This is about the boy who only ate rice cakes. He told me to excuse the sea of rice cakes in his living room; they’re simply all he eats. He drinks his coffee black. He pulls at his ears when he’s stressed. The left one has tiny missing pieces around its top edge; it gives it a bumpy texture. His mother jokes that it’s from the bowl cut haircuts she used to give him and his brother in the tub.
He’s a maniac with the most beautiful smile. He asked me on a dancefloor on New Year’s eve if he felt different underneath my hands. “You know; mushy. Mushier than last time?” His brown eyes watched me intently to make sure I couldn’t lie.
He cooked me tofu the morning after New Years. He insisted on making it. It tasted odd but I was thankful for the refried beans and corn. I held him afterwards when the food settled in his stomach and the monsters took over his brain.
His red rimmed eyes lost their brown on a drunken night of frost. I walked him home and kept him from face planting several times on the ice. He crossed his arms in his hallway and told me quite pathetically in a tone of determination that he’d never be cured.
He leans up against the door that separates the train cars from each other. Dressed in a crow black suit with a sharp nose and a receding hairline like Dracula’s. White shirt, red tie. A hunk of other ages. Fifties have washed over and wrinkled his face and whitened his hair. He still stands with the same masculinity he had in his youthful years of jockhood. A well positioned bulge fills his trousers. Hairy hands that have hairs that look like they might’ve been shaved. Maybe he finds his hands too hairy and trims the hairs. They’d feel comforting around this boy’s waist, like most young gay boys without fathers tend to desire. Wedding ring on his finger reminds me of a tiny woman with a small back to her waist. A giggly mousy little thing that he married, regretfully, straight out of college. Hopefully she’s grown fat and he’s fallen out of love. It doesn’t really matter but I guess It’s easier that way to get him to want to experiment. Leaves those thin lips vacant for kissing. Blue and green eyes that watch this boy undress with just the flashing television as light. Strong thighs underneath the crow black suit even though his core has weakened and become flabby. It goes away when he stands up though. The arms are stimulated regularly to keep this boy feeling safe inside them. Stamina to keep this boy satisfied. He can be this boy’s daddy, but as can you see, it’s all just a fantasy that I wrote to pass the time.
I just realized why I can’t allow myself to kiss a girl. It isn’t because of her bits or her long hair or her makeup. It’s because she’s a different species. I don’t know what’s going through her head. I can’t read her. I can’t figure out what she wants when her brown eyes pass over me. I want to kiss her but when do I lean in? I know a man’s body. It’s a replica of mine. Hers is foreign territory. Where do I begin to touch? What if I don’t touch the right stuff? I know what he likes. What if everything I do to her is wrong? I hope she doesn’t laugh.
I’ve kissed a girl’s mouth before. She actually asked if she could kiss me. It was tiny. So petite; so small. Her minuscule tongue felt like a tiny snail looking for love. I touched her body and she had layers of undergarments underneath her cheap dress. It was weird. Men only have one layer. It turned me off.
She also seemed to want me to lead. I’m not much of a leader. If I’m going to lead, I’ll do it myself, by myself. She wouldn’t understand the soft chewy center of me. She wouldn’t understand the “gay” qualities about me. But I don’t want to love her forever. I’d like just another kiss, in today’s time, to see what it’s like to kiss a girl.
She closes her eyes every time because she’s still afraid of trains. They never had any in her native land. Especially these that go underneath the ground.
She rides the train everywhere. She closes her eyes with her grocery bags huddled at her feet and imagines the heat of home. She says a little prayer before the train pulls out. She can see her homeland inside of her eyelids; she’ll be alright now.
She’s an island queen. Hair pulled back severely into a tight coil. No strand of hair is free. She looks like her mother. She’ll eventually turn into her. She’ll cry every night for ever doing her momma wrong because she knows the end is here and she’s starting to feel what her momma felt near the end.
She never made lemonade in the summertime. Curtains drawn closed all afternoon long. The house was quiet; every movement was a ticking bomb of sound. He learned how to move like a ninja. He felt unsure whenever she was in a good mood because it never lasted long. He tried so hard to keep her calm. A storm would drop over her eyes and his momma was gone.
What are words? Queers read them in books brought over from the orient and whisper them into the ears of their knights underneath moonlight. “Arthur is away, it’s alright.” said Guinevere. I read Camelot. Queers these days only read fashion magazines. Unsurprisingly, there isn’t a generic one in sight.
I used to lie on his bed every other Friday night and realize that I don’t like the way he smells when he pounces on top me. I don’t like the way his big water-colored eyes stare at me as I fake squirm to get him aroused. I don’t like the way he feels inside. I have no room. My body is on fire and it wants to excrete just to get him out.
I went back all that summer. Sometimes, I wonder why.