Writing

Townie

Gulf Coast 22.2, Summer/Fall 2010.

At the Deadwood Inn, the woman on the bar stool to my right whistles when I tell her I’m from New York City, then starts in on a long, rambling spiel about the five seasons of Iowa that leaves me unclear as to what constitutes the extra season. A football game is playing on a set above rows of multi-colored, premium bottles lit up Sapphire, Chartreuse, and Mandarin from underneath, but this woman cannot keep her eyes off of me. She says, “So you visiting then?” She points her drunk, glassy eyes at me while the guy at the seat on my left mumbles about the ineptitude of whatever franchise is on the television. I can’t tell which side is ours or if they are winning.

Fuckbuddy

Eyeshot.net. Runner-up for the 2009 Million Writers Award.

Pretend it’s late in March, 2002. And you’re gay.
André calls up and says, “The Back Room opens tonight. I’ll pick you up at ten.” Nine-thirty finds you still in your bedroom trying on tee-shirts to see which one best showcases the pecs you’ve been working on all winter. The buzzer sounds at eleven and you leave wet footprints on the hardwoods on your way from the shower to the intercom. André climbs up to the sixth floor, lets himself in and yells into the bathroom without looking, “Why can’t you be on time, just this once?” Make your bed while he whines and pouts about the late hour, but you need your room to look decent. If you make it home at all tonight, you don’t plan on coming back alone.