J

His name was J. We met through a mutual friend—the pot stirrer. Little did he know this would be the one time stirring the pot wouldn’t bring him any enjoyment.

It was a Friday night dinner at “The Red Lion Tavern,” a German themed, slightly hipster bar near Echo Park. At first it was three; the pot stirrer, my guardian angel (an older friend who had done more for me than my own parents, who had done things for me with no strings attached), and me. He showed up ten minutes into us being seated. Not too tall, but not short. He wore a cap hiding an insecurity, skinny jeans accentuating his perfectly toned frame, and two black ear studs reliving his edgy twenties. But what caught my attention was his smile; it inspired blind trust.

It was a one-hour dinner filled with witty jokes, impersonations of Donald Trump, other famous celebrities, and even those at the table; J impersonated the pot stirrer to the tee—almost. He restrained from the excessive cruelness needed to perfectly impersonate our instigating friend. We stayed until an hour past finishing our meal; he was that intoxicating and I was too drunk to save myself.

We headed out for drinks in West Hollywood next. We arrived at 12:35 so we only had time for one round of drinks, I offered him a Vodka shot veiled as a friendly gesture, but I just wanted to share something with him, even if just a shot of alcohol. Soon enough, the pot stirrer started his villainous game. “Check out those twinks,” the pot stirrer said; I hated that word: twinks. The objectification, the sexualization coating it disgusted me. “Let’s talk to them,” the pot stirrer continued—“Damn you!” I thought to myself. His invitation only extended to J. He knew I wasn’t into those type of guys; the scruffier, bigger, closer to my age the better. Not that J met any of these criteria aside from being six years my senior.

“That one’s really cute,” the pot stirrer started his usual stirring for the night, approaching the two guys lingering over the bar’s fence.

“What’s your name?” asked the pot stirrer as he leaned over to speak to the taller of the two boys, yes boys; they were of legal age, at least nineteen, but they were boys. Even had they looked their age, my eyes were all on J. If only J’s eyes had been on me. If only the pot stirrer hadn’t started making out with that random boy; if only that random boy hadn’t left his friend up for the taking. J approached him in a heartbeat. The guy was a small, bronzed, and had commendable biceps and pecs; he had flawless, smooth skin. He was perfect. Perfect for J.

All I could do was watch as we all went off together minutes after the bar closed. Seeing how this boy had his arm around J. J wasn’t turning it away, one arm up to his mouth, holding a cigarette, and the other free as we all walked back to my guardian angel’s vehicle. I couldn’t stop it, even if I tried. So I did the one thing I could do to keep us connected. I started recording, like he asked. I recorded every interval of his comedy bits, like he asked; I recorded him when he wasn’t looking, like he asked; and I recorded him at every random funny moment, even when he wasn’t trying; I recorded at any moment that showcased his perfection.

We got back to the pot stirrer’s place at around 1am. He had his boy all over him, and J had his doing the same. And I kept recording him because even with a boy with his controlling, needy grip around his neck, J wouldn’t stop making us laugh. He was so good at it, even when he wasn’t trying. Then I had to stop recording; they went into the bathroom together, my guardian angel sat on the couch, enjoying the action, the action the pot stirrer was providing with his boy. Except they weren’t going too far. The pot stirrer’s boy was too drunk, and the pot stirrer decided to act like a decent human being, finally.“Let’s put you to sleep,” said the pot stirrer and he grabbed his drunk boy and walked him over to his bedroom, coming back into the room alone less than a minute later. If only J had returned into the room from the bathroom. If only I hadn’t cared, but I did. I did because I was too drunk and the twenty minutes they were in that bathroom were the twenty minutes from hell. And the shot I had taken at the bar didn’t make them any less hellish. Finally, they came out, J putting his jacket back on that boy who was smiling and wobbling, wobbling with the remaining dignity he had left.

“Hey.......” the boy said to me as they approached the table I was sitting at, alone. The boy looked glossy-eyed and had a stupid smile on his face as his shirt was half untucked. J had his black jean jacket off. I could see his muscles; they were defined, not too muscular; they were perfect just like that boy’s. They were perfect for each other.

“What were you two hoodlums doing in there?” asked the pot stirrer before I could ask any interrogatory questions myself. Not like I would have had the guts to. “Just hanging,” said J, letting our minds do their own wandering. Nevertheless, he turned to me and smiled. A flirtatious smile? Maybe. A playful smile? Perhaps. A beautiful smile? Yes. One of the most beautiful smiles in the world. Even with two of his teeth somewhat bucktoothed, it was still beautiful.

The threat didn’t last any longer. The two boys were UCLA students living on campus and had a curfew to meet. They belligerently ordered an Uber after the pot stirrer’s boy slept for a few more minutes. They disappeared like a miracle in less than seven minutes. Then it was down to four. “I have a call tomorrow...” said my guardian angel as he started standing up, his last good knee helping him up, just barely. “Let’s help him to his car,” said J, running to my guardian angel to help him balance himself on his shoulder as they started walking towards the door. Considerate. Caring. Humble. Flawless? I ran to the door to hold it open as J lead my guardian angel out. I could tell my guardian angel was embarrassed by the help—the pity—but he was also too tired and dreading his 5am call that he wasn’t going to spend any reserved energy contesting.

“You’re going to be ok?” asked my guardian angel, ready to use some of his reserved energy to ensure I made it home safely. “Don’t worry about me,” I said, unwilling to end our night at all costs. My guardian angel just nodded and started driving away. Then it was just the two, standing outside. We looked at each other; J smiled, shyly. I smiled, terrified beautifully. We silently walked back inside only to find the pot stirrer on the couch, drooling as he drifted off to a light slumber. I walked up to him and shook him a few seconds later. “Guess that one got away,” I said to the pot stirrer, abruptly waking him to the sight of his boy who got away.

“He was so cute!” said the pot stirrer, somewhat regretting listening to his moral compass. “I’m going to bed, you guys can take the couch or help yourselves to...” the pot stirrer said, half-yawning as he started heading towards the same bedroom the boy had been laying in only a few minutes earlier before he was released by the command of the pot stirrer’s feeble moral compass. Finally. It was just the two of us. J didn’t say anything; instead he moved towards the kitchen and started looking though the cabinets. After a minute or two of searching, he pulled out a bottle of Merlot.

“This will do,” he said as he pulled out two wine glasses from another of the pot stirrer’s cabinet, cheap imitations of those used at King Arthur’s table. He pulled out a cork opener from another drawer and started pouring. The sound of the purplish, aged liquid drowned out the silence temporarily. Only temporarily. He handed me a glass as we made our way over to the couch where the pot stirrer and his boy embraced only minutes prior. We replaced them.

We replaced them and the next couple of minutes were replaced by an hour, then hours. We talked. He told me about his child actor upbringing. I told him about my college years in film school. He told me about his teenage years going from casting couch to casting couch, the abrupt end to his childhood. I told him about the abrupt end to my childhood with every job I had where my mother went from provider to dependent, every credit card application where she became a co-signer, and every decline in my credit score caused by her pleas for a new sofa, fridge, or unnecessary home accessory; an accessory to her lacking motherhood. He told me about his first boyfriend, and his second, and his tenth. I told him about none; there were none to tell him about. He told me about living in Canada to redefine himself, redefine the ugly vestige of “Hollywood Party Boy socialite.” Then I said nothing and just allowed his narrative to continue. His compilation of ugly life events. Then, he told me about the impending end of his ugly tale. “I tested 80% probability of inheriting early onset dementia,” he confessed, tears pouring. It was 4:24 am. We had been at the pot stirrer’s home since 1:10 am. We had met at 10:40 pm. I had been waiting for hours. I couldn’t help myself anymore.

“I am going to do something, and I’m sorry if it freaks you out,” I reached for it, the sorrows escaping his eyes through each watery droplet. I felt it in my fingers, and I felt the pain. The dead hopes for a brighter future. The feeling of life itself fleeting away through it. I felt it and felt my own sorrow when it started drying away. He picked up his glass of Merlot and sipped, suddenly iterating how we had barely touched our respective glasses since sitting down on that couch. I did the same, drowning out every word that was fighting to escape against my every remaining shed of restraint. “This is going to sound scary, but I’m here for you,” I said, succumbing to the ugliest possible outcome. He said nothing. He smiled. Smiled for the first time since we started the back and forth narrative that were our ugly tales. I leaned in, his breath riddled with stenches of cigarettes and wine and the one shot of Vodka I bought him. He didn’t stop me, he simply looked at me with his tear-stricken eyes. Beautiful brown eyes, tired eyes. Devoid of hope, vulnerable to life’s ugliness. I hesitated, only for a few seconds, then finally, after a night full of only imagining this scenario, my lips touched his. They were soft, slightly wet from his tears and Merlot. They were perfect.

It wasn’t the perfect place to share our moment of physical intimacy. It wasn’t the perfect moment, nor was the pot stirrer perfectly dormant considering he was a light sleeper. It wasn’t the perfect date. But what was perfect, even with all the ugliness his tale carried, was him. He was J. J wasn’t perfect. J was hurt. J was sad. J was used and abused. J was broken. J was like me. And that made him perfect to me.