By the way, I’m going to keep on saying that until I believe it.
He spent the past year living like a monk, and I hope this means that he is ready to start exploring healthy relationships. One-night stands don’t seem like they’d cut it for him.
Brutal honesty here, the idea of him having a one-night stand doesn’t really cut it for me, either.
I need to be more sensitive about the fact that he’s in a weird emotional space right now. And not take advantage of that by plucking off every piece of clothing from his body, licking every square inch of his skin, and sucking him so far down my throat that he rolls his eyes in the back of his head before coming as many times as I want him to.
That was…oddly specific.
Anyway, I’m just going to chalk it up to a bit of weirdness, and not let the part of my brain that wants to scream hallelujah and drag him off to the bedroom have any say in the matter.
I can do this.
* * *
Rafi
This week has tested my sanity in more ways than one. Monday was tortuous, and while I managed tonotclimb Everett like he was Everest, it was a near thing. I may have rushed home after and beaten off a time or two. Or ten.
Then there was the gun range, where, again, I had to call up unknown reserves to not rip off my clothes around him. That led to having a vibrating prostate massager overnighted to keep up with my increasingly dirty fantasies. Don’t judge me for the Fleshlight—that was free with purchase and ended up being a lucky addition.
I’m hoping that a fun evening of clothes and makeup with my gal pal will make it all better. I smooth down my shirt and ring the doorbell, ready for this night to begin.
Wooosaaaahhh.
Parker opens the door and snorts. Legitimately snorts, at me.
“You know, it hurts my feelings when you laugh like that. I’mtrying.”
She presses her lips together and breathes heavily through her nose for several moments. Holding up her hand, she finally responds, “You’re right, I’m sorry. My bad.”
I squint my eyes at her. “I don’t think you’re actually sorry. I think you’re still kind of making fun of me. Also, it’s a little rude that you haven’t invited me in yet.”
“Oh, where are my manners? Please come in,” she says, eyeing me up and down like I’m a roadside attraction.
I trudge into the living room and do a quick three-sixty. “What? What is it? Is it the eyeliner? Is it the mesh shirt? These were really popular in the nineties, I thought they were making some kind of resurgence.”
“There is nothing wrong, individually, with anything you are wearing,” she says, pausing to compose herself. “However…if you are going to wear the thigh-high boots, the shorts so tight and small they might as well be your own underwear, the belly shirt, the mesh undershirt, the handkerchief, the full face of makeup,andthe pompadour hair, youcannotwalk into a room as though you have both a stick up your ass and a spine that doesn’t work.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she stops me with a say-it-to-the-hand gesture. “You cannot stroll, dawdle, or meander into a room dressed like that. There is only one way to enter a room dressed like that, and it is with astrut. Anything less than that is a tragedy, and my dear friend, you are two tragedies and some spare change.”
I throw my hands up in defeat. “I’mtrying, dammit. I saw someone on Sixth Street wearing this exact outfit, and he wasso cool.”
She covers her mouth with her hand, squeezing her eyes shut for several seconds while vibrating with laughter. After a minute, she shakes out her hands and hangs her head, inhaling and exhaling heavily. She opens her mouth to talk but ends up snorting again. Finally, after a few more aborted attempts, she does some yogic breathing and finds her fucking center.
“I have two questions for you. One, was the man an apparition? Was it the ghost of Leslie walking down the street?”
I cock my head at her; she might actually be crazy.
Don’t forget, you talk to me.
I roll my eyes at the living and dead pains in my ass. “I don’t know who that is.”
That burns off the rest of her laughter, and she looks at me in openmouthed shock. “How long have you lived in Austin?”
I shrug. “A little over six months.”
She says a small prayer to a god she doesn’t believe in, then pins me with a look. “That is unacceptable. Leslie Cochran was our patron saint of cross-dressing and literally the poster boy for Keep Austin Weird. He was also one or two sandwiches shy of a picnic, and we loved him for it. An Austin icon: may he ever rest in disorder. I swear people who want to move to Austin should be required to take a class. But we’ll address that later.”
