Super Crush jumps on top of me; I grab his wrists and toss him to the other side of the bed. His body ricochets gently as I get on my knees and tackle him again. He puts both his hands around my neck and draws me in closer. I rotate my head, and he looses his grasp on my neck. He is out of breath now and laying down with his arms open. I pin him down and kiss his neck softly, making my way up from his jugular to his jaw. I can hear him rustling his feet and taking off his sneakers, and then he raises both of his legs and puts them around my waist. I shift up and grab on to him. I stare him down and can feel his crotch getting harder. I surrender.

Super Crush takes off his maroon polo, and I kiss his clavicle as soon as I see it. He takes my hand and places it on his chest, as if he's trying to show me how fast he's breathing or... how hard his heart is pounding. I finger his blond chest hair a little bit and then hug him as we both collapse onto his comforter.

He has a big window right by his bed leading to the fire escape. Every night that I've been staying over for the past few weeks, the moon, thanks to that window, has been the only source of lighting we've needed at night. By this point, I can almost navigate his body blind-folded.

I unbuckle my belt and move my hips forward so I can take it off with one swift pull. I take off my socks next. Socks are always one of the first things that need to come off. I don't hook-ups in socks.

Earlier that evening, Super Crush and I had gone on another date. This time, we went to see Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona. Perfect date movie, I think, 'cause you have the quirky Woody Allen humor mixed in with steamy Spanish sex scenes.

And now back to my sex scene: Super Crush unbuttons my shirt and tosses it on the ground next to my socks. I lay down on my back and he climbs on top of me. It shocks me a little bit, so I make an overly exaggerated expression of confusion. He starts giggling and that confuses me even more.

"What is it?" I say suspicious of his laughter.

"Nothing, I just... haha. Nothing," he says. I'm not satisfied with that answer, so I keep looking at him in wonderment. He finally lets down and confesses, "It's just... I haven't had this much fun on a date in a while."

The morning after, I wake to the sound of Sunday morning cartoons playing on his television. The Fairly OddParents, I recognize Timmy's voice. Super Crush is sitting up on the bed, waiting for me to get up.

And I think: I'm so lucky. My summer in New York has just started, and I'm living in the perfect location on the Lower East Side, interning at one of my favorite magazines and dating a caring boy and getting way past the point of pretending.

I had been thinking all night, while we cuddled, how I was going to bring up the subject of becoming boyfriends in the morning. He, too, had prepared all night for what he had to say to me this morning.

"Hey, so I talked to that guy at Marvel," he says starring at the TV, not looking at me.

"What did he say?" I ask even though I know the answer. He'd been talking to Marvel Inc. about a potential short-term internship starting as soon as possible. This whole time, I had pretended to be supportive, faked a smile whenever the subject came up and told him that I hoped for the best, but, deep down, I wanted him to get rejected, I wanted him to stay in New York, stay with me, so we could keep doing this, keep doing this until...

"They want me to go work for them in California."

I had found my one superhero. And he had found dozens.

[The Adventures of Super Crush & Boy Toy (Part I)]

I'm already late for my internship. Again. I'm always late. And I thought that by staying with him downtown I would be able to make it on time. But I'm never on time.

The walls of his apartment are decorated with black and white photographs of bridges. The Brooklyn Bridge. The London Bridge. The Golden Gate Bridge. One night I sat in his living room for a whole hour, drinking red wine, as he showed me photos of his trip to New York. He went on one of those helicopters that fly around the city just so that he could get a bird's eye view of the towering bridges. He once told me that if he could do anything in the world, he would build bridges.

I wait 'til the morning to tell him that it isn’t working.

Bridge Builder is successfully settled in Chicago and knows exactly what he wants next. And I'm an impulsive college guy who is never on time. I didn't expect our relationship to endure past the point of casual dating. But after the concert at the House of Blues and the expensive steak dinner and the talk of going to his parents’ lakehouse in Michigan, I got the sense that he wanted more from me. Pretty soon, his calls and e-mails turn into a form of suffocation—a commitment I'm not ready to make. Maybe because he is 28 and I'm 21 or maybe because he has built a life in Chicago and I still want to go to New York.

Or maybe because I enjoy being on my own. Or maybe because I know that he isn’t the bridge that is going to get me to the other side. Not now, anyway.

Before he steps into the shower, Bridge Builder lets me borrow a fresh pair of Hugo Boss briefs. During our last-time-sex session, I didn't even have the chance to take my underwear off before some minor leaking occured. But that leaves me with a pair of soiled Calvin Klein boxers to get rid of before going in to work. Disponsing of the evidence. So I walk out onto his balcony and the crisp Chicago morning air takes all the late-night heat out of me. Out on his balcony on the 42nd floor of his apartment building on Lake Shore Drive overlooking the lake and the loop, I realize that the only bridges in Chicago connect only directly across the river. They don’t lead anywhere—just from one part of the city to another.

I hear him turn off the shower, so I lean over slightly on the railing and toss my boxers out the balcony. I watch them parachute down and land on satellite dish a few stories down, waving in the wind like a triumphant flag, surely disrupting the signal.

I walk back inside. Bridge Builder is standing in the living room wearing just a white towel around his waist and a few drops of water on his shoulders and chest. I kiss him goodbye and tell him that I'll call him later. But he has this look. He knows I'm not going to call. I grab my jacket and walk out the front door.

There are places I still need to go. And I'm not going to get there by sitting here and staring at black and white photographs.