, holding each other and now, time for something to eat.

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