Friday, November 16, 2012

Time


Trick number nine — no, it's 10, right, 10? This guy kind of looks like Santa Claus except his beard is even bigger and he wants me to kiss him. I hate beards, they always remind me of my father, even though I know this guy couldn't be my father because he's old enough to be my father's father's father, right? But I guess if I close my eyes his beard is kind of soft, not scratchy like my father's, gross, don't think about that, just think about the way it’s kind of comforting in his arms like I'm a little kid but then just when I start to get relaxed he says he wants to fuck me — are you kidding?

Wait, he wants me to fuck him. No, he wants me to suck him off. No, he wants me to play with his nipples. No, he wants me to sit on his lap again. No, he wants to fuck me, do I have a condom? No, he wants me to fuck him. No, he wants me to lick his armpits.

Just at the right moment, I glance in the direction of the hotel clock: he gets the point. I mean I can tell he's not going to offer to pay for another hour, just by the way that I noticed the toiletries from other hotels arranged by his shaving case in the bathroom. He says: You’re amazing, thank you —unfortunately I don't think I'm going to be able to come, it's been about 25 years.

Trick number 11: Do I count the guy who makes me go all the way over to some fictitious address in Newton? I guess not. Back on the T, time for the payphones on Newberry Street, did I tell you the excitement with Hooked on Phonics? Yes, Hooked on Phonics – it turns out that if you call their 1-800 number, but then don't say anything when they answer, and then stay on the phone after the operator hangs up you get a dial tone and you can call anywhere you want for free. For some reason it only works at these particular payphones, in front of the garage just down the street from Urban Outfitters, so ever since Sage told me and Abby about Hooked on Phonics there's new meaning to Newberry Street, that's for sure. So here I am on Newberry Street in the rain, asking JoAnne for advice about where to meet queers with politics in Boston, even though she's never been to Boston, and she says what about a punk show?

Are you kidding? I don't even know where they have punk shows in Boston – I mean I hate punk shows!

But the best part is that then after it stops raining I'm sitting in front of the library, trying to figure out whether to go home or to wait around in the Westin lobby on those comfortable sofas by the payphones to see if I get a trick. Some guy’s saying hey punk, are you a punk, hey punk— I guess so, I say, just to get him to go away, but why do people keep asking me that? I'm not talking about random punk homophobes, like high school or something, but people who don't look like they could possibly know anything about punk, who the hell are these people? Anyway, I don't know what it is about this moment, maybe the disgust on his face when I say I guess so, and suddenly I realize oh, he means punk as in faggot, I'm such an idiot. So then I start to obsess about all those missed opportunities when I just said I guess so, like I was ashamed or something, when I should have looked those guys right in the eyes and said obviously I’m a faggot, honey. But I guess there's still time — there's always time for homophobes in Boston, that's for sure.

 

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