The computer, its screen dusty like it hadn’t been cleaned, well, ever, was open to a post on Craigslist. Nick spent days on the Web site at times. He’d browse through the pages, read the posts, go back to another, and then hit the reply hyperlink at the top. When it opened and he was set to respond, he’d jus sit there in front of a blank e-mail and then he’d X out of it without writing a thing, without sending the message he so desperately wanted to send.
During the day, he worked at a local diner and served food to angry old men. Sometimes he’d work the bar and schlep drinks to people who probably would be better off at an AA meeting—noon is no time to down four martinis on a Monday, unless you’re on vacation. And these people were on a vacation alright, a vacation from being alive. So was Nick, but he was trying to find himself, find someone, find happiness—in the form of personal ads on the Men for Men section of Cragslist Philadelphia
. The ads, often of a very sexual nature with picture of erect penises, brought a smile to face when he would read some of them—and he didn’t smile very often. Sometimes the posts featured someone looking, hoping for some type of love, not just a casual bathhouse encounter. Something real. That’s what Nick wanted.
Nick bought a gun a week ago. He went to the Wal-Mart, filled out the form, and he picked up his 9mm Glock an hour ago. He wasn’t hunting. He wasn’t using it for protection. He wanted to end it.
He wore a blank expression on his face at all times and barley moved his thin lips from their constantly sealed state. He pretended for years to be someone he wasn’t; he pretended to be straight. He played basketball on the high school team, he was prom king, and his date was the most beautiful girl in the school, if a bit of an airhead. He fought people. He took people’s lunch money.
When he came out to his parents, they kicked him out. Now he lived in a lonely apartment in Bristol Gardens. He’s stuck the gun in his mouth when he arrived home. He put his finger on the trigger. He cried, the tears streaming down his face and splashing ever so softly on the cold, black steel of the handgun. He laid the gun on the table. Then he picked it back up and put it back into his mouth, as the tears ceased and went back to their bottomless pond.
This was it. This was the end. Why go on living in a world that hates you, in a world that would rather erase the whole idea of your innermost and unchangeable desires?
He put the gun back down, picked it back up, then put it back down and walked to the computer, and, as soon as he was online, he went straight to Craigslist. Confused. You bet. Better than dead, though.
He posted his ad. It read: Mature, funny, SGM seeks LTR with masculine individual like me. About Me: I’m a former gay turned born again Christian who realized he was Gay! Let’s Meet. Looks not completely important but you know how it goes. Your pic gets mine. TTYS.
I just looked at the gun and then glanced at his wristwatch. How long would a response take, he thought? A minute. An hour. A day. Never. Wait and see.
Nick worked at a local hotel at the front desk, signing people in and out of hotel rooms. He’d see couples come in from across America. They’d be holding hands. They’d be kissing each other. They’d smile and tell him have a great day. He'd smile back, covering his feelings with a grin and secretly hating them for the hand he was dealt, for the loneliness and isolation, for the animosity.
But he held out hope that life could actually be good. That he wouldn’t have to paint his apartment red and gray with contents of his head. He’d imagine when they would find him: his body would have a giant hole from the neck up, pieces of skull would be stuck to the carpet, and the blood would be dried and dark while his brains would resemble little pieces of dried oatmeal until you took a closer look. A stain inflicted on the person that could not be removed. That was his problem: he thought about how he felt and even though he was filled with animosity that he wanted replaced by love how could he ruin somebody when he felt ruined?
The phone rang. Nick stared at it sitting on his coffee table. A creditor, he thought. Maybe an old friend. “Hello,” but it was too late as the person had already hung up and the number was marked private.
He went back to the computer, clicked the mouse button to refresh his e-mail account and saw that someone had answered. It read: Hi there cutie, I’m looking for an LTR but of course we have to get to know each other first. How bout me and you meet up. Got a place?
He smiled. It did work! There was hope. Love was indeed possible, he thought, if nothing else. Then he clicked on the reply button and wrote this: Hi, that was fast. Want to meet at a diner? Do you drive? Let me know. How about seven?
He hit the send button.
Nick had been in a relationship before—one. The man had approached him at a bar and offered to by him a drink, an appletini to be exact. He asked him what he did, what his interests were, was he gay? And, it was obvious to both of them that they were both gay. For the first month, they went to the movies and shared popcorn in the back row while quietly rubbing each other’s thighs. Todd would pick him up in his Miata and take him to expensive restaurants like Le Bec Fin where they would order wine from the sixties. Then things changed as they usually do after people start to reveal their true feelings for a person. Todd, his ex, started to become jealous—at the strangest things: he thought he wasn’t really gay.
When Nick came home from work one night he saw it—Todd in bed with two other men who both started laughing at him, one of whom chucked a beer bottle at his head. It smashed on the wall and Nick ran out cursing. Then it got nasty after he called the police to get them all out of his place. The police kicked them out but the constant snickers from the officers didn’t help matters.
That’s when he fell into the depression.
He didn’t want to be gay anymore. He figured life was easier for heterosexuals who always had great, long lasting relationships—ones that led down the aisle to blissful happiness.
So he visited a church to receive counseling. The pastor told him he could help him see the light of Christ. Nick walked into service every Sunday well dressed and prepared to accept the Lord as his Savior. The church was huge and painted a pristine white. The choir would burst out into spontaneous song at every pause in the pastor’s sermon.
After services one day, Nick stood outside as the sun shone down on his face and waited for this girl, Carlie, to walk out the door. When she finally came outside, he asked her if she would like to take a ride down to Philly to grab a bite to eat. He decided on Le Bec Fin. Their romance was a whirlwind. His phone would vibrate constantly with messages like, “I’m so happy I met you. You’re the sweetest thing”; “I Think I Love U,”; “I love you J.”
He rented a motel room at the Marriot. He lit candles across the room. He knew she wanted to wait until marriage, but he also knew from her talks that she wanted to feel that big penis up inside her. He wanted him to make her squeal and lift her legs to her shoulders and bite her nipples.
When they went to do the deed—a little bit of the nasty—nothing happened. He couldn’t get hard as he lay besides her pushing his crotch into her butt, so he started to think of Todd. His penis sprang to life. When he screamed out his name during sex, needless to say, she threw him off the bed and ran out of the room. He was, in fact, gay. A hetero only needs to feel the soft skin of a woman to get hard; he had to think of the rough skin of a man.
Nick hit the refresh button on the computer. The message read: meet me at seven at the Red Roof Inn in Bensalem. I have room 107. Sex. Then dinner and a movie. Sound good?
He replied fast, writing that he’ll be there.
He went to the shower and shaved his face, scraping the razor softly twice against his skin to make it smooth as a baby’s ass. He slid on his most expensive shirt and donned a pair of faded blue denim jeans that were ripped at the knees. But he was a little apprehensive that it might just be a scheme to rob him, so he grabbed the gun and shoved it into a tan messenger bag he had. He threw some condoms in there as well.
Maybe this will work out, he thought? “It seems strange, but you never know. He knows I want something long term not just casual sex. It could be great. We miss 100 percent of the shots we never take someone said once, Wayne Gretzy?” Nick said to himself, looking up to the ceiling as if God himself would come down and tell him it would be alright.
He picked up his keys off the table, slung his bag over his shoulder, and pranced out the door like a boy in love with a man he never met. “Well, even casual sex is better than loneliness. I was about to it in and now I have hope!” he just kept talking to himself, as if he was convincing his mind that this was the right thing.
He never showed his face in the church again and wonders what Carlie had said to the congregation about him. It didn’t matter. He tried to be someone he wasn’t and that never works out, like some ex-con pretending he could enter the political system and change something—he’d be eaten alive—it was crock of shit that wasn’t ever worth it in the first place, it just eats you up.
He pulled up at the motel and saw the Room 107. He circled the lot and found a parking place in the back. He hesitated for a minute before turning off his engine, picking up his bag and walking briskly to the room.
He knocked.
“Hi, Craigslist friend,” said the tall, skinny man dressed in a pair of pleated tan pants and a white undershirt. “What’s you name?”
“Nick?”
Come in,” he said with a smile. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Ya look familiar a tad, but I don’t think so.”
“Hmm, oh well. I always remember a face. I’m sure it’ll come to me. This is quite a surprise.”
“What?”
“That you came, didn’t expect it. Most never do. Most never respond.”
Pat patted Andrew’s butt and left it there as he guided him into the room and used his foot to gently close the door behind him. He then moved his other hand to his neck and gave it a tender massage. Then he gave him a peck on the cheek and told him to get comfortable on the bed.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Oh, just some condoms. Gotta be safe.”
“Oh, I’ll grab some.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll grab one for me. I like to be on top,” he said, curtailing any response, reaching in the bag and pulling out a strip of condoms. His hand briefly ran over the cold steel of the gun. Oh, Pat thought, this will make things much easier—if not a little messy.
“Why don’t you lay on you stomach sweet thing and I’ll be right over to pull the clothes off you. I’m gonna fuck you hard.”
Nick never saw it coming as Pat took the gun out of the bag, placed his finger on the trigger, climber onto the bed, pressed his crotch against pat’s ass, and placed the gun to the back off his head.
“What, wait…” boom.
“You little fucking faggot. Never thought I’d see you again after you betrayed your lord. I just wanted to kill some fag but this is so much better. Pastor told me all vengeance is God’s and to pray for you, but fuck him. He’s a fag, too. You get what you deserve.”
Pat shoved the gun in his pocket and walked out of the room like nothing had happened. Nick’s brains were scattered across the wall like little pieces of fresh oatmeal and blood poured out of his head, drenching the sheets in what seemed like and ever increasing circle of death. His eyes left open and frozen in horror, horror. The horror.
No comments:
Post a Comment