Swish

Swish by Joel Derfner

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Authors: Joel Derfner
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cute ass I came upon a file called ship.jpg and was suddenly overcome with nostalgia.
    During my gradual adieu to the fleshpots, I had deleted most of the pictures men had e-mailed me along with offers to have their way with me; since very few of these images showed their subjects’ faces they had been more or less indistinguishable anyway, with a few impressive exceptions. But ship.jpg, along with a handful of other photographs, had escaped its fellows’ fate. Though I hadn’t looked at the picture for years I did not have to open the file to remember it well: It depicted a young Latino man standing in some sort of festive gathering area, his hands grasping the lattice of the low ceiling above him, a wide enough gap on his left side between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his pants to reveal a small but tantalizing expanse of smooth skin stretched taut over cut muscle. The viewer had but a moment to consider this feature, however, before being practically blinded by the stunning face above it, upon which was fixed a smile of utter sweetness that yet managed to convey a sense of depravity the depths of which one is lucky to dream of encountering. I was not so naive as to pine for this gentleman as the One That Got Away, but I had spent an occasional moment or three over the years wishing that he and I might have enjoyed an afternoon together, or at least a lunch hour.
    As I double-clicked on the file I felt a frisson of regret at the thought of all the potential in the world. There are men to be had, I thought, men who will pull me into their arms and their apartments and spear me without knowing my name or, possibly, how to spell; but I have lost the knack for reshaping myself, and they are beyond my reach.
    I sat back in my chair as the file opened and prepared for the fond reminiscence of a time long gone. The man whose memory had given me so many pleasant moments appeared on my screen.
    And he was totally plain.
    He had mediocre teeth, and, though the photographer had caught his face at a good angle, two seconds of further examination revealed a visage no more comely than average, and from certain angles less so.
    The units did not exist capable of measuring my disappointment. How could ship.jpg have betrayed me so? Or was it my critical faculties that had betrayed me by changing their standards as I aged? The frisson of regret I had felt before opening the file was slipping away moment by moment, but I could not help suspecting that it was taking with it my sense of possibility.
    I deleted the file, put my computer to sleep, and left my desk. On the way upstairs I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror and realized that, no matter what shape I took, the raw material would remain the same and that, no matter who I imagine myself to be, my reflection will never show me anyone better than I am.
    I knew I had to take strong measures to keep from sinking further toward despair, so I hurried to the bookcase for some Austen. After a few seconds’ thought, I settled on
Sense and Sensibility,
but though I searched the shelves for twenty minutes,
I’m looking for Mr. Right but I’ll settle for Mr. Right Away
was all I could find.

O N C HEERLEADING
    “L et’s watch ESPN,” said my brother, grabbing the remote control. It was Thanksgiving morning, and we were lolling around the apartment we shared, whiling away the hours before dinner with my friend Debbie. We had no interest in watching the repulsive Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I had lobbied for
The Christopher Lowell Show,
a program in which a flaming homosexual redecorates houses using only Elmer’s Glue and staples, but Jeremy would have none of it.
    As the TV flickered on, I opened my mouth to start complaining so insufferably that he would be forced to change the channel, but before I could speak I was silenced by what I saw on the screen in front of me. It was a college cheerleading championship. Thirty fresh-faced cheerleaders, boys and girls,

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