I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like you.

I practice smiling at him like I would want to when we wake up together. It’s the cute, “I think I love you and thanks for last night” smile. 

I imagine that my smile is quite expressive and perhaps persuasive, but as I look into the mirror, I see a huge mess. This is what he was smiling back at? 

Fuck. God, that smile. Did he mean it?

We wouldn’t have fucked that night, we would have made love. Sharing each other’s bodies, open to exporation and expressing our needs and getting them fulfilled–as many times as we each desire.

My thoughts are clouded by his blue eyes and stringy, messy blonde hair–which is long enough to be in a bun but never worn that way. I build castles in the sky a thousand miles high to reach his cloud nine.

We would enjoy the same things. We would enjoy listening to each other talk about things we don’t enjoy ourselves, but soon might because we’re passionate about it. We’d just be there for each other, two peas in a pod that are seamlessly knitted together like stitches of a wounded heart.

“I am here for you, never leaving.”

Who says it? I’m not sure. I’m really not sure.

He is unlike anyone. Completely unlike anyone I’ve met and I want to know more. I get the sense that we would make sense–right?  I want to know more. I need to stop wondering about our future when our present barely exists.
Besides, he’s only there on Mondays and Wednesdays. Sometimes Tuesday. Never Friday.

what do you see.

Surprisingly enough, a couple of boys have told me they like me–one, what, freshman year? Then another one this year. At this rate I’ll finally be dating someone in the year 2045.

You see, I don’t like them back. Not like I want to. I always use the whole “I’d rather be friends” approach and though I mean it, I would never want to be told that.

I’m always a fan of the “if they don’t know, they can’t reject me.”

But, for real? What do they see. One of the major reasons I don’t “put myself out there” is because I cannot find the balance of liking myself–my body, my mind, my logic, my memory, my conscious, my past–it all follows me and anchors me and drains me and I am stuck with the guilt of hating myself and left the pain of wondering why you don’t.

cold hot chocolate.

i sip. no one with me now. 

Starbucks–i watch cute bois walk by. 

of course. 

just thinking about this week; it’s felt like a roller coaster and I’m not too sure I’m ok with that.

things were supposed to get easier this round, what happened? 
despite my constant want for something different, I too, will get through this wretchedness that has seemed to snake its way through my comfortable, yet vulnerable life. 

ive never felt more vulnerable

thirty-seven.

gay-chronicles


37.


I SAW A MAN’S PENIS in my high school theater dressing room. It seemed to be averagely sized and an interesting shade of pink. It was also attached to a classmate I had never thought I’d see waist down.

His head was down, his blonde bangs hanging in his face. He was putting his boxers on, the faded fabric similar to that of every man’s Sunday Shorts–the pair you wear on laundry day. It’s that or commando. (Which you never do at school in case things get awkward, like ripping your pants and hoping to die rather than admit it actually happened.

So, I wondered why his checkered boxers were off in the first place, and of course I didn’t ask questions, but I was stunned by his … little piglet? See, I entered right as his shorts met his waist, so I missed how his pale, sunshine-less ass peeked out of the elastic, but then the unexpected happened.

His dick managed to slither and push its way out of the pee-hole.

I like to think I played it off really cool, but something tells me that he knows I was staring. At him. At IT. I was definitely staring. He pushed himself back in containment and smirked at me, his face slightly red.

I’d like to say that at this moment of the story I convinced him to show me more!–but my high school experience is rather suckish compared to that of any other horny teenager’s stories I’ve heard.

I told my best friend immediately after the “incident.” She knew him from middle school, so the gossip was extra juicy to her.

“And you’re sure it was pink?!”

“Absolutely.”


To my knowledge, many things happened in this dressing room with or without my presence–some things much more dramatic and shocking than that of the penis/piglet-story.

Once, in the same room,  I walked in on two boys making out. That was a wake up call that I wasn’t getting any action, and honestly, porn made it seem so much better.

This was also the same dressing room I came out to one of my best friends. Ironically it happened right after the PG 13 scene above. My friend was supposedly spectating and watching them–I think as some proof that the really did like each other or something. As the dramatic ass gay men, they turned it into a show fit with audience of one: her, who of course etched them on. Who doesn’t like to see scandalous things!? I walked in shortly after to find this gay-fiasco knowing exactly what was going on.

See, I knew what was going on because I was OBSESSED with one of the boys. I spent 3 years freaking out over his Justin Bieber-cut, pretty blue eyes and a solid B-list dancing skills. I walked in that room because I was jealous of what I knew would be happening.

Oh, high school … I don’t miss it.

(Perhaps I have an issue walking into things. I should really learn to knock.)

Also, if rumor truly has it: someone had to meet with the principal for doing-the-nasty during rehearsal. In that same dressing room. (This damn room has seen more action than I at this point.)

They were only the background extras for the show. I guess they felt their special talent would best be used behind the scenes.


I would never say high school was the best time of my life, but if I were still there, I’d believe it. I’d believe that h.s. was exactly how things should be, that I was cool enough for people to respect, that I had paid my nerdy dues and had graduated from Freshman Status to anything but Freshman Status.

My point is, I know that I’m not the same man I used to be, because who I used to be was a sadly proud gay boi who saw a pink penis in the dressing room.

those that question.

I feel that there are an unlimited amount of people in the world that have so much to live for, but so much life being wasted on thoughts that do not matter to others. People are unique. Not necessarily how they carry themselves, but because of how they think. People can be absolutely beautiful. Peoples minds are abolsutelt beautiful. 

I saw the beauty in someone today. 

ocean insomnia.

ocean insomnia.

my bed feels like an ocean

im swimming alone and drowning in in nonexistent sleep

ZZZ becomes synonymous with SOS, but no one is answering my plea

i am drowning and hurting and my lungs are numbing to the sounds of others that snore

dear god, save me from thy pain, as it haunts me to know that if you exist,

you leave me with the inability to do what we all crave

and that is to sleep with our eyes closed;

because with them open, we are reminded of the things that tear us apart

if i were a mermaid, i’d stay underwater forever and then some, because at least i could be swimming

in the ocean

and sleeping with the sharks

that already parade my mind

during sleepless nights