he found in a tiny ad in the back of a tourist magazine. Such a Miranda move!
Our guide ended up being a bitter grad student named Mitch. He asked us to meet him at a bar, and he arrived forty minutes late, with a backpack, three days of facial scruff, and no apparent interest in the history of his adopted hometown. He checked the four of us out, sighed, and rolled his eyes. “Do you really want to do this?” he asked.
We followed Mitch lazily around town. At times it felt like we were leading the tour because it was impossible to walk any slower than he did; thus, he was always trailing behind us. He didn’t say much, and when he did, it was something like, “This is one of the most haunted houses in the city. There was a guy who used to live here . . . I’m blanking on his name.” Most of the ghosts he told us about were vengeful former slaves, which was kind of a buzzkill. Who wants to go on a ghost tour where you root for the ghosts?
We kept having to step aside to let the more popular tour groups pass us by. Dozens of tourists would crowd around a guide decked head to toe in vampire gear, with pasty white makeup and the raspy voice of the undead. They clung to each other as he intoned chilling tales of spirits rising from the bayous. “I know that ‘vampire,’” Mitch said under his breath. “He’s from Cincinnati.”
The walking tour ended abruptly when we realized Mitch was no longer with us. We weren’t sure how long it had been since he’d disappeared, and we couldn’t tell whether he snuck away or had just fallen behind and gotten lost. But we didn’t look too hard.
We had more important plans, plans far more frightening than anything on Mitch’s tour: it was time to go to a gay bar. Greg had arranged to rendezvous with the guy he’d hooked up with the night before, and he wanted to introduce us all. “He can’t wait to meet you,” he assured us.
The way Greg talked about him, this guy sounded purely magical. He was older, confident, and dashingly handsome. He was passionate but tender, strong yet sensitive. They talked about their lives. They wondered about the future. They ordered room service. Greg had already invited the dude to visit him in New York. Was our Samantha in love?
We knew when we lost sight of Greg amid the sweaty, strobe-lit room that he’d found his man. And if there was any doubt, it was erased when we saw Greg’s tongue eagerly probing some strange guy’s esophagus. We casually strolled over and waited a long time to get their attention.
Greg’s new man was not what I’d expected. I’m not one who describes people as lithe, but it seems like the most appropriate word in this case. “Petite” would be another fitting description, as would “revolting.” He was small and twig-like, about half the weight of a third grader, with jeans so tight, he seemed like a plastic doll. He was ten years older than we were but dressed ten years younger. As we moved in for introductions, he threw his arm around Greg’s neck and plopped sideways across his lap.
He smiled and told us his name, but what I heard was, “Hi, I’m Sex.”
Sex sat with Greg all night, like a dutiful puppy—a puppy perennially searching for food inside its master’s mouth. He was the kind of guy who seemed to exist solely to shepherd guys like Greg through that potentially unpleasant “first fling” phase. I couldn’t imagine Sex outside the context of a pickup scene. Sex at the Laundromat, waiting for his clothes to dry. Sex at the dentist with cotton balls tucked into his gums. Sex at work, standing on the corner of a downtown intersection, twirling a Quizno’s sign.
Charlotte, Miranda, and I knew from the instant we met him that Sex was going to break our friend’s heart. He wasn’t interested in falling in love. He got everything he needed out of the relationship the night before. Sex would never be coming to New York.
When Sex stood up to get another Corona, Greg turned to the rest
Our guide ended up being a bitter grad student named Mitch. He asked us to meet him at a bar, and he arrived forty minutes late, with a backpack, three days of facial scruff, and no apparent interest in the history of his adopted hometown. He checked the four of us out, sighed, and rolled his eyes. “Do you really want to do this?” he asked.
We followed Mitch lazily around town. At times it felt like we were leading the tour because it was impossible to walk any slower than he did; thus, he was always trailing behind us. He didn’t say much, and when he did, it was something like, “This is one of the most haunted houses in the city. There was a guy who used to live here . . . I’m blanking on his name.” Most of the ghosts he told us about were vengeful former slaves, which was kind of a buzzkill. Who wants to go on a ghost tour where you root for the ghosts?
We kept having to step aside to let the more popular tour groups pass us by. Dozens of tourists would crowd around a guide decked head to toe in vampire gear, with pasty white makeup and the raspy voice of the undead. They clung to each other as he intoned chilling tales of spirits rising from the bayous. “I know that ‘vampire,’” Mitch said under his breath. “He’s from Cincinnati.”
The walking tour ended abruptly when we realized Mitch was no longer with us. We weren’t sure how long it had been since he’d disappeared, and we couldn’t tell whether he snuck away or had just fallen behind and gotten lost. But we didn’t look too hard.
We had more important plans, plans far more frightening than anything on Mitch’s tour: it was time to go to a gay bar. Greg had arranged to rendezvous with the guy he’d hooked up with the night before, and he wanted to introduce us all. “He can’t wait to meet you,” he assured us.
The way Greg talked about him, this guy sounded purely magical. He was older, confident, and dashingly handsome. He was passionate but tender, strong yet sensitive. They talked about their lives. They wondered about the future. They ordered room service. Greg had already invited the dude to visit him in New York. Was our Samantha in love?
We knew when we lost sight of Greg amid the sweaty, strobe-lit room that he’d found his man. And if there was any doubt, it was erased when we saw Greg’s tongue eagerly probing some strange guy’s esophagus. We casually strolled over and waited a long time to get their attention.
Greg’s new man was not what I’d expected. I’m not one who describes people as lithe, but it seems like the most appropriate word in this case. “Petite” would be another fitting description, as would “revolting.” He was small and twig-like, about half the weight of a third grader, with jeans so tight, he seemed like a plastic doll. He was ten years older than we were but dressed ten years younger. As we moved in for introductions, he threw his arm around Greg’s neck and plopped sideways across his lap.
He smiled and told us his name, but what I heard was, “Hi, I’m Sex.”
Sex sat with Greg all night, like a dutiful puppy—a puppy perennially searching for food inside its master’s mouth. He was the kind of guy who seemed to exist solely to shepherd guys like Greg through that potentially unpleasant “first fling” phase. I couldn’t imagine Sex outside the context of a pickup scene. Sex at the Laundromat, waiting for his clothes to dry. Sex at the dentist with cotton balls tucked into his gums. Sex at work, standing on the corner of a downtown intersection, twirling a Quizno’s sign.
Charlotte, Miranda, and I knew from the instant we met him that Sex was going to break our friend’s heart. He wasn’t interested in falling in love. He got everything he needed out of the relationship the night before. Sex would never be coming to New York.
When Sex stood up to get another Corona, Greg turned to the rest
Similar Books
