Chapter 3 #2
Okay, I know it’s not the most original opener. But sometimes it pays to be direct. I wait, holding my breath as three little dots appear almost immediately, then disappear, then appear once more.
Him: Come on, you can do better than that
I laugh aloud, then clap my hand over my mouth. Oh, so this is how he wants to play it. I couldn’t flirt in real life if you paid me, but for some reason, the anonymity of doing it by text is easier, and so I tap out a reply, my thumbs flying over the keyboard.
Me: Pardon me, sir, I did not realize I was in the presence of royalty. I have had a very long day, and I was hoping to entice you to do something sweaty and ill-advised with me in the bathroom of a local drinking establishment before I return to the outer boroughs for the evening
Him: OK well now I’m intrigued
Him: And I’m suddenly really sorry I have to go to this work party tonight
Me: What kind of party?
He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and I figure that maybe I’ve shot my shot and lost. But then he’s typing again, the bubbles appearing and disappearing while I drum my fingers on the desk.
Him: The kind of party with too much booze and too little food, where everyone will be congratulating themselves about how rich and successful they are and I’ll be bored to tears
Me: Sounds fucking awful
Me: I mean, if it was me, I’d definitely blow off the party and go for the bathroom sex
Him: Mm, you’re cute, but the party is sort of for me so I think they would notice
Me: Oh, so you’re THAT kind of fancy bitch
Him: I am the fanciest bitch you could ever hope to meet
I figure this situation probably isn’t going to lead where I want it to lead, at least not tonight, so I pack my things into my messenger bag and close up my office, making my way through the maze of corridors and up the stairs from the basement.
As I push open the door into the warm air of the spring evening, I feel my phone buzz against my thigh once more.
Him: So what do you do? What made your day so long that you’re out here trolling for dick to get over it?
Me: I’m a college professor actually
Me: Long day of teaching and meetings
Him: Ooh, a smart guy
Him: So, let me picture it. Tweed jacket, patches on the elbows, glasses? Thick, distinguished beard?
Me: Glasses, yes. But no beard, just scruff. Jeans, and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up
Him: Fuck
Him: What would you do with me in that bathroom?
Me: I would take extremely good care of you
Him: Goddamn this fucking party
Him: I’m going to be thinking about that all night
Him: But hey, if you try me again you might get lucky the next time
Him: Hope you find what you’re looking for tonight
Me: Thanks, hope you have a good night too
As I trot down the stairs to the subway, I tuck the phone into my pocket. I’m hoping the stranger actually means it, and I’m definitely going to try him again. But for now, the fantasy is enough to make me feel just a little bit lighter.
***
Thursday
I don’t want you to think that everything I do is depressing.
Sure, most of it is shit, shuttling back and forth between Manhattan and Brooklyn, prepping lectures and grading papers and just trying to keep my head above water.
But every once in a while, instead of holing up in my apartment after I get home from class, I take my laptop over to Prospect Park and I find a place to sit and work where I can let it all slow down.
I can still hear the city, the ever-present car horns and construction machinery, the hubbub of voices and the rush of traffic.
But the sounds are softened by the trees, by the grass under my feet, and while it doesn’t work as well as the ocean used to do, it still helps me escape.
It’s about four in the afternoon, and I’m sitting cross-legged on a blanket at the edge of Prospect Park Lake.
The angle of the sun is making it a little difficult to read the words on my laptop screen, but I don’t really mind.
I’m just typing a comment on the paper I’m grading when my phone buzzes beside me.
Him: So whatcha doing?
I open my phone’s camera and take a picture of the scene in front of me, golden sun glinting off the water, and I hit send.
The stranger from last night has been texting me on and off all day, and I can’t say I’m not flattered.
He responds with a heart-eyes emoji, and then sends a photo of his own — a pair of lean thighs in paint-splattered jeans, knees pressed up against an easel filled with pots of paint and a jar of dirty water.
I send back my own fire emoji and wait, continuing to tap on the keyboard of my laptop.
Him: Can I say something weird?
Me: Sure
Him: You remind me of somebody
Me: Somebody you like, I hope
Him: Somebody I want to fuck, but can’t because he’s kind of a dick
I think of another pair of lean thighs, a pliant waist, a heartbeat that feels like a hummingbird under the press of my palm, and I think he’s not the only one.
Me: Confession: I am kind of a dick
Me: But that doesn’t mean we can’t fuck
Him: That’s what I’m counting on
Me: Name the day and I’m there
Maybe I don’t have to concentrate right now. I close my laptop and lie down on the blanket, my face turned up towards the blue sky. Only a couple more weeks of this, and all of my teaching commitments will be done. Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll have a chance to breathe.
***
Friday
Him: OK so I can’t get you out of my head
I catch just a glimpse of the photo — a flat stomach and a pair of tight white briefs, the thumb of an elegant hand hooked into the waistband, dragging it down just enough to reveal the tip of — well, you get the idea.
I press the phone to my chest, my face catching fire as I step into the corner, turning my back to the room.
Setting up my laptop for my lecture can wait.
Me: Jesus fucking Christ dude, I’m standing in front of a room full of 20 year olds
Me: You’re going to make me forget what my lecture is about
Him: Good, then you can let them go early and come meet me for a drink
Him: Tell them you got hit over the head
Me: Or that I need to get head
Him: I’m good at that
Me: I bet you are
Me: Look, are you serious, or are we still in the giving me blue balls phase? Because if you’re serious, I’m free tonight
Him: Me too
Him: Let’s do this
He texts me the address of a bar in Chelsea, and we decide to meet at seven.
Somehow, I make it through my lecture, which is one of those horrible last day of class situations where I have to tap-dance through every major development in U.S.
history since the Cold War in about an hour and a half.
At the end of a class session in which no one learns anything except perhaps that condensing any field of knowledge to a fifteen-week semester is a fruitless endeavor, I let them all go.
Finally, I’m free to pace back and forth in my office for a few hours while I wait for the most promising hookup situation that I’ve had in a long time.
I arrive at the bar about fifteen minutes early, so I have plenty of time to grab myself a Belgian-style tripel at the bar and find a booth with a seat that faces the door.
It’s one of those industrial-type bars, with exposed pipes and Edison bulbs dangling over the tables and liquor prices that could qualify as a down payment for an apartment in most of the five boroughs.
But I’m hoping that we’ll only be sticking around for one drink, and so I nurse mine, scrolling through my phone while keeping an eye on every patron who walks into the bar.
At five minutes to seven, my phone buzzes.
Him: Almost there
Him: I’m tall, blond, and wearing a pink shirt
Me: I’m not that tall, and I’m sitting right by the door so you can’t miss me. Navy blue shirt and glasses
My palms are sweaty as I pick at the corner of my beer mat, and I can’t tell whether time is standing still or speeding by, whether I’m holding my breath or gasping for air.
All I know is the minutes pass, and then the door is opening and there he is, pale pink shirt over a white tank top that sets off his perfectly golden skin, blond hair falling to his shoulders, and when he sees me he freezes, his blue eyes blazing, which is good because my thoughts are wordless screams —
Because it’s Cole.
It’s fucking Cole.
“Ezra, what the fuck?”