Nate
It’s a gloomy Monday morning in late July, and I’m already contemplating giving up on my search for a singing gig.
It’s been what, maybe a few hours? And I already want to quit.
If only I were one of those smoke-show singers with a million Instagram followers.
That would make launching a music career way easier.
At this point, I’d settle for anything. I’m sitting on my couch in fuzzy pajama pants and a thin, knitted tank top, quietly humming some Ed Sheeran songs.
I wish Evan were still in New York, but he headed back to Philadelphia before I even woke up.
All my friends are in Philly now, and I’m just here, friendless, jobless, and helpless in a city that doesn’t care.
Sure, there are a million ways to meet people, but they all involve the one thing I dread most: actually speaking to them.
In a perfect world, I’d make friends through work.
I’ve always gotten along with the loner types, the weird ones, the eccentrics who blurt out bizarre shit with no filter.
I love people like that. But let’s be real, there’s a big difference between quirky and creepy, and the line between them is razor-thin.
Still, I’d hang out with just about anyone at this point. I need to fill my time somehow while I try to find gigs.
It’s now noon, and I still haven’t found any leads.
I’ve been scouring Craigslist and Instagram for anyone looking for a singer or guitar player.
Ideally, I’d be part of a group, not the center of attention.
Honestly, it’s kind of pathetic that someone who wants to make it in the music industry hates being the center of attention.
But for me, it’s never been about the attention.
I just want to share my music, not have people obsess over me.
Just as I'm about to give up, I stumble across a Craigslist post looking for a lead singer in a band called The Revolution.
First of all, what kind of name is that?
And second, do I really want to be a lead singer in a band?
Their bio mentions heavy metal, but it's not exactly the alternative rock or pop I'm used to.
Still, I've got zero other options, and this is the only real opportunity in sight.
I grab my iPhone 7 and call the number. It rings six times before someone answers.
“Hello, who is this?” mutters a man, who I assume is middle-aged.
"Um, hi. I'm responding to your Craigslist post; it appears you're seeking a lead vocalist. Is that still the case?" I ask.
“Oh! Yes! Thanks for calling. We haven’t had many responses, probably because no one uses Craigslist anymore, especially to find bandmates,” laughs the man. His name, I soon learned, is Tom.
I grab a notepad as Tom launches into a laundry list of what they’re looking for in a vocalist: someone who’s not shy about the spotlight, can hit big notes, improvise on the fly, and, oddly enough, be attractive.
Attractive? Really? I mean, sure, looks matter in this world, but it’s always kind of depressing when people just come out and say it.
Once he finally stops rambling, I blurt out, “Is this gig paid? Do you have any events lined up?” Because yeah, I kind of need to know that before I audition.
He answers quickly. "The band's just me and my buddy Ron.
I'll be playing guitar and singing backup vocals, and Ron will be on drums. We're looking for someone who can sing and play guitar.
We've got a few weddings lined up, which are paid.
The plan is to split everything evenly and build up word of mouth. "
It doesn’t sound ideal. I need a steady income because my bills don’t pay themselves. And Tom’s giving off a weird vibe. Plus, I’ve been telling myself from the start that I don’t want to lead a band. I’d rather back someone up, especially while getting my feet wet.
Still, when he offers me a Zoom audition, I agree.
He sends over the invite, and I hesitate before accepting.
Zoom auditions feel awkward as hell. When the screen loads, I see Tom and Ron; they both look like they're in their mid-forties, which makes me feel like a toddler in comparison.
My first thought is that they're lucky if they can land a cute 25-year-old like me.
They seem nice enough for me to give this a go.
“Ready when you are,” Tom says, louder than necessary.
I go with "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day; it's easy to sing and well-known. But halfway through the second verse, they stop me.
Tom looks absolutely thrilled, which is both endearing and a little off-putting.
“We’ve heard enough!” he exclaims. Ron actually claps.
Tom insists I come out to Brooklyn to meet them in person, run through some songs, and test our harmonization.
I told him I'd be open to meeting next week.
I don't want to be too blunt, but let's be real: this isn't what I'm looking for.
I need income, not just vague promises and a couple of weddings.
Still, I give him my email for the details, and when I hang up, I exhale, deeply relieved. That wasn't technically socializing, but it was still exhausting. Meeting new people always is. All I want now is a cold beer, but what I have to do is keep searching for a job.
Okay, let's keep hunting on Instagram. I need something, anything.
A few hours passed, and suddenly, it's 4 p.m. I've made zero progress since that Zoom call.
I'm scrolling through stories and random posts from the 600 people I follow.
Most are hot Spanish soccer players, and a few are old classmates.
Yum, Spanish soccer players make me so horny even thinking about them.
One in particular is Sergio Roberto, who is hot as fuck.
His tan skin, thin face, and hazel eyes… I'm drooling.
Alright, game plan: I'll message Melanie from high school, the one looking for a duo partner, and then I'll jerk off.
I spotted her in a story, and she’s looking for a singing partner. Brief, but I remember her. She was a senior when I was a sophomore. We never talked. But hey, I have nothing to lose.
After I quickly message her, I open my laptop and pull up a picture of Sergio online.
It's amusing how many photos appear when you Google “Sergio Roberto bulge.” The guy has a nice bulge. One photo shows him kicking a soccer ball, and you can practically see his cock outline. I pull down my pants, grab my trusty CVS Silky Smooth Lube, luxury brands be damned, and get to work. My dick doesn’t care about brand names; it just wants to be stroked.
Slowly, edging, teasing…I could cum in thirty seconds, but that’d be too quick.
Two minutes later, I'm cumming all over my chest, picturing me fucking Sergio.
I don't know why I always imagine being at the top.
I bottomed once with Daniel, and it was a total disaster.
Bottoming has never been my thing, but maybe with the right person, who knows?
And yes, I usually jerk off a second time right after because round two is always better. But tonight? I'm lazy. So I stop.
It's now 7 p.m., and instead of job searching, I'm watching Schitt's Creek for the millionth time. I love Patrick and David's relationship so much. I am definitely Patrick, I just need to find my David.
As I sit there watching the first episode of Season 3, I hear my phone ping and see that there's a new message from Melanie. I doubt she remembers me, but I can't help but start feeling hopeful.
The message reads: OMG, Nate! I remember you from high school. Well, vaguely! You were so quiet but also so cute and friendly.
Okay, she remembers me. Kind of. And thinks I'm friendly and cute? I'll take it. I fire back instantly: Hi Mel! Do people still call you that, or is that a friends-only thing? Haha. I’m glad you have at least one fond (and fuzzy) memory of me. How’ve things been?
I don't want to come on too strong and immediately ask about the duo opportunity. She seems incredible, and honestly, it's nice catching up with someone from high school.
I can’t stand the people still living in their high school glory days, but from a few minutes of Instagram stalking, Mel seems pretty chill.
Her following message is straight to the point, which I love: Obv, you can call me Mel.
Mel sounds way better, anyway. Yeah, things have been better; probably obvious from my story, huh?
We have to catch up over drinks tomorrow.
I live near the 9th Street PATH, just a short walk from The Stonewall Inn.
Sending you my number and address now. We can talk about the duo opportunity over a few Long Island Iced Teas.
Well, that was quick and straight to the point, and I am all about it. I think it is easier to talk in person anyway, and Long Island Ice Teas fuck me up. She remembers me as shy and awkward, so the drinks will help loosen me up.
I Instagram message her my number and confirm, noon at The Stonewall tomorrow.
About two hours after the call ended, I finish watching a few more episodes of Schitt's Creek and got ready for bed.
Before bed, I always follow the same routine: brushing my teeth with Sensodyne toothpaste and over-moisturizing my face with CeraVe.
I hope all that moisturizer keeps me young and pretty forever!
I wake up with that rare mix of excitement and nerves, which usually means something good is about to happen or something incredibly awkward is about to unfold. Hopefully, not the latter.
First stop: the Portuguese bakery on the corner. I grab a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which is my absolute favorite breakfast. The ones in Ironbound are unreal and only four bucks. It's as if the universe knows I'm broke as hell and jobless.