confessions of a boy toy

Sayonara, Suckers!

coaboytoy — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 01:47:02 PDT

UPDATE: I'm turning Confessions of a Boy Toy into a semi-autobiographical novel. Catch all the madness here - from writing, to editing and revising, finding an agent, and getting it all published!

My Tumblr has been redesigned to be my main hub where I'll be blogging more frequently. I've transferred my columns, original commentary, and multimedia projects over to my new space.

Make sure to follow me (http://tumblr.com/follow/oscarraymundo), or if you're not on Tumblr, sign up for my monthly newsletter (http://oscarraymundo.tumblr.com/oscarquarterly).

The original writing on Confessions of a Boy Toy will remain intact here and accessible through http://oscarraymundo.tumblr.com/boytoy

Love Retrospective

coaboytoy — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 20:45:34 PST

It is universally acknowledged that a boy toy in possession of a good fortune must be in want of true love.

And he will look in all the wrong places before he finds it...

Bridge Builder tried to get me to cross to the other side. But in matters of the heart, pushing and shoving only results in a halt. Even though we might be uncertain as to what we want exactly... it's always helpful to pinpoint what we do not want. And I knew that this relationship was going nowhere.

"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."

So I began casually dating. I'm sort of traditional, so getting hammered and making out with strangers on the dance floor was how I met most of my Chicago paramours at this time. That's how I met Canadian Stallion, DJ Dreamboat and Straight Guy. And even though we all fantasize about meeting that hook-up that hangs on to our heart, one-night stands rarely commit into the morning after.

"For one minute I let myself get caught up in the moment: the good boy with the lazy smile making breakfast while watching the morning news. A moment he would never recognize, a moment I'm ready to own."

The carefree fooling around continued when I went to study abroad in Madrid for six months. My next-door neighbor, Chico Rock, impressed me immediately with his Euro-cool and in-the-know approach. But he turned out not to be as solid as I had hoped.

"I open my hand and see that he’s given me two pills. I take one and hand it over to Chico Rock, but he shakes his hands and says, 'They’re all yours.'"

I took a little detour to Paris for a week and found myself in trouble once again - having to sneak into my flight back after almost getting caught in a ménage á trois.

And then - back to the states. This time, New York City after landing an internship with a magazine. The city was a whirlwind. I went out almost every night and met the most fascinating, life-driven individuals: polysexual party monsters, Wall Street trophy husbands and beautiful boys I should have had the courage to gone up to introduce myself.

"But if we genuinely feel the sparks and believe that the scruffy guy to our right is right, right now, then what’s stopping us from going for it, not like a mindless missile but like on a mission? The worse that can happen is old and rusted rejection. But we’re all big boys here. We can deal."

New York was not all frisky, no strings attached. I began hooking up with my roommate, Sunny D, and getting dangerously close in our convenient, yet comforting relationship. He could see right through me, but it took him being jealous of a certain Toy Soldier to show it.

"'So is that really what you think of me?' I ask as I begin to walk back towards him. 'That I just use guys? They’re totally disposable to me? Is that what I thought of you?' The last question is particularly poignant because I’d recently expressed my feelings for him. He’s silent, so I continue. 'What the hell was that all about? You have a boyfriend, remember?! So just… leave me alone and let me fuck whomever I want. Let me be the giant slut you think I am!' I drunkenly shout on Avenue A. For some reason, no one thinks it’s weird."

After all the conflict, I let the dust settled, Sunny D went home and I moved to a new apartment on the Lower East Side. And when I least expected it, I found my superhero... ironically, right before we were both about to jet to somewhere else. He went to California, and I went back to college in Chicago.

My Summer of Love ended, and after the roller coaster ride that was Europe and New York, I started feeling displaced, belonging to nowhere and to no one. I began to crave security, no more casual affairs, but a genuine connection. But that got me in even more of a predicament, because things are rarely what they seem. Denim Boy and Mr. Danger proved that.

"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?"

But my search was not all a bunch of disillusions. For even when things appeared the grayest, I met a boy that would brighten up my world in multicolor.

After graduation, I moved to San Francisco and realized that my high school crush, Peter Pan, hadn't grown up at all while I was gone. Chico Boricuo taught me more about myself in one night in a hotel room on Valencia. And I got caught in yet another bizarre love triangle with a Potential Player and an All-American Reject.

But after everything I've gone through, I still refuse to give up. No matter how many terrible first dates, misunderstood text messages and heartbreak - I still full-heartedly believe there's a superhero out there for all of us. Not to rescue us but to fly high along with us. And we shouldn't settle for anything less that will keep us grounded.

Now that I'm done writing about toy love, I'm focusing all my creative energy to my new bi-weekly column for EDGE. HomoTech ponders the impact of technology on gay lifestyle. Here's my piece about why I decided to stop writing this blog. I've also re-launched my Tumblr, with a new focus on comic book superhero worship.

Thanks for flying along with me,

Oscar

(photo taken in my college dorm, circa 2008)

Todo Acaba Como Empieza

coaboytoy — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 11:21:14 PST

It’s almost 3 a.m. and this late at night (this early morning) I have to take a cab if I want to go back to Chueca. I have no choice: I gave my keys to Chico Rock assuming we’d be coming home together. After all, we sleep a mere balcony hop away.

It’s pouring hard in Madrid, as if the city needs cleansing. The streets of Chueca are empty by the time I get there. The rain has scared off all the little animals that would otherwise be prowling up and down the streets. I’ve never seen Madrid this empty, this cold, this wet. Rick’s is still open of course, so I walk in looking around to see if I can find Rock, or traces that he has been here recently, but nothing.

I order a tequila Squirt and sit by the bar. I’ve come to learn that when looking for someone – friends at a bar, a boy to take home, a future husband, my absent father - it’s better to stay still rather than shoot off aimlessly into the darkness. About twenty minutes later, a man wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans slides to the seat next to me, smiles at me and asks me what I’m drinking. I let him buy me another tequila Squirt. It’s not too late to make friends, and there’s something wildly attractive about his stubble and the thin brushes of silver caressing his buzz cut hair.

We make small talk, I tell him about my time in Madrid, how I’m looking for my next door neighbor with my keys. He tells me about his job, accounting, how he lived in Germany for two years and how he wished he had met me earlier on my trip…

+++

I made my mother cry on her wedding day. It was completely unintentional, like most actions of a nine year-old tend to be. I had been crying that day too, for some reason too hard to decipher fourteen years later. I guess, I just wanted to see her one last time before the ceremony in the chapel was about to commence.

I remember one of my younger aunts escorted me, tears and all, to the room where my mom was applying last-minute make-up and taking control of her nerves. My mother saw me amidst distress, opened her arms, I ran to her, clinching to her satin gown. And I began to cry harder. I gasped for air repeatedly, wiping my tears and unable to complete my thoughts, let alone speak.

The church bells rang, and the maid of honor knocked on the door. “One second!” My mom said wiping my tears and then her own. She fixed my hair and then her own, and I finally managed to say, “They said that I don’t have a father.”

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you that!” She responded immediately and with maternal anger I had never seen before.

“But I don’t have a father,” I said not yet consoled.

“Of course you do,” she said now softly and with a smile. She was a beautiful bride. “Your father is standing right in front of you.” I stood back and smiled. I didn’t want to get any more tears on her dress.

+++

I excuse myself from the conversation I’m having with the handsome stranger at the bar and head to the restroom. I take the last urinal and unzip my pants. The small restroom smells like urine, beer and cologne.

As I start fondling my boxers trying to find the opening, I notice through the mirror the stranger walking in and taking the stall next to me. We are alone. He begins whistling, but I just brush him off. I can sense that he’s looking straight at me, and I keep staring straight in front of me at the light blue wall graffiti’ed with telephone numbers scribbled in black sharpie. I feel his hand grab the back of my neck, so I rush to finish and zip my pants back up. “Don’t be scared, daddy’s here,” he whispers, and my Spidey senses shoot off tingles down my spine. I wriggle out of his grasp, step back and turn to him – give him this angry, disapproving look. He’s pathetic.

But rejection is always hard to take face on. The stranger's face gets flushed with aggression, and he pushes me with enough force that I stumble back into the stall behind me, my chest and my back harden with the pain. I push him to the side, trying to get him out of my way. He punches my face, and I taste blood, like liquid copper, trickling down my throat.

A flamboyant skinny blond boy storms in to the restroom, confused as to what he has just encountered. The stranger rushes out, and I go to the mirror to fix my hair. I’m bleeding out my nose, and I clench my fists because I don’t want to cry.

+++

My mother’s wedding was not a big spectacle by any means. In fact, I remember her making it clear that she wanted something intimate. Because when it comes to love, no show can ever be big enough to ever encapsulate what’s happening internally. After my tears dried up, I took my seat in the front row and looked around. All the people my mother had ever met were there, my old family and my new family, meeting and smiling, so proud of the union. They were happy. And I was happy too.

My mother and my stepfather stood together, said their vows and kissed. And they have been happily married ever since.

And I remember feeling like my heart was going to explode. As a child, I enjoyed projecting myself into the future. And that day, I sat and gazed at the beauty of it all and thought, “that’s what I want.”

+++

Outside the restroom, the party at Rick’s is still going strong. Bloody and teary, I walk out and see Chico Rock making out with some guy on the crowded dancefloor. I walk up to him, unconcerned with interrupting, and ask him for my keys.

“Oye tio, y que te paso? (Hey man, what happened to you?)” He asks. But I don’t answer, I ask for my keys again. He reaches in his pocket and hands me my keys.

“Estas bien? (Are you ok?)” He asks, and now I can tell he’s worried. I reach out and cup his smooth jaw with my hand.

“Estare bien. (I’ll be fine.)” I say and force a smile.

I leave the bar and walk to the nearest metro station. It’s still raining, not has hard, but I don’t care. I stand outside for fifteen minutes, waiting for the trains to start running. It’s a brand new day, but I still feel like last night. I lift my head and let the rain splash on my face and drain down my body; I need the cleansing.

The Last Confession

coaboytoy — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 17:52:21 PST

Stay tuned...

Color Blast

coaboytoy — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 20:09:55 PST

There’s a feeling you get – a feeling that flushes from your heart to your head, and eventually down to your lower body. The feeling overtakes you and makes you want to stomp. Makes you want to look in the mirror and say, “you’re the one.” That’s the feeling you get when you’re about to see that boy.

Boy in Color, as you might recall, is my college crush. A crush that began at a party, like any other party, but it became so much more.

So here you are, getting ready in your room. About to see him one last time before graduation, before life, eventually, gets in the way, in the way of what you feel might be real. You blast on Santigold. A song that you love. A song that you know he loves too. It takes balls to go up to a guy, I admit. But it takes a full-beating heart to go up to the guy that takes your breath away, almost without trying.

He has tried. You’ve noticed, and what at first seemed like a delusion, turns out to be… sparks. He feels it as strongly as you do, you’re sure. How else can you explain this feeling? And so, you’ve resolved that, with this knowledge, you’re going to blast your feelings just as loud as the music in your room – all packed up in boxes containing remnants of a past life, a college boy eager to find his path.

Nothing sets the heart beating faster than a ticking clock. With mere hours left before college comes and goes, it’s either act or let go.

You walk into the dive bar in downtown Chicago. It smells, but it’s what your senior class decided to make the final stop. Immediately – because we all know you’re your confident veneer shields a sensitive and insecure soul inside – you dash to your friends, the girls and boys that you’ve accepted, after many classes and many more drinks, “get you” – as incomprehensible and complex and superficial and extreme and perfectly broken that you are.

And because they get you, they rally you on. They know that you’re ready to talk to Boy in Color. But this talk is unlike any other you’ve had before. This talk is about context and consequence. You want to let him know how you feel.

Boy in Color is hanging on to his friends, the girls and boys that “get him.” So after taking a big gulp of your well drink, gin and tonic perhaps, you walk over by the jukebox to try to infiltrate his group, so that maybe you can be one of the boys that “gets him” too. You sense the air between the two of you thickens as you walk closer, as if a barrier you must break before finally getting to him. But you don’t stop. You keep walking.

In the midst of drunken bodies, you see him notice you. Flashing a quick smile that brightens up his face, Boy in Color puts down his drink and dashes to meet you. He’s excited to see you, and you break the barrier with a wholehearted hug.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he says loudly over the music.

“Yeah, I had lots of packing to do, but I couldn’t miss this,” you reply signaling to the sea of familiar faces flooding the bar, ordering drinks, laughing in

unison, former roommates and former flings, classmates and best friends, excited to be finally done with college and scared that it’s all over.

“So when are you leaving?” You ask to keep the conversation going.

“Well, I finished moving out of my apartment earlier this week. Right now, I’m staying with a friend downtown for a few days.”

“Do you have any plans for what you’re doing after that?”

“I’m going home for, like, a month. Then it’s off to Buenos Aires for who-knows-how-long. That’s as much of a plan as I’ve got,” Boy in Color says with a smirk. “How about you? Back to New York City?”

“No… not yet. I think I’m moving to San Francisco. I mean, it’s not like I have a job there, or anywhere for that matter.”

“Man, I’d love to move to San Francisco.”

You take a sip from your gin and tonic and a picture flashes in your head of you and him living in San Francisco, together. You turn around and take another look at the crowd. A face splashes to the surface, one that you don’t recognize. This glowing face belongs to a tall guy with spiky, almost plastic, dark blond hair. He spots Boy in Color, and smiles with his crooked teeth. As he approaches, Boy in Color puts his arm around your shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Oh, there’s the friend I’m staying with.”

“Did he go to school with us?”

“No. He’s older; lives around here. I met him a couple of months ago.” Then he stalls, not sure if he wants to share this last part: “I guess he thinks we’re seeing each other.”

“What makes him think that?”

But before Boy in Color can answer, Crooked Smile shoves himself onto him to give him a hug. He stands back and looks at you as if you were some alien from outer space. Right after Boy in Color introduces you, you make an excuse and head towards the restroom. Never a good idea to come clean to your crush while his part-time lover imposes in with his harsh hugs, infiltrating your sparks with his stinging cologne.

About an hour later, you notice that Crooked Smile has not left his side. And all you want is a minute alone, a minute to clear the air so that you can go to San Francisco and he can go to Buenos Aires and nothing was left unsaid. So you resort to your old trusted pal – your pack of Parliaments. You walk back to Boy in Color and nudge his arm.

“Smoke?” You ask inviting him out with you in the most friendly of forms.

“I quit smoking.”

“Oh, come on! One cigarette?” You are tempted to add a “For old time’s sake,” but stop yourself out of fear of sounding like a total sap.

Boy in Color takes a second and then smiles and walks towards you, grabbing your pack and taking a cigarette. The patio is mostly empty, and you can’t picture a better opportunity. Enough small talk, you take the plunge.

“So why are you staying with that guy?”

“You think he sucks?”

“You don’t?”

“You’re right. He does suck. But I invited him here, I have to stay with him.”

“You don’t have stay with him,” you say, almost imploring. You look directly into his eyes and repeat it. “Don’t stay with him,” you go on, “stay with me. Tonight.” And you don’t have to say anything else. Whatever he might have suspected of a mutual attraction, his eyes and your words have made it apparent. He keeps looking at you, taking his time before saying another word. And at this point, his response is almost inconsequential. It feels so good to let the air between you dissolve so smoothly. Tonight was about you letting him know and letting him go.

Several people stumble out and join you on the patio. Friends of friends surround you and you lose the intimacy. But after such a loaded conversation, you appreciate the frivolity. Boy in Color turns to them and shushes them down. Apparently, he has something to declare to the group. You’re smiling and smoking and happy.

“I just want to say… what a great guy Oscar is.” Yep, he’s talking about you. “I hate that college is over, if only because I won’t get to hang out with you more often.” You start to blush. “And I want you to know,” now he’s looking at you, “that no matter how far away I am, you can always count on me for anything. And I mean that… anything.”

Your drunken friends cheer him on, and the outdoor party moves back in to order another round of drinks.

Now the night is coming to a close. You grab your jacket from the pile that’s accumulated on one of the tables and make your way to say your goodbyes. Boy in Color notices that you’re getting ready to go. He closes his left eye and points at you as if aiming a gun. You walk over and give him a hug, gentler than when you first saw him earlier that night but just as warm.

“I’ll see you again?” you ask in a soft whisper while he’s still holding on to you.

And with his signature smirk, he replies: “In living color.”

Change Clothes

coaboytoy — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 02:35:01 PST

Right as I finish packing my eye contact solution in my overnight bag, my phone rings, notifying that my ride is here. I throw my bag over my shoulder, turn off the lights in my bedroom and skip down the stairs and out the front door.

Waiting outside is the silver Mustang, roaring in the breezy evening. I open the door and get comfortable in the passenger seat I’ve sat in several times before. All-American Reject flashes a smile as I lean in to peck him on the corner of his lower lip.

“Ready?” he asks. I nod while rolling down my window. All-American Reject turns right on Market and we begin heading back his place in the East Bay.

What started as a one-night stand has grown into something more. I guess the appropriate term would be, “fuck buddies” but even that is more serious than anything I ever expected this to turn into, considering our first night together was completely impulsive and came entirely out of spite.

If you’ve forgotten All-American Reject is the boy who ratted out his friend, Potential Player, as a Total Player. So then I, in turn, gave in to his advances.

Driving through the Bay Bridge, I always wonder what would happen if something where to go “snap!” All the cars and vans and motorcycles heading into the city would ram right into the traffic trying to leave. Head on collisions on all lanes, the stuff Jerry Bruckheimer’s dreams are made of.

AAR grabs my hands, distracting me from envisioning a disaster, and I wonder, “Do fuck buddies hold hands?”

He had been asking me over to come check out his place ever since we got into a routine of him texting me every night and me replying every time. Judging from his street brat attitude and his Ed Hardy wardrobe, I expected his one-bedroom to be a total mess.

But as he lets me in through the front door, I realize that I shouldn’t have judged a boy by his TK. His apartment is clean, immaculate aside from the oversized gym bag lying in a corner of his well-lit restroom. And in the living room, tiny candles rest on forest green fixtures hanging from the sand-colored walls.

The tour of his place ends in his bedroom. The queen-sized bed is made, and there are no signs of Ed Hardy anywhere. I’m pleasantly surprised by the condition of his apartment, and I wonder, “Do guys clean up their place for a fuck buddy?”

I turn around and fall into AAR’s big arms. As I kiss his neck, I drag his built body closer to the edge of the bed. And we fall together. I love feeling all his weight on me, just enough pressure keeping me in place on his cool, clean bed.

As the temperature rises, he gets up and takes a quick restroom trip before the action begins. As he dashes out of bed, I ask him, “Hey, can I borrow a pair of shorts?”

“Sure, in the closet,” he answers and steps outside.

I walk up to his closet and slide open the mirrored walls. Even though it’s pretty dark, I can still recognize him. There he is, Ed Hardy is all his studded glory: ripped jeans, tattooed shirts, flamed hats, and I’ve made up my mind.

I’ve always considered a big advantage of being involved in even a semi-serious same-sex relationship the fact that you can borrow each other’s clothing, thus doubling your wardrobe. So this discovery seems to reinforce the fact that AAR and I aren’t going very far. But at this point, we don’t have to go any further than the confines of his bedroom. Our steamy time together works because neither of us care to wipe away the mirrors reflecting the truth.

He comes back into the room, and I realize that AAR’s wardrobe is not so much a deal breaker when we both like to spend most of our time with our clothes off.

The next morning, I notice that I have a text from the previous night. It’s Potential Player, informing me that he’s coming back into town.

The last time I saw Potential Player, he had borrowed a shirt from my closet, and despite AAR’s allegations that he was a lying, manipulative scoundrel… I still want to see him. I want my shirt back.

"Who is that?" AAR asks after catching the look on my face.

"Eh, no one," I lie to myself, thinking these two boys are like the traffic on the Bay Bridge, on separate levels, going opposite directions, and never bound to collide head on.

Another Action Figure

coaboytoy — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 18:18:24 PST

I never answer calls from unknown numbers. I have a compulsive habit of rushing to the nearest computer as soon as my phone vibrates with an alien request and Googling the area code to get an idea of where in the world the call is coming from. Generally, my geo-search yields solid clues as to the mystery caller.

“Who the hell is calling me from the East Bay?” I say this time waiting for a voicemail that will reveal the identity on the other line.

After his weeklong birthday celebration and our two-time rendezvous, Potential Player flew away on vacation (oh, they joys of being funemployed) leaving me alone and with the impression that he was interested in a one-on-one match upon his return.

What the Player also left was my number with his friend: the tall, hunky blond.

In the voicemail that followed the call from the East Bay number, the friend reminds me of the night we met, one of the nights I spent with the Player. He asks me about my plans for the night. He’s on the Bay Bridge, making his way to the city.

I haven’t gone out in a couple of days, and since most of my friends have full-time jobs, I rarely get to go out on weekdays, by far the most exciting nights to party in a big city. And being quite fresh to San Francisco, I can count the number of gay friends in one hand. So I’m tempted to take this boy up on what sounded like a purely platonic offer for drinks.

Twenty minutes later, and he’s rolling down in his silver Mustang, parking behind the Castro Theatre. I meet up with him and together we walk on over to Toad Hall, an unpretentious lounge with phenomenal drink specials.

He adds character to his corn-fed frame, easygoing smile and baby blue eyes with a faux haw and an eyebrow piercing. He’s like a Ken doll after breaking free from military school. An All-American reject with a tough exterior but deep down, a totally huggable kind of brat.

Our first round of drinks and our conversation is flowing. Even though we had barely spoken the first time we met, it’s easy for me to talk to All-American Reject, joke around with him even, maybe because there’s no pressure coming from either side.

I’d already filed AAR in my friend cabinet, and I make sure to lock him in there as soon as I recognize the pattern on his black shirt: Ed Hardy. That Christian Audigier bastard child of a brand, the Wal-Mart of gaudy couture, now associated with delusions of D-list celebrity status and obnoxious, beer belly, baby daddy, garage glamour.

On an acquaintance, Ed Hardy is negligible. But AAR could never rearrange himself as anything more than friend of a friend, not with that wardrobe anyway.

Getting drunk with him is still acceptable.

As the night progresses, we decide to bounce from the barely crowded Toad Hall to the smaller space of QBar. Just around the block, QBar, the closest the Castro gets to ‘hood, is full-on body heat and hip-hop.

I don’t know if it has to do with the fact that the bar is about the size of an attic and the concept of maximum capacity is meaningless, or with the fact that we’re on our fourth round of drinks, but I start to feel AAR closing in on my physical space, the drink in my hand bumping against his hard chest every time I make a move on the dance floor. There’s nothing wrong with casual flirting and grinding with a friend of a friend, so I don’t make it an issue, but AAR’s intentions are obvious.

Weary that our interactions might get too hot to handle, I suggest we take a break and go outside to catch my breath… and smoke a cigarette. As soon as we step away from the loud music blasting inside, AAR brings up a topic I did not expect to discuss.

“So are you still talking to that Potential Player?” he asks, and I can see in his baby blue eyes that he’s curious to hear my response.

“I haven’t talked to him in a while,” I say disguising my recent fascination with his friend.

“That kid is so wild. I met him at my friend’s apartment one morning. He was just wrapped in a towel. My friend told me later that they had just finished fooling

around when I walked in and that he was the best sex he’s ever had.”

I don’t say a word. And it takes all my strength not to show how manipulated I feel. AAR continues telling his story, even though my silence should have been taken as an indication for him to stop.

“I met him the day before I met you. We are not really close friends or anything, but I’ve heard lots of crazy stories. He was really upset on his birthday because he was seeing this guy in Santa Cruz who totally blew him off and bailed on his party last minute.”

And just like that, my image of Potential Player shatters. If AAR met him the night before he met me, it means that in between both nights the Player and I spent together, the Player had the best sex of his life… with someone else. And his weeklong birthday sex game was just a spiteful attempt at getting back at yet another lover. Not exactly the definition of playing fair.

The Player, as it turns out, is not a gentleman but a cheat. And his charm, his boy-like innocence, is nothing more than an act so that, in the end, he can walk away with the biggest prize: an unbroken heart.

We walk back into the bar, and because I feel like I have nothing else to lose, I do what I’ve wanted to since about drink number two. I don’t worry about keeping my distance, I forget about the Ed Hardy galore. I grab on to AAR’s neck and bring him in as close as I can. We start making out amidst the

crowd, and I don’t care that it’s all on display.

Because I am done being toyed around with, when I know all too well how to play.

The Way the Game Is Played

coaboytoy — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 20:12:46 PDT

“You should be very proud of yourself,” he says grabbing me as I try to get up from my bed to go and turn off my bedroom lights. It takes some effort, but I finally manage to get up from his arms and walk towards the door. On my way, I readjust my crumbled up boxers over my jeans.

“I don’t usually do this,” he says.

“Yeah, I love to wrestle in bed,” I respond, dimming the lights.

“No, I mean, hook up that often.” I’m confused. I had totally pegged him as a total player. The day I met him at a mutual friend’s BBQ, he had gotten in a fight with a drunken straight guy and called him an asshole. All while hopping around on crutches. He’d broken his left foot jumping down a fence and had to get a cast, but that didn’t stop him from provoking a riot. So I figured that the testosterone that muddled his temper also filtered down to his crotch and fucked up his libido – encouraging every impulse to “hit that.”

It had definitely fucked with mine. I was instantly attracted to this Potential Player and his straight guy-like bravado. And I refused to watch from the sidelines.

But playing with bad boys is a dangerous sport, and I didn’t want to end up getting hurt and calling foul. So I didn’t think much of this guy with the sexy dimples and messy hair who always wore his shirts wrinkled. I wasn’t even expecting him to call me, even though we did have an intense, shirtless make out session on my friend’s couch the night of the BBQ. With his foot in a cast, I had to lift him up and support him on my shoulders when we started to dance, swaying slowly to “Electric Feel."

And then three weeks later, there he was: free of crutches and inviting me to his birthday celebration. Potential Player has this way of making every guy feel

like the only one on the team, which solidified my first impression that he would pitch to whomever was willing to catch. And that’s what caught me at the

beginning. He has the confidence of a Casanova, never mind that he prefers LMFAO to MGMT.

The night of his birthday, he brought about 25 guys to his party at Trigger. Impressive considering we live in a city often unwilling to commit. The sexy bartenders flowered him with even more attention in the form of drinks. But I kept sober. Despite the fact that it seemed as if I were playing Marco Polo in a pool full of men wanting to swim up the birthday boy’s trunks, I felt a little like Michael Phelps, for I had already won. I’d hooked up with Potential Player the night before. See, I don’t do sidelines.

So the next night at Trigger, I felt quite secure in my position as starting player on his team. A little past midnight, I gave him a hug and made up the excuse that I had to meet up with some other friends in the Mission. I didn’t want him to think that he was a starting player on my team. Before I exited the club, he gave my number to one of his friends, a tall, hunky blond. “My phone is about to die, and I forgot my charger,” Potential Player explained. “I’ll call you tomorrow on his phone.” And he did, and we hooked up again. But this time with the lights off. And I felt like the only one on the team.

Light My Fire

coaboytoy — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 09:49:02 PDT

I have to tell him how I feel. And tonight is my last chance.

It’s gotten to the point where I don’t care whether he likes me back or if rejection is the only thing coming my way. We are moving out. Come tomorrow we won’t be living next door to each other anymore. It’s too late for serious us. I just need to know if what I have been sensing this whole time is real.

All of these feelings flushed in right from the very beginning. The week before senior year, I was walking around my front lawn after I’d just finished unpacking. I kicked off my flimsy flip-flops and began pacing barefoot on the cool grass wearing only a loose white v-neck and faded Levi’s. I wiped the few drops of sweat from my brow and took out my pack of Parliaments. I needed a cigarette to help me relax after my grueling moving-in. But September in Chicago is notoriously windy, and my lighter, like most things I owned at the time, was cheap and unreliable. I kept flicking it, cupped my hands around the flame and tried to keep it going long enough to cause some serious damage to my unlit Parliament, much to no avail.

I was starting to get frustrated when I noticed a boy plopping down the steps of the porch next door and slowly heading towards my direction. He was wearing a pair of forest green shorts and a white t-shirt similar to mine except wrinkled and with grass stains, as if he’d been doing cartwheels or wrestling on the grass. His dark brown wavy hair swayed in the wind and from his dry pink lips dangled a lit Parliament. It took me a second to recognize him.

“Hey there, I’m Boy in Color, your neighbor apparently,” he said looking at me and then glancing at my house. I shared a front lawn with the boy who had taken my breath away the minute I had first laid eyes on him at that party not so long ago. And exactly like before, the world went grey as he glowed in multicolor. Being next to me got me in some sort of visual trance.

“Hi,” I said staring straight into his juvenile eyes as he continued to approach me cutting through the grass. “You got a lighter? Mine’s a piece of shit.”

“Here, let me show you a trick,” he said taking my lighter from my hands. “Put the cigarette in your mouth, and pull your collar over it to block it from the wind.” I was skeptical and pictured my white shirt engulfing in flames, but I followed his instructions. “And now light it from underneath,” he said and reached under my shirt, gently gracing my happy trail as he made his way upwards with my lighter in his hand. It tickled, and the sensation stretched from my belly to my back and down my spine.

He got the lighter up to my chest and lit my heart on the very first try.

And in the nine months that followed, our entire senior year, the flame between us continued to flicker in the wind, never dying down. During our late night conversations sitting on the rackety bench on his porch, our knees touching while we waited for the sun to come up, I’d lean on him slightly and feel him applying pressure back on me; while watching cheesy scary movies on rainy Sunday afternoons, he’d turn to me with and flash me a soft smile whenever I made a clever comment no one else understood; or after the brief, silly friend fights we’d get into for pretending not to care, we’d hug as a sign of peacemaking, but our hugs always lingered as a sign of something else.

During all of this, I made sure to guard our flame while he kept fanning it. Because whenever we’d undergo a cold front, it’d only take a longing look, a tender touch or a few words to bring us right back to the warm sentiment I felt we shared.

And now on the last night I'll be seeing him before we both jet off into opposite sides of the country, and I can’t believe I never got close enough to confess how I feel. I have been so afraid of getting burned, thinking that in this fire, a friend is the worse thing to lose.

But I have to know if this is real. Because I feel like I’m burning, and if Boy in Color can’t save me, he has to let me cool.

I have to tell him how I feel. And tonight is my last chance. I think again as I walk out my front door, light a Parliament under my collar and make my

way to the sports bar our entire senior class will be at on our last night of college.

[To be continued…]

Enséñame

coaboytoy — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 11:04:36 PDT

1. teach me

2. show me

The neon green lights shining right outside his hotel room window gives his shirtless body the same soft glow I imagine he has all year round when he’s in Miami. I take off my jacket and shoes and join him in bed, caressing his chest and pecking him gently on his neck and jaw.

“I’m waiting for you to show me how much you like me,” he whispers, as I reach over and pin one of his arms down on the pillow. I smile, and we start kissing.

Chico Boricuo has a subtle accent. Not a Puerto Rican accent; he didn’t get it from his parents. He got it growing up and going out in Miami. It’s a cocktail of Latin intonations, all blending smoothly under the Florida sun. His skin tastes like coconut, but I’m pretty sure it’s his cologne. No wonder he chose to stay at “The Tropicana Hotel,” he informs me immediately after insisting on paying for my second vodka tonic at the Café.

That’s where our night started, where we first met, at the Thursday night gay Latin extravaganza: Pan Dulce. Chico Boricuo was standing right in front of me at the bar as I waited to order my first vodka tonic. He was there by himself… which is usually a pretty big turn-off, but his baby brown eyes and dimples exposed him as nontoxic, a far cry from my well-documented attraction to cocky crooks, bad boys and un-dateable delinquents. Chico Boricuo looked straight out of one of Johnny Diaz’s novels: warm smile that lit up his entire face, dark chocolate chest hair inching out from his tight forest green v-neck and about 27 or 28.

I turned around to ask my girl friend what she's drinking, but instead of giving me a response, she widened her eyes as she motioned repeatedly with her chin towards the Chico.

“I’m not exactly sure what you’re plotting,” I tried to set her straight, “but let me tell you right now: it’s not gonna happen.”

Two drinks with a squirt of confidence later, and it looks like it’s definitely gonna happen. Chico Boricuo and I are talking intimately up against the windows that look out towards the twin gas stations on Castro.

“I don’t know where the Tropicana Hotel is,” I resume the conversation we started earlier as I check a text I’ve just received from my girl friend saying she’s found a cab home.

“It’s in the Mission. My brother picked it out for us.” Chico Boricuo and his brother are visiting San Francisco for the week. Every six months, his brother, who a few years ago moved to Panama, has to return to the States to fulfill his Visa obligations. But instead of going back home to Miami every time, his brother chooses and pays to meet up with his brother at a different destination. Earlier this year, it was Denver. This time, it’s San Francisco. And the Boricuo brothers are leaving tomorrow.

After we finish our drinks, he was drinking a Manhattan by the way, I grab his hand, and lead him towards the recently-remodeled dancefloor. But apparently, his Latin hips are unable to shake it to Kelly Clarkson, so he just stands in front of me, como un pez fuera del agua.

“How can you dance to this?” He asks me seconds before the chorus to “Since U Been Gone” is about to blast through the entire club.

“Just jump!” I shout. And he does. And I join. And Kelly belts. And we smile.

He gets a call from his brother, who has been hanging out right by their hotel in the Mission all night.

“My brother, he's bored. Wants us to meet up for a drink or something.”

“Alright… let’s go!”

“You want to come? And meet my brother? Won’t that be a little weird for you?”

“Not, unless it’s not weird for you. C’mon, this is your last night seeing your brother. I want to meet him.”

We leave and meet up with his brother outside of the Make Out Room. They give each other a sturdy hug, and then I get introduced as a friend, but his brother, who is older, can read between the smiles. The three of us then head into a really tiny hookah bar across the street. It has a sign saying, “Members Only,” but we just walk in, and I order a hookah for us.

“So my brother wanted to see if we could go find an after hours place tonight,” Chico Boricuo says to me before taking a deep drag off a rose-flavored hookah.

At this point, I’m playing the part of local nightlife connoisseur, even though I’ve only lived in San Francisco for, like, six weeks. I walk around the hookah bar, mindlessly starting conversations with the strangers lounging on the couches and laying on the cushions, trying to get the insider information. But they’re all drained from partying, or foreign, or underage. So I give up, but not without a consolation prize.

“Ok, so… it’s really hard to find an after hours here, especially on a Thursday night,” and then I think of a place that might work: “Unless we want to dance like zombies until 8 a.m.,” but then I reconsider. “Never mind, we’re not going to the End-Up,” I start rambling. “But I did meet this really cool girl from Italia. Her name is Valentina, and she gave me a leftover blunt.”

Chico Boricuo’s brother is talking to some of the underage girls, and they totally love his luscious Latin look, so we step outside and light the joint.

“I had a lot of fun hanging out with you tonight,” Chico Boricuo says. His feelings start pouring out like Pina Colada, thick and refreshing, just sweet enough for my taste. “First, when you got me dancing at the club,” he starts recollects after his first hit. “I’ve never danced like that before! And my brother, he loves you by the way. The way you just go up and start talking to everybody, like it’s no big deal. And you always find a way to get what you want,” he says lifting up the blunt and passing it over to me.

I take a small hit. Inhale, exhale just long enough to think of a response, but all I can come up with is, “I really liked hanging out with you too.” But I guess that’s good enough. He pulls me in closer, and we start making out up against a fence on 22nd Street.

After a few minutes, I pull back, but keep my arms wrapped around his lower torso. “I can’t really show you here… show you how much I like you.”

The next thing he says to me, we’re in his hotel room. He’s lying warm and shirtless on the cool, clean, white sheets, and he says:

“I’m waiting for you to show me how much you like me.”

I kiss him, and take off his boxers and let him take off mine. And we fool around for hours, naked and drenched in the neon hues that are radiating from outside the hotel room window.

But I don’t show him how much I like him. Because to do so, I’d have to show him everything: me dancing alone in my room to Kelly Clarkson, making a fool out of myself just to make friends. I would have to show him how jealous and territorial I can get and the humiliating ways I have failed trying to be fabulous. I would have to show him all of that. I would have to show him this blog.

And we only have one night at the Tropicana. Because when morning comes, no matter what happens between us, underneath the sheets, he still has a flight to catch.

The truth is, I don't always get what I want. In fact, I rarely do. And it seems that the guys closest to my heart are the ones already halfway on to somewhere else. And it sometimes feels like self-sabotage. Like I push myself to fall for these men who are miles and miles away. Keeping everyone, including myself, at a safe distance.

Because I’m not ready to show you how much I like you. Because there's too much of me to show.