Leftovers
I was vomiting a lot the last couple days. I've been feeling like crap. I had sudden waves of nausea that could be set off by anything. I realized that I hadn't really eaten anything in 72 hours. The last time I felt like that was when I was having the migraines. From the moment I started seeing philly boy I felt sick to my stomach. I have never really believed in psychosomatic symptoms until this weekend. After I parted ways and yelled fuck into the sky that night I went home and heaved up dinner. Then I fell asleep miserable and woke up feeling pretty much the same.
Lately, I’m really into feeling bad for myself. It’s like the prefect synthesis of narcissism and depression.
In the morning Philly boy called to meet for breakfast. I was already feeling like I wouldn’t be able to hold down anything so I took my sweet time getting ready and fiddled around on my computer, keeping him waiting for approximately 12.6 minutes, figuring that if absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder at the very least it would piss him off. It did neither and he eagerly met me downstairs and we grabbed coffee (which, of course, I paid for). I was starting to forget what had happened and I just put it behind me. IML can be dangerous to people from homely states like Pennsylvania, of course he lost it over all the hot men. Of course I should forgive him. Of course.
I planned the day very carefully, including-should it happen-the after sex snack which would be BLT sandwiches with sprouts instead of lettuce and avocados on them. I would show him millennium park, I would show him the Seurat paintings, I would take a picture with him under the bean, take him around boystown for a little and then we’d grab lunch at the Chicago Diner. Then we could walk down the Mag. Mile on the way back, walk along the Chicago River, get some more coffee at Lavazza, grab a few beers and listen to music and hang out at my place for a while and then off to Lou Malnatis for his first deep dish pizza experience. Then we would get back and he would be so pleasantly surprised how I even made the bed for him and I used the expensive kind of fabric softener that smells really nice, but manly nice, not flowery nice. It’s a little bit pitiful, but I extract great pleasure from being a fantastic host. I really like treating people well and making things enjoyable for them. I am like the Stepford gay.
We walked through Millenium Park and on the way to the train I stopped back in my place to throw up some more. Something didn’t feel right. Why, now of all times, was this happening to me? I met him downstairs again and we took the redline to Belmont and walked around. I was starting to enjoy being around him again but I couldn’t get over how sick I felt. He was getting hungry and I was getting stomach pains. So, we got a booth at the Chicago Diner and chewed the fat for a little while. I told him about how I had work on Tuesday so for a few hours he’d have to fend for himself in the city but I offered to get him some free passes to the museums. The waiter brought me a ginger ale but it was too sweet and made my insides growl more.
The boy from Philly, casually sucking on a chocolate milkshake, told me that he didn’t think it’d be right to stay with me tonight, especially after all the guys he’s met this weekend and all he’s done. I felt disgusting. I must be gross. I must not only be ugly, but uninteresting. I must smell bad. I must be some toad that he is just using as a tour guide to show him around while he has nothing better to do. All this time I had been trying to convince him to finally move out to Chicago and now I just wanted him to go home, to get the hell out of my city. My city that no longer seemed so handsome and intelligent. Philly seemed full of a very specific- for lack of a better word- ghetto mentality. And now, this boy, slurping his milkshake, he seemed full of it too. He’s just more Philadelphia man pollution, and it was time for a big Midwestern gust to blow him back to the east coast.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom to heave up the small bit of ginger ale I managed to get down and cried into the toilet bowl. Why do I let myself do this? Why do I keep setting myself up to be in these situations, to be a chump. It’s like I can’t help but to sabotage my emotions by building up these men that I meet online. I give them so much power, I give them the ability to hurt my feelings, and I do it readily, with a smile, and then I ask for more. Someone knocked on the bathroom door and I told them to fuck off.
Fuck off. Fuck off, rolled right off the tongue, so perfect, round and sharp at the same time, brilliantly executed. Fuck off seemed like the perfect sentiment for how I was feeling.
I returned to the table as the server was bringing out our food. I told him that my eyes were a bit bigger than my stomach and I wanted it wrapped up. The server regarded me severely and only said, “Sorry man.”
The boy from Philly picked up the tab and I placed the doggie bag in my backpack. On the train ride home I said,
“Maybe you should just get someone else to show you around. I’m not a fucking doormat.”
All he said back was, “OK.” The rest of the train ride was silent. I passed the time by fondling a rubber bracelet I was wearing that said ‘Kindness’ in seventeen different languages. When we got off the train I handed the bracelet to him and told him what it said, and that maybe he’d understand at least of them.
Then I went home and had a good cry. Not just for him, but for all the men who had done me wrong lately.
For the guy who worked for the democrats, who stood me up because he had a meeting.
For the lumberjack, who gave me fifty dollars the other day.
For the lumberjack, who wants to hang out even though he dumped me months ago. Even though he met his new boyfriend while we were still together. Even though he showed me pictures of his new boyfriend on his camera phone, and his boyfriend was handsome. Even though he never took that many pictures of me while we were together.
For the lumberjack, who still calls me handsome, because it seems like only my exes tell me I’m handsome.
For the flight attendant who told me he didn’t want to have sex even though he took off my clothes and put me in his bed and rubbed his thing all over me. Even though he had gray hair and a belly.
For the guy who works for democrats and keeps saying, “Lets meet!” and even though he stood me up I ask when and he always says he’s busy. And I hate politics anyway.
For John, who stood me up because he fell asleep.
For the teacher, who hasn’t done or said anything to me since we broke up but I still see him on my buddy list on AIM sometimes because I keep forgetting to take him off and it always makes me feel a little sad. Even though I dumped him.
For the waiter at Gage, who stood me up and still called to ask if I wanted to have sex and even though I did I turned him down and then I went to have sex with someone else and it was not as good and I did not enjoy it.
For Carlos, who didn’t want to have sex with me because I did not do meth and didn’t like that he did.
I cried for all of those assholes, and the time I wasted thinking they were great. And then I dry heaved for a while. I was just left over by them. I was what was left over after a good meal. I was to be shoved in Tupperware and forgotten. I was what had to give when men’s eyes were bigger than their stomachs.
This all would have been a miserable and fruitless experience if something hadn’t clicked right then. I put on my coat and went down the street to the CVS. I bought a pair of hair clippers with the money I set aside to buy the Philly boy dinner. I took the clippers home and ripped off the packaging, ripped off my clothes, stood naked in front of my mirror, and I shaved off my hair. And I didn’t just shave it, I cut it into a Mohawk, a trim and conservative one, not the least bit like a rooster. A new haircut is always empowering. I took a long shower, put on deodorant, put on my best looking polo and glasses. I put on a nice pair of khakis and leather shoes. I looked in the mirror again. I was ready to go out to dinner.
Before leaving I took the doggie bag out of my back pack and devoured half the sandwich and all the fries and put the rest in my fridge. There were tons of leftovers from the food I made and the food I was going to make for the Philly boy. I didn’t care if I was one of those left overs, left overs are fantastic. I was fantastic, and I was going to make some man very happy and very well fed some day. I grabbed my copy of ‘Faggots’ by Larry Kramer and went to the Gage and sat outside at a table for one by myself and read with a glass of wine. And every couple that sat beside me or walked by me hand-in-hand on the street and looked at me sideways was issued the same sentiment that changed my outlook completely. Fuck off. Fuck off and let me like myself for a little while.
I tipped very well that night.
Lately, I’m really into feeling bad for myself. It’s like the prefect synthesis of narcissism and depression.
In the morning Philly boy called to meet for breakfast. I was already feeling like I wouldn’t be able to hold down anything so I took my sweet time getting ready and fiddled around on my computer, keeping him waiting for approximately 12.6 minutes, figuring that if absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder at the very least it would piss him off. It did neither and he eagerly met me downstairs and we grabbed coffee (which, of course, I paid for). I was starting to forget what had happened and I just put it behind me. IML can be dangerous to people from homely states like Pennsylvania, of course he lost it over all the hot men. Of course I should forgive him. Of course.
I planned the day very carefully, including-should it happen-the after sex snack which would be BLT sandwiches with sprouts instead of lettuce and avocados on them. I would show him millennium park, I would show him the Seurat paintings, I would take a picture with him under the bean, take him around boystown for a little and then we’d grab lunch at the Chicago Diner. Then we could walk down the Mag. Mile on the way back, walk along the Chicago River, get some more coffee at Lavazza, grab a few beers and listen to music and hang out at my place for a while and then off to Lou Malnatis for his first deep dish pizza experience. Then we would get back and he would be so pleasantly surprised how I even made the bed for him and I used the expensive kind of fabric softener that smells really nice, but manly nice, not flowery nice. It’s a little bit pitiful, but I extract great pleasure from being a fantastic host. I really like treating people well and making things enjoyable for them. I am like the Stepford gay.
We walked through Millenium Park and on the way to the train I stopped back in my place to throw up some more. Something didn’t feel right. Why, now of all times, was this happening to me? I met him downstairs again and we took the redline to Belmont and walked around. I was starting to enjoy being around him again but I couldn’t get over how sick I felt. He was getting hungry and I was getting stomach pains. So, we got a booth at the Chicago Diner and chewed the fat for a little while. I told him about how I had work on Tuesday so for a few hours he’d have to fend for himself in the city but I offered to get him some free passes to the museums. The waiter brought me a ginger ale but it was too sweet and made my insides growl more.
The boy from Philly, casually sucking on a chocolate milkshake, told me that he didn’t think it’d be right to stay with me tonight, especially after all the guys he’s met this weekend and all he’s done. I felt disgusting. I must be gross. I must not only be ugly, but uninteresting. I must smell bad. I must be some toad that he is just using as a tour guide to show him around while he has nothing better to do. All this time I had been trying to convince him to finally move out to Chicago and now I just wanted him to go home, to get the hell out of my city. My city that no longer seemed so handsome and intelligent. Philly seemed full of a very specific- for lack of a better word- ghetto mentality. And now, this boy, slurping his milkshake, he seemed full of it too. He’s just more Philadelphia man pollution, and it was time for a big Midwestern gust to blow him back to the east coast.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom to heave up the small bit of ginger ale I managed to get down and cried into the toilet bowl. Why do I let myself do this? Why do I keep setting myself up to be in these situations, to be a chump. It’s like I can’t help but to sabotage my emotions by building up these men that I meet online. I give them so much power, I give them the ability to hurt my feelings, and I do it readily, with a smile, and then I ask for more. Someone knocked on the bathroom door and I told them to fuck off.
Fuck off. Fuck off, rolled right off the tongue, so perfect, round and sharp at the same time, brilliantly executed. Fuck off seemed like the perfect sentiment for how I was feeling.
I returned to the table as the server was bringing out our food. I told him that my eyes were a bit bigger than my stomach and I wanted it wrapped up. The server regarded me severely and only said, “Sorry man.”
The boy from Philly picked up the tab and I placed the doggie bag in my backpack. On the train ride home I said,
“Maybe you should just get someone else to show you around. I’m not a fucking doormat.”
All he said back was, “OK.” The rest of the train ride was silent. I passed the time by fondling a rubber bracelet I was wearing that said ‘Kindness’ in seventeen different languages. When we got off the train I handed the bracelet to him and told him what it said, and that maybe he’d understand at least of them.
Then I went home and had a good cry. Not just for him, but for all the men who had done me wrong lately.
For the guy who worked for the democrats, who stood me up because he had a meeting.
For the lumberjack, who gave me fifty dollars the other day.
For the lumberjack, who wants to hang out even though he dumped me months ago. Even though he met his new boyfriend while we were still together. Even though he showed me pictures of his new boyfriend on his camera phone, and his boyfriend was handsome. Even though he never took that many pictures of me while we were together.
For the lumberjack, who still calls me handsome, because it seems like only my exes tell me I’m handsome.
For the flight attendant who told me he didn’t want to have sex even though he took off my clothes and put me in his bed and rubbed his thing all over me. Even though he had gray hair and a belly.
For the guy who works for democrats and keeps saying, “Lets meet!” and even though he stood me up I ask when and he always says he’s busy. And I hate politics anyway.
For John, who stood me up because he fell asleep.
For the teacher, who hasn’t done or said anything to me since we broke up but I still see him on my buddy list on AIM sometimes because I keep forgetting to take him off and it always makes me feel a little sad. Even though I dumped him.
For the waiter at Gage, who stood me up and still called to ask if I wanted to have sex and even though I did I turned him down and then I went to have sex with someone else and it was not as good and I did not enjoy it.
For Carlos, who didn’t want to have sex with me because I did not do meth and didn’t like that he did.
I cried for all of those assholes, and the time I wasted thinking they were great. And then I dry heaved for a while. I was just left over by them. I was what was left over after a good meal. I was to be shoved in Tupperware and forgotten. I was what had to give when men’s eyes were bigger than their stomachs.
This all would have been a miserable and fruitless experience if something hadn’t clicked right then. I put on my coat and went down the street to the CVS. I bought a pair of hair clippers with the money I set aside to buy the Philly boy dinner. I took the clippers home and ripped off the packaging, ripped off my clothes, stood naked in front of my mirror, and I shaved off my hair. And I didn’t just shave it, I cut it into a Mohawk, a trim and conservative one, not the least bit like a rooster. A new haircut is always empowering. I took a long shower, put on deodorant, put on my best looking polo and glasses. I put on a nice pair of khakis and leather shoes. I looked in the mirror again. I was ready to go out to dinner.
Before leaving I took the doggie bag out of my back pack and devoured half the sandwich and all the fries and put the rest in my fridge. There were tons of leftovers from the food I made and the food I was going to make for the Philly boy. I didn’t care if I was one of those left overs, left overs are fantastic. I was fantastic, and I was going to make some man very happy and very well fed some day. I grabbed my copy of ‘Faggots’ by Larry Kramer and went to the Gage and sat outside at a table for one by myself and read with a glass of wine. And every couple that sat beside me or walked by me hand-in-hand on the street and looked at me sideways was issued the same sentiment that changed my outlook completely. Fuck off. Fuck off and let me like myself for a little while.
I tipped very well that night.