I took a sip from my Vanilla Bean Frappuchino. I hate that question.
"I'm an English major, with a certificate in Creative Writing."
A certificate is like a minor, but they don't give out minors in creative writing at my school. I suppose Creative Writing, in and of itself, is minor enough.
I hate meeting people. I hate putting myself in a position to meet people. I'm a regular misanthrope, here--not in Moliere's sense of the term, but more like Qin Shi Huang; I build huge walls.
"So what do you want to do with that?"
I want to use my words to seduce a rich 25 year old, and become a stay-at home dad while he works. Or I want to start a band, and be proclaimed the next Patti Smith, live fast, die young, and leave an exquisite corpse. Or I want a long-lost relative to die and leave enough money for me to spend a year or two, working on a giant novel. I want something grandiose, without a lot of worry over money. I do that enough as it is.
"I don't know. I'd like to write, like personal stories for a magazine or something. Short, whimsical little things, but I don't want to be a journalist. Just those essay things. I'll probably end up teaching though."
I think I'd be a good teacher. The past few semesters, I'll be sitting in class, and thinking about how I would present the material differently. I'd put an emphasis on different authors, be concerned more with context, assign papers differently. I think I could handle it, especially in suburbia. I wouldn't like inner-city youth, finding the scholarly diamonds in the rough, the one teacher giving these students a chance. If I had patience, I'd be a doctor.
He drinks as I speak, and his eyes focus in on me, but at nothing in particular. Product makes his hair turn jagged, especially his bangs, little stalactites. I hate hair product. I like being about to run my hands through his hair, grab the back of his head in a passionate kiss without the need to wash my hands afterwards.
"That's cool." I don't like the smile on his face as it turns a sinister shade of coy. "So... What are you into?" He removes his right foot from his sandal, and places it on top of mine, rubbing against my stubs of foot hair. I jerk my foot under my chair, more brusque than I mean.
God, why did I agree to meet for coffee?
"I'm into... relationships." A shitty answer, I know. But I'm not looking for a hookup or a fuck buddy, I thought I made that clear in the gay.com chatrooms. I'm not even looking for a boyfriend. I go back to school in seven weeks. I don't want to get attached to anyone here, and then be all morose and broken-hearted when school starts up again. I've done my share of long distance. It just never works out.
"But you're a writer, right? Writers are always living life to the extreme, fucking everyone in sight. That's what all the great writers do." Wow. That's a new one.
"I don't know about that. I bet for every author who was promiscuous, there were five who were celibate, or at most, normal."
"Yeah, but who? All the great authors of the past hundred years have been sluts: Henry Miller, Tennessee Williams loved twinks, the Fitzgeralds fucked every chance they got..."
"Yeah, but uh, Hans Christian Anderson was celibate because he was neurotic about his sexuality--"
"He's boring, though. Children's authors don't count."
"Well, Balzac said something about losing a novel every time he had sex, that shooting your load was like shooting away your creative juices."
"No one cares about Balzac. I know you're not looking for a hookup, but why not a fuck buddy?"
"I want to be attracted to the person first, though. Emotionally attracted as much as physically." I'm fully aware that I'm a sapiosexual, attracted to language, and I suffer from both Rubens and Stendhal syndrome: I find great, emotionally charged works of art arousing. The creativity is a turn-on. And he's no artist. He's working at a bank right now, for chrissakes.
"But that's what a fuckbuddy is. Two people who are mature enough as friends to help each other out, however they need it. It's a higher form of friendship."
"I'd say it's two people getting horny at compatible times." I wouldn't know, sincer I've never had a fuck buddy, but I have absolutely no faith in human beings, and that goes double for gay boys in my presence.
That probably sounds too cocky and self-assured. I don't think of myself as that attractive, so when guys compliment my mugshot in my profile, even though I know they're just trying to get in my twink pants I still think of it as a compliment.
"So why'd you even bother to meet me for coffee, then?"
"I don't know. Friendship, I guess."
"You're looking for friends in the gay.com chatrooms?" Yeah, it sounded dumb even to me. But I couldn't think of anything else.
"Well, they can't all be sex-obsessed creeps."
"Yes. Yes they can."
"Well, I'm not, and I'm not a sex-obsessed creep."
"You're right. You're just a naive prude." Worse things have been said about me. I'd phrase it as "old-fashioned values," but a naive prude works.
You'd think there'd be a wonderful end this story, that either he or I'd say something wonderfully profound, bring this full circle, wrap it up in one glorious phrase, or he'd utter some moral about love and life for you, the reader, to take away from this story. But there's nothing like that.
He and I just fizzled out, awkward and curt. Just like the ending to this post.
