So, Steggy, the poet I toured with in 2003 is here in Austin. He is dressed in his blue footy pajamas and his rabbit ears hat on a near full time basis. I haven't seen him since he moved out of Boston in 2004. So I called him to see where he was hanging out after our bout. Turns out, he was with Mr. Drunk Bisexual from the previous post, as well as with my friend Asterisk. So I go to their hotel room, knock on the door, and go in. And there, leaning against the dresser, is Ben. Just after I say hello, my phone rings.
"Hey Safey, it's Sora. Are you okay? I just got this feeling that something really terrible is happening to you right now."
Sora wins at life.
There's nothing terribly original, unique, or even slightly uncommon about the fact that I find sleeping people beautiful. I can't possibly be the only person on my block who ever wished they could kiss, caress, fuck the hell out of a sleeping person without having to deal with their being awake. Unfortunately, the only options for that are roofies or necrophilia. The former is far too expensive for my taste, and necrophilia? Well, my mother always told me "don't knock it until you try it." I shall never knock necrophiliacs. Likewise, I shall never knock up a corpse.
So here I am, on a Saturday night, staring at a sleeping boy. A sleeping boy who a few hours ago was nothing more than a name called out during masturbation. Call him Timmy if you'd like. I do.
Tonight after a big gay fundraiser full of some of the most talented same-gender-fucking writers in Boston, Steggy and a few stragglers came to Chez Stone for some gossip and writing games (we're losers, fuck off). About ten minutes after we sit down, the phone rings. It's Timmy, The King of Impeccable Timing. While there is little I'd like more than some Timmy ass up in my grill, my friends currently in the house come first, not me. At this point, I may never come. So I tell him I'll see him tomorrow, when I mean Monday.
Well, an hour or so passes. The friends drive off into the moonset, and I sit down at my computer to check e-mail. The phone rings. "Hello, Timmy."
"How'd you know it was me."
"It's 2:15 in the morning. Not many other people call me this latearly."
"Oh." "Yea." "Are your friends still there?" Why is it that gay boys sound so damned cute when they're nervous? Is that the vocal equivalent of being asleep?
"Nope. They just left. What's up?"
"I'm down the street from your house."
"Can I come over?"
"That would be"'the best thing that's happened to me all week, and it's been a good week. "That would be" a good way for me to get rid of my oceanic backlog of sperm "That would be" the reason why I'm stuttering like an idiot "fine."
And there he is, all 6'2" 150 pounds of him.
After the disappointment of my last few potential relationships, and the kind of let down of discovering that my tryst with Saint would likely be a one time thing, I believe that Timmy and I could go really really right. We sit down on the sofa and do some talking snuggling.
Snuggling? What am I a fabric softener? Since when do I snuggle? I don't even know this kid. This beautiful, intelligent, romantic kid. Shit, I'm getting sickeningly schmaltzy here. And, damn it, it hasn't even been an hour since I was openly ogling my Jackie's gay friend. The absurdly cute kid who actually wears *gasps* briefs. I can't love Timmy. Were it not for Caller ID, I wouldn't even know his last name.
Yet, there I was snuggling with him not one hour ago, right before he started snoring. It's very cute snoring, kinda like Huey, Dewy, and Louie from Duck Tales. Still, that's not what I wanted him to be doing with his mouth within the first fifteen minutes of our meeting.
As he snored, I couldn't stop fucken staring at him. Full blown, deep breathing, slack-jawed, I'm a dumb-ass romantic, staring. I'm going to have to fuck him all day tomorrow to get this romantic crap out of my brain.