It being 4/20 and all, I got stoned today, though really no excuse is needed. For some reason, I thought it would be a great idea to watch Downfall while stoned. The last days of Hitler spent in his bunker somehow proved a riveting movie to watch on this sunny day. I looked at Scruff on and off throughout the day, messaging various cuties of varying distances away. There were flirtations that went nowhere.
A cute boy messaged me. We flirted. He said he was looking for company. I asked him if he was looking for sex or company. Sex, he said. He used the word company though. Like one does, he said. I told him I would be there in fifteen minutes.
I walked over, listening to Sky Ferreira's "I Blame Myself," a song I have been listening to over and over again all weekend. I buzzed his buzzer, number 7, walked up two flights of stairs, and knocked on his door. He answered and I was in a goofy mood from still being slightly stoned. He was a little nerdy looking but had a really cute smile. There was that awkward conversation in his bedroom, the making out with our clothes on in his bed. We took off our clothes and this guy was really beautiful. Clark Kent/Superman. Out of his clothes, he was really cut, had this stunning chest that I kept running my fingers against as my eyes took it in, up and down, my hands trying to understand this beauty, my eyes wanting some physical confirmation of it.
He had his windows open. I watched people walk past on the sidewalk below as I got head. I wondered if that man parking his car across the street could see up to this window, little lit box of me eating this guy's ass.
There were Deleuze books stacked on his bedside table, maps on the wall. We came lying side by side jerking off.
I told him how I didn't really do much this weekend except for look at Tumblr porn and talk to guys on Scruff. Me too, he said. We started talking about Scruff. He lamented that he spends so much time looking at a grid of male faces. He made an analogy to Foucault's idea of the panoptican, that this was its inverse, that there are all these little squares out there, human faces, and we hope, really hope, that they are looking at us.
He's beautiful. He's smart. He's a math teacher. He plays piano. I wasn't expecting to like this person so much, but he was super sweet and cute, and I found myself more and more attracted to him as we kept talking, hoping that I would get to hang out with this person again.
He told me about the awkward date he had the night before. He really likes this guy and hopes he gets another chance to hang out with him, that he wants to date him. Despite my hopes being dashed by this guy talking about some other guy he liked, I kept our banter going, talked about how gay men don't know how to go on dates, that most gay men never participated in those rituals growing up. He told me he liked my outfit once I was dressed. We kissed goodbye. I walked down those two flights of stairs, put on my headphones, and blasted this song, "I Blame Myself," over and over again, walking home down Grand Street, taking in the night, past memories floating around, hoped for future ones somewhere out past those.