Reality Bites

Denim Boy opens up the door to his apartment wearing only his light blue pajama pants. I walk in and immediately start kissing him, touching him up and down, my black leather gloves caressing his skin. I push him up against the wall and his back slams it hard, making the whole apartment shake a little.

“You’re cold,” he says almost whining. It’s mid-December in Chicago. He takes my shoulders and pushes me back gently, and then walks over to close his front door. Meanwhile, I walk to his living room and throw my coat on his leather couch.

“Alright, now I’m ready,” he says and walks up to me expecting me to jump him again. I stand there, facing him with a dubious look. I’m teasing him. Not giving in and doing what I so obviously want to do, pretending like I have no idea what he expects from me. After a few seconds, he gives him and starts kissing me. He wants it too.

I unbutton my long-sleeved shirt, and he pulls me down onto his black leather couch. He lies down, and I get on top of him, putting my hands on the armrest to support my upper body as he writhes below me. His pants were thin, and I could feel his crotch getting hard.

“You have great sexual energy!” he says when we stop for a bit to catch our breath. Feeling like a lion, I drag him up and then lead him to his bedroom. I’m ready to roar.

The following week, I take a flight back to California for winter break. I don’t expect to keep much in touch with Denim Boy, out of sight, out of mind. And I think that perhaps he feels the same way. We’re nothing official, just casual. I like him, but I’m not one to push (unless it’s physically and up against a wall). Besides, I know for sure that I’m going to see him again after I return to continue what we had gotten into.

But Denim Boy texts me every single day while I’m away. Little casual comments turn into full-blown conversations, and before I know it I’m falling asleep clutching my phone and waking up to a ridiculous phone bill. I never thought I would be the kind of boy to have to get an unlimited texting plan.

“I just checked our signs on Wikipedia,” reads one of his texts. “We share a planet!” Towards the end of my stay in California, every time my phone vibrates, I can feel it all the way deep in my heart, and I start getting really excited to see him again.

My phone vibrates one more time while I’m hanging out with a high school friend and her boyfriend at Angels & Kings. It’s Denim Boy. I text him that I’m in the area, and he invites me over.

My heart is bursting with anticipation. But when the door of his apartment opens up, instead of Denim Boy standing there, half naked with his body for me to hold close, I see… some other boy.

“Hey,” Some Other Boy says without introducing himself or letting me know what the hell he is doing here. Confused, I walk in and then find my boy sitting on the couch.

“Hey! How was your trip?” Denim Boy asks right before coming up to give me a hug.

“It was fine…” I say with a tone that hints at my confusion, as if asking, “Am I intruding?” Denim Boy then realizes and introduces me to Some Other Boy, who is wearing a Yale sweatshirt. So to make small talk, I ask, “Oh do you go to Yale?”

“Oh no, my friend gave it to me…” Some Other Boy says.

Wow, why would he do that? Why would anyone wear a collegiate shirt of a school they didn’t go to? So that they have to explain themselves, cause you know people will ask, that they didn’t go there?

“Of course, you don’t go to Yale,” is what I want to say. But I hold back.

Half an hour of awkward superficial conversations later, I’m getting impatient. I catch Denim Boy while he’s getting a glass of water and ask if maybe we can take the after party back to his room—just the two of us.

“Oh… tonight’s not a good day, we’re kind of having my friend sleep over,” he says but I don’t believe sleeping will be the only thing they’ll be doing tonight.

“Oh… so you guys are getting ready to go to bed?”

“Yeah… kinda.”

“And I’m the only person that won’t be spending the night.”

“Not tonight.”

“So I should be getting out of here then.”

“We’ll hang out some other time, I promise,” Denim Boy says as a sort of consolation prize as I’m getting my jacket and ready to leave.

“Actually, no. We won’t. This was kind of the last time.”

Sitting on the El back to campus, I keep going through the moments in my head over and over again. We had a great time in bed, and when we hung out, and he kept making contact while I was gone. Was he bored? Was I just an immediate distraction, and now that he had found this Yale poser, he’s done with me? Squeezed every drop of fun out of me, or so he thinks. And why did he keep texting me, and pretending like he was into me? I would’ve been fine had he walked away after our casual hook-up. I would have scratched him from my boy bank and not have kept investing in what I thought would be a profitable return.

And I was so certain that this real boy would be different. He would care and be kind and not play games, not lead me on and resort to me whenever he wanted, like some plaything that would be available to him whenever he wished. What happened to the good old days when a boy kissed you because he meant it, not to just show that he could?

And then I keep thinking how my most intense flames tend to fade suddenly. What is wrong with me? And it’s happened with both the eccentric, party boys and with the real, down-to-earth boys too. Guys just want to make out with me, and hook up with me and take me home. But when it comes to starting something serious, I fall short. I’m a one-night thing and then expire.

I feel like a toy. So disposable.

To My PYT’s

Sorry guys, no update tonight. I’ll be spending the night in Frisco, at every kind of disco! Will be back with the usual tomorrow. So go out tonight and celebrate our very short time on the dancefloor…

Meant to Be

My face after I get off the phone causes Sunny D some concern.

“What’s going on? Who was that?” he asks but I don’t have the time to answer him. There are a million little thoughts preoccupying my mind right now. I leave him in my room, dash out of the apartment and head down taking elevator to the lobby of our building. We have an unannounced guest.

I open the front door and let her in, wearing grey linen pants that flare down to her high heels, a navy cami under a white ruffled blouse.

She takes off her large, dark brown sunglasses to reveal her green eyes. Like a gypsy’s eyes I’ve always thought. She has a new haircut too. Her jet-black hair is less voluminous and cut right above her shoulders with sharp bangs hanging right down to her eyelashes. Even when flying cross-country, my mother doesn’t understand the concept of dressing casual.

“You don’t think I’d surprise you,” my mother says in her Spanish accent almost with a chuckle. She gets her tenses confused, rarely utilizing the past tense. Appropriate for a woman that has taught me to live always in the present. Mom has managed to not only surprise me by hopping on a plane on a whim and coming to visit me in New York, but she’s also surprised herself. She loves her newly rediscovered adventurous side. Reminds her of the days she’d used to go out to dance clubs in Guadalajara all night and come home at dawn. A past she couldn’t cling on to anymore.

I hug her then ask, “What are you doing here?” I try to make it sound like I’m delighted to see her, but secretly I’m also terrified.

“Few days off from work, I think, I’ll go to New York,” she says as we take the elevator back up to my floor. She has already checked into a hotel two blocks south of the Empire State Building so she’s only carrying her thick leather purse.

“Wait right here,” I say when we get to my door, “the apartment is a little messy.”

“Messier than your room back home?”

“Much messier!”

I run back into my apartment, close the door behind me keeping my mother at a safe distance. I actually consider locking the door, but then Sunny D comes out of my room and asks, “What’s going on?”

“My mom. She’s here! Hurry, go put on your pants!” Sunny D gives me the “oh my” look and turns back into the room. “And hide the pot! And the lube! And… can you make my bed?”

My mom knocks on the door. I let her in and introduce her to Sunny D, who is now, thank God, wearing pants.

“This is my friend. He also lives here. With me. Well not with me… but in this apartment. He’s my roommate! That’s why he is here too. He lives in that room. So he’s here.”

Extending his hand, Sunny D says, “Hi” in a perfect pitch for parental approval. My mom shakes his hand and smiles gleefully. She judges people instantly. And so far, I can tell she likes him. I give her a tour of my small apartment. She walks into my room, takes a quick look around and the looks at me with somewhat disappointed.

“Mijo! Your bed!”

Fast-forward to two hours later and my mom goes from merely liking to adoring Sunny D. They are sitting on the couch, watching the episode of Sex and the City where the girls go to L.A. and Charlotte realizes that her marriage is a “fake Fendi!”

They’re eating popcorn mixed in with M&M’s, a treat I was certain my mother would have second thoughts about but is not enjoying copiously like a 7-year-old pudgy kid at a carnival. She has gotten adventurous, I think, as I lounge on the other couch flipping through the pages of a magazine and watching them snuggle up on the couch like gal pals. Sunny D is making her gasp. He’s making her giggle. I knew the kid had charm, but my mom has built-in reservations. Reservations he blew away effortlessly like fan blowing through confetti.

St. Mark’s Place, the Met and Mamma Mia later, the weekend ends and my mom has to get ready to go back to California. As we wait outside her hotel for her cab, we share a cigarette and she looks at me and tells me a story of when I was a young boy growing up in Mexico.

“You know, ever since you were like 5 or 6, you wanted to live in New York City,” she says. “Do you remember?” I nod and take a drag of our cig.

“All on your own you come up with it. I never talk to you about New York or what it means to live here. To most people in Guadalajara, New York City is too far for a dream even. So who knows how you got the idea about it, but this is where you wanted to be. And it’s the first thing you do, after your graduation, you came straight out here. I came to visit because I was afraid too. It’s a big city and you’re too young. But you surprised me. You found a job and a place to live… and a boyfriend,” she says referring to Sunny D, and I blush.

“It’s true, and it happened so fast. I can tell you love to live here. This is where you were meant to be.”

My mom stomps out the cigarette, and we notice her cab pulling up. I give her a hug, and she steps in. We wave goodbye.

The entire time my mom spent with Sunny D and me, I tried desperately to keep our relationship a secret (whatever type of relationship we had). I would flinch whenever he came close to hugging me, and would give him a look whenever his details about our New York lives got too intimate. Eventually he got the hint. But the whole time, my mom knew exactly what was going on.

As her cab drives away, I think, she’s right. She’s always been right. This is where I’m meant to be.

Love at First Color Sight

“C’mon, come with me,” my roommate implores in an almost whiny voice while leaning over me. I turn over, keep my eyes shut, mumble for her to leave me alone and pull my covers over my head. Not getting the immediate reaction she was hoping for, my little Badgerista begins shaking my shoulders. She’s always such an unrelentess force when it comes to getting what she wants. “C’mon, c’mon,” she goes on. Her voice is particularly annoying to me, while I lay caught between naptime and real time. “You know it’s gonna be fun.”

Is Badgerista trying to guilt trip me now? Actually, I know it’s going to be no fun. A bunch of pretentious college kids thinking it’s appropriate to act stupid because they’re wasted? No thanks. But she has been excited about this party for days, ever since she got the Facebook invite and noticed that her crush had RSVP’d “Maybe.” This blasé response gave Badgerista enough motivation to get all dolled up on a Friday night and drag her tired, groggy best friend with her by whatever means possible.

It’s been a while since I’ve gone to a college party. The past six months have been spent in Madrid, far, far away from fraternities, keg stands and beer pong. And ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been in this funky mood. Like Madrid was maybe too much for me to process in such a short time. And it doesn’t help that all I do with my free time is sleep.

“It would be nice to go out and have a drink,” I sit up and say, rubbing my eyes and scratching my head.

“Yes! I promise it’ll be a blast,” Badgerista says all giddy as she skips out of my room and into the restroom.

“So if I had said ‘no,’ you would have just gone without me?” I ask loud enough so she can hear me. I’m surprised at how awake I am. Her giddy must be contagious.

“Oh no! I knew I would convince you,” she says walking back into my room with a blow dryer in her hand. She is wearing a pair of navy blue skinny jeans topped with an embroided maroon blouse. It’ll be fun to be her wingman tonight and help her out in the boy department.

“And shower! There might be cute guys there tonight.” After all, she always looks out for me.

As we arrive to the front door of the apartment where much revelry is to be expected, I see a thin girl with dangling earrings standing in front of a table with a money box. Cover?

“It’s a fundraiser!” Thin girl shouts over Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” blasting inside. I look back at Badgerista and give her this look to make sure she understands that she owes me. “College feminists are putting on The Vagina Monologues,” thin girl continues as if trying to convince us of the worthy cause. I hold up my index finger indicating the need for one sec, turn around, grab Badgerista and move us out the way so that we can discuss.

“Are you sure this is the party?” I ask still holding on to her shoulders. “I think it’s a lesbian party…”

“Yeah, yeah, this is it! C’mon! Where’s your sense of adventure?” Badgerista spits a little, and I reconsider having taken those shots of vodka before stepping out of our apartment. Badgerista seems super eager to mingle with the vaginas… but at least her boy crush will be easy to spot. So on we go to the feminist, theater, lesbian party. And I think, “Didn’t really need that shower.”

The small apartment has an unused chimney adorned with blue twinkle lights and the wooden floor is sticky with spilt beer. It’s crowded and hot in the living room, even though it’s February in Chicago and the windows are wide open. The body heat is stronger than the weather.

Much to my surprise, it’s not really a feminist/theater/lesbian party. From first impression, it looks like quite the assorted crowd. Later I find out that much of the social diversity that night can be attributed to the fact that one of the most popular actresses in school had just been cast in The Vagina Monologues, and she had used all of her party prowess to make the fundraiser a huge success.

Badgerista and I walk towards the kitchen after tossing down our coats. She keeps an eye out for her crush while I keep an eye out for the free alcohol. After we pour ourselves a red cup of jungle juice each, Badgerista has to use the ladies room because her bladder doesn’t know the concept of patience. I head out the back door to the alley so I can smoke a cigarette.

The smokers’ circle in the alley is being entertained by no other than “The Drunkest Girl at the Party,” whom I, of course, have the privilege of knowing personally. We lived in the same dorm, right next to each other, freshman year. She doesn’t come off as your typical feminist per se, but she is producing the show.

“Hey! You’re here!” She shouts in my general direction.

“Yup…” I say, unwilling to match her enthusiasm. “Anyone got a light?”

“Oh here you go,” she lights my parliament. “So what have you been up to? Haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Just got back from Madrid…”

“Oh yeah! So was it everything you ever imagined and so much more? Are you going to do that whole ‘coming back from study abroad’ speech about how being in that foreign country for, like, half a year totally changed your life?” She says so mockingly that I almost take her seriously.

But all I can be when it comes to Madrid is earnest, so I say, “Yeah, actually. It did.”

“I love reading all those stupid study abroad blogs,” she ignores my genuine response and goes back to the mock show. “You think you’re the only person that’s ever gone to a different country and had culture shock? And it’s culture shock about the dumbest things, like, ‘Oh, you can order beer at McDonalds?’ Fucking get over it!” She shuts up for a minute, perhaps afraid that she might come off bitter if she keeps going. I happen to know that just earlier in the school year, her plans to study abroad in Prague had been scrapped due to a dismal GPA. “Did you start a blog while in Madrid?” She asks in a more serious tone.

“No… but I did write a lot. I started a journal. I know, it sounds cheesy… but some of the things, I just had to write down,” I notice that the circle begins to lose interest in what I have to say. So I stop. I save my best stories for an attentive audience. I stomp out my cigarette and walk back inside. I make my way through the crowd of people mingling in the kitchen, refill my jungle juice and go back to the living room looking for Badgerista. She’s probably still waiting in line to use the restroom. It’s almost midnight, and the dance party has already gotten started. The tipsy underclassmen grind and groove in the dark, moving in slow and out of order patterns as if submerged in water. The blue twinkle lights shine on.

Through all the commotion, I notice a boy swimming in his own world towards the back of the room. The boy with a face like an indie singer. A face I’ve never seen before: thin pink lips, wavy brown hair and bushy eyebrows above eyes the color of dark chocolate melting under a heat lamp. He is dancing with his girl friends completely unaware of his allure. Wearing Bermuda shorts, a sky blue thrift shop tee and tan sandals, he’s not at all concerned with concept of matching. I like his spectrum. His wrists are wrapped halfway up his forearms in a disharmony of hues. A heavy metal watch on one wrist, a thick black leather wristband on the other, mingled with orange, lime green and plum rubber bracelets and thin threads and loose bands from summer camps gone by. Around his glistening forehead, a cherry-colored bandana soaks up the light sweat caused by him bobbling and bouncing to the beat. The rest of the room suddenly turns black and white, while he is sharp in Technicolor. And I vividly remember thinking in that moment, “That’s the boy I should be with.”

“Ah, isn’t he super cute?” Badgerista asks interrupting my daydream and joining in on the adoration brigade.

“I think he might be…”

“Gay! Yeah, a girl waiting behind me in line for the restroom told me. Right before she headed out the door to try to pee in the front yard.”

“Wow, you had quite the adventure…” I say handing over my cup of jungle juice offering for her to take a sip. “So what’s this guy’s story?”

“He just transferred from some school in North Carolina,” she says after drinking from my cup and handing it back to me. “According to the girl, he’s kind of shy, doesn’t but gets really silly when he drinks. And he has all the girls here swooning over him tonight. He doesn’t have many guy friends. You should go talk to him.”

“To a complete stranger? And what am I going to say to exactly?”

“Isn’t that what you do to guys in Boystown? Figure it out!” She says implying I should have more game.

“Haha, don’t pretend like you know what I do in Boystown. Besides, this is different. Completely different.”

Right at that moment, “The Drunkest Girl at the Party” stumbles in to the living room, turns off the speakers and slurs in a loud voice, “Ok guys! Party’s over! Cops are here! Everyone out through the back. Come on. It’s over.”

Badgerista and I grab our coats from the pile that’s accumulated by the chimney and make our way out.

I didn’t get to talk to the Boy in Color that night. And after weeks of not seeing him around, I gave up. But my memory of him that night never faded.

It wasn’t until the beginning of my senior year, when I was moving in to my new student house on the off-campus party block, that I saw him again. Moving in next door.