The Boy, The Man, and The Big City

The boy knew he was in a different element, a new city that for the first time in his life made him question everything about his existence, his convictions, his destiny. Could he perhaps have been so set in his ways that he was blinded as to where his destiny, his legitimate destiny, truly was? He contemplated this possibility as he sipped on the chocolate ice cream shake he so thoroughly enjoyed the first and second time he ordered it, and realized it was consistently enjoyable this third time, just like that big, new city where he felt like a small fish, but a happy fish.

 The boy then decided to face his fears for the third time that whole trip and texted the man from the night before; it was a simple text but got to the point. “How hung over are you from a 1 to a 10?” The boy sipped on the remainder of his chocolaty pleasure, enjoying the remaining chocolate whip that tasted like god himself descended from heaven to make it. “I’m a 6, just woke up from a nap,” the man responded quickly, quicker than the boy expected as he still sipped on that chocolaty, whipped ecstasy. The boy didn’t know how to proceed aside from sipping and sipping more in his sugary, chocolaty escape, just like he had done back home so many times. Sweets were always his way of coping with a reality too ugly to bare sober. But the boy was sober, because he felt that exact same high texting him that morning, with all that chocolaty goodness in him, as he had only hours prior during the crack of down with the man laying next to him. 

   “Want go grab dinner tonight? My treat?” the boy texted him the offer he had debated making all morning; an offer he debated more than that chocolate shake that broke his “no sugar challenge.” If he could only have challenged himself to no potential heart ache, the boy thought this to himself as he read the man’s next text, another quick text reading “Aw, you’re so sweet. What time?”

And so they agreed to meet for the second time in less than twenty four hours, and for the first time in broad daylight surrounded by other, sober faces. The boy picked the restaurant in an attempt to be adventurous; it was a dive bar with something on the menu called “The Grilled Cheese Donut” that boy just had to try, and while the boy would have normally picked a fancier place in an attempt to impress his date, he knew the man would be impressed sheerly by the boy's initiative to see him again. The boy arrived four minutes late to no man in sight except for the host, a tall, olive skinned man with tattoos and a poker face which would have made any incoming guest question their restaurant choice, but not the boy. The boy become immune to just about any man's poker face over the years and this one wouldn’t be the exception.

“Did you just seat a guy?” asked the boy, not thinking to have texted the man first; the boy was too nervous to think logically, though logic itself seemed to have escaped him the moment he made that dinner invitation.“I think I know who your friend is, follow me,” answered the host, a man whose poker face quickly faded, one relief for the boy. The boy followed him through the main dining room, an empty dining room aside from the server grudgingly spending the last hours of his shift folding napkins for the opening crew. They stopped in front of a sliding door that led to a two-story, outside patio. A very cute layout where only two other men sat, and none were the one from the night before. “I have a good eye for this, is that your friend?” said the host as he pointed at a young man who wouldn’t have remotely resembled the man from the night before even if the boy had been devoid of all sobriety.

     “No,” said the boy, somewhat saddened that he had unintentionally broken the host’s guessing streak. The host didn’t seemed too broken as he turned, put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and said “He must be at the other location.” Other location! The words reverberated in the boy’s head as he thought about the possibility. He had suggested the restaurant based on an internet search but hadn’t once stopped to think of it having multiple locations. Just like that, the boy got a reality check on his existence in that city where he was still very much a small fish in a big pond, a pond where other fishes quickly drift away through bad communication.

“What location are you at?” the boy texted the man, only to be pleasantly surprised by an incoming call. “Hey, are you inside?” the man asked, confirming the host’s suspicions.“I’m not, I think you’re at the wrong location,” answered the boy, an sudden shame taking over him due to his ignorance and the certain inconvenience he had brought upon the man.“I’m on 36th street, the one right next to your hotel,” the man said, causing a flood of memories to run through the boy’s head, memories of the night before, their first shared night.“Sorry about the confusion, I’m in another hotel today, remember I told you that,” said the boy, realizing just how drunk the man had been the night before to have forgotten that detail. “So you’re in the Manhattan location, no problem, I’ll be there in five—I’m on my bike!” said the man and hung up before the boy had the chance to apologize further.

The boy sat, sat and replayed the events of the night before just like he had most of the day. He did this for the five minute waiting window the man had given him, making the boy realize that in many ways the man ran on LA time just like the boy ran on the time of the big city. “You want something to drink, water or a cocktail, a shot?” asked the host who soon revealed himself to be the only server as well; it made sense considering the lack of guests. It was clear the pandemic still had a lingering toll over this big city.“No, no, I’ve been drinking too much recently,” answered the boy, being his overly critical self over his drinking habits which is no way, shape or form matched those of seasoned drinkers back in West Hollywood. “Come on, do one with me, my treat,” the host insisted, a friendly gesture on his end likely geared at a generous gratuity, but the boy appreciated his friendliness nonetheless.“I can’t, I’ve been drinking this entire trip,” the boy objected further, unintentionally oversharing per his usual fashion. “Ah, where are you from?” asked the host, eradicating the very last trace of that introductory poker face.“LA, but I went to New Jersey before here and I drank that entire trip and this whole weekend,” the boy continued his outpouring, “I’ve been partying way too hard.” The boy hadn’t been partying too hard, of course. But fun riddled with alcohol always seemed like a double-edged sword for the boy when his childhood trauma of living with a drunk father came to mind, a father who the host resembled in his younger years.

       “How did you meet your friend?” the host continued his questioning as the minutes progressed past the five-minute window; the boy couldn’t blame the host for neglecting his work when the only work he had involved the boy. “At a bar...” the boy answered truthfully, the same truthfulness that had gotten him in trouble with so many other men before. “A bar, and what, you took him back to your hotel to have sex after?” the host asked shamelessly, though this wasn’t the first time the boy had crossed words with a straight men with a questionable interest in gay sex. “Yes, we had sex,” the boy said, not being able to keep a straight face longer than a second after his confession. He burst into a melody of giggles just like the man had during various parts of their sexual encounter. Suddenly the boy missed the man even though he was assumingly only running behind, though the thought of him not showing up persisted in the boy’s mind. 

“I’m here!” said the man as the boy clutched his phone in his wet hand. He was nervous, but this was a beautiful nervousness; not the overly clammy kind he was used to back home. Nor was it the “butterflies in your stomach” nervousness described in movies and literatures that rarely reflects reality, because what does butterflies fluttering through one’s stomach even really feel like? No. This was a beautiful nervousness in that it made the boy happy. Simply but beautifully happy.

      “There’s no one in front, should I just go in?” the man asked further as the boy realized the host was still standing next to him. Looking down at the boy but also having lifted him up by listening to his tale from the night before and relieving a fraction of his pent up anxities. “The host will come, he’s with me now,” the boy said as he looked at the host, who was smiling flirtatiously at the boy; had it been any other scenario, any other restaurant, one back home perhaps, then the boy might have given this host’s attention the time and thought of day; but not this night. This was the second night of the boy and the man together. Together but not forever. It was almost five real time minutes of the boy waiting for the man to appear, but he finally did, but not without first having trouble with the sliding door to the patio which the boy himself had tried pushing in. As he slid it open and walked into the space adorned by a wooden floor and the smell of late spring, the boy thought to himself what the man had repeated countless times the night before: “Why are we the same person?”

It was a nice meal, and one the boy had been waiting for excitedly the whole day. What he thought was a sugary high induced by chocolate, was actually the dopamine of thinking about the man. That feeling was only escalated by a tenfold as they sat across from each other, the man smiling throughout their conversation as they got too carried away to look at the menu and making the host return twice to finally take their order. They ordered, the man got a salad while the boy listened to his eyes and got the grilled cheese donut, a concoction as indulgent as the boy’s memories of the night before. He couldn’t help but think of them, in another setting, indoors, feeding their bodies and souls with a different type of energy. An energy the boy had been lacking in his life for a long, long time. Perhaps an energy he had never before experienced.

      “That looks so good, mind if I try some?” asked the man, eyeing that greasy, grilled, puffy galore which made his chicken salad look like a prude alternative, just like the boy had felt the night before when he and the man first met at the bar. “Go ahead,” said the boy as he cut the man a piece of the greasy sandwich-dessert. The man didn’t have to ask for permission; he didn’t know it, but he could take just about anything from the boy without asking. “What are your plans after this?” asked the man, asking a question that boy had hoped would be asked the moment the man reached the midpoint with his salad; the man was petite and his appetite matched his stature. His appetite for food, at least.“Nothing, really, these are my plans,” said the boy, honestly but immediately regretting his answer: he didn’t want to come across as needy and uneventful.

      “I want to take you to Christpher Street Pier, and show you around, if you’re up for that,” said that man, taking another sip of the only drink he ordered that night; his body needed the break after the night before and the boy appreciated the man’s self-perservation.“That would be cool “ said the boy, not having a clue where Christopher Street Pier was except for the one time he was an acting scene for a play which took place in that city, and where pivotal events in it took place on said street. It didn’t matter to the boy, not knowing. It was the boy and the man off into the night on another adventure and to the boy, it was a fairytale of sorts in the making and less he knew the better. He could only hope some happily ever after would result, even if short-lived.

They once again took a taxi, which to the boy was just as pleasantly surreal as the night before. The driver wasn’t quite as inquisitive this time around, which was convenient for the boy as he just wanted to hear the sound of the man’s voice as he pointed out various landmarks and streets of that big city. That big city which wasn’t big enough to keep the boy and the man from their way to each other.

It was a park, a nice one, not as big as Central Park, and not as chaotic. But that was the thing, the beautiful parallel between the man from Central Park and this new man was the simplicity; the man from Central Park was chaos in the boy’s life, ugliness. An ugliness that the boy longed for closure from since the beginning of the pandemic; one that he had unconciously gone to that big city to seek but only got farther away from when he and that man breifly reunited.

The man from the night before, this new man, this nice man that was not as big as the other, but was too big to fit in the boy’s heart. His beauty radiated through each word, each glossy-eyed look, and each time his fingers intertwined with the boy’s as they sat on the grass, ants and other microscopic bugs eating away at their legs. But it was irrelevant for the man was eating away the boy’s insecurities, each and every one of them.

    “I’ve never had a boyfriend,” the boy found himself randomly confessing, a testimony that usually sent chills down his back every time it had escaped his lips in the past, with each past man. “Why?” asked the man, his hand now on the boy’s itchy knee, an itch similar to the man’s as his curiosity widen through his glossy eyes. “Dunno,” the boy said, “To quote my best friend, I have the worst luck in men. They’re all emotionally unavailable, or something else...” the boy continued to over share. Nevertheless, they had already over shared their time together, from what should have been a one-night stand to a two-night journey, an event and an exploration of the big city, and the big empty spaces inside their hearts needing to be filled. Occupied. Crowded with newfound life. A newfound life that they, the boy and the man, the man and the boy, might someday share together.

Next stop was Stonewall Inn, which the boy had heard about before but never realized how much of a hot spot it was until he saw all the people seated outside it. There were couples, both men and men and men and women and women and women sitting outside it. The food looked delicious but the boy could tell the people were truly reveling in each other’s company.“Let me take a picture of you here,” said the man as they walked past the sign spelling out the name of the restaurant in large, red letters. “Sure,” the boy answered as the man pulled out his phone to take the picture. He took it, but that wasn’t good enough a memory for the boy, who otherwise had a compulsion with selfies.“Can we take one together?” the boy proposed fearfully. They had already taken a few pictures at the park while on the grass, but the boy wanted to make as many memories with the man as time allowed. The man simply nodded and stood next to the boy, putting his camera up in the air for the picture. He took a few, and they were soon back on their way to what felt like nowhere, but that was ok with the boy because for the first time in perhaps his whole life, he knew he belonged somewhere.

The next stop was the subway, a stop the boy was a complete novice to. The boy had always wondered about it, with so many big city transplants back home constantly complaining about the abysmal public transit in Los Angeles.

“I’ll swipe you in,” said the man, striking some fear into the boy. Back in the boy's city, the cops were notorious for fining anyone who attempted to ride the subway for the price of two for one. The boy had no clue whether the law was more forgiving in the big city, but the boy was willing to run the risk as long as the man came along for the ride.

“I can’t believe you waited this long to get on the subway,” said the man as they waited for the lights signaling their ride's arrival. The boy became ashamed by the comment, but he also knew the man didn’t mean any judgement. The boy felt more ashamed at the thought of admitting how much money he had spent on Lyfts to get around the city. “I just didn’t get around to it,” the boy said, excusing himself through a white lie, and even so he felt guilt over the smallest of lies to the man. He didn’t want to lie to him about anything. And he hadn’t up to that point.

The subway was less crowded than the boy had previously imagined and the crowd itself less questionable; even the vagabonds boarding the public transit in the big city had more class than the ones back in the boy’s home. The ride rather quiet compared to every other stop that night, but that was ok with the boy; this was another beauty to the man. Silence between them didn't feel ugly. “This is our stop,” said the man as they got out on 42nd street, which was only a street away from the boy’s new hotel.

“You haven’t been to public library yet, right?” the man asked the boy. The boy hadn’t been to many places but even had he been to this station, he would have told his second white lie of the night just to make the man feel special about his tour guide abilities. Not that he needed to try very hard; his sheer presence added magic to the boy’s last night in the big city.

“Shoot, it’s closed,” said the man as they stood outside the library’s entrance, “Check it out tomorrow before leaving, if you have time," the man suggested, which led the boy to believe the man had no intention of extending their hangout past the late hours of the night, or perhaps end it abruptly through their improvised site seeing tour of the big city.

From the outside of that library, to the closed shops inside Grand Central station, and lastly, The Grand Central Station itself, the man showed the boy all the spots he had only dreamed of visiting as a child each time he saw Home Alone, The Family Man, or other family-friendly films that took place in the big city.

Their next stop was their last stop: the boy’s hotel. They stood outside as the man looked up at the twenty-one stories above them, looking away from the story between them that was about to end. “Mind if I use your restroom, that drink got to me,” asked the man, reminding the boy of his early years as a newly-outed gay man venturing the unchartered territory of puppy love; the boy had used that same line once before on a classmate, and it had worked; unfortunately, the self-made invitation didn’t go beyond seeing the classmate’s favorite movie clip from Rocky Balboa.“Not at all,” said the boy, grounding himself back to a grander reality; not at all was an understatement. The only thing the boy would mind would be that night ending then and there.

The trip up the elevator felt both like déjà vu despite them being in a different hotel from the night before. It felt surreal, as surreal as the man returning to the hotel with him after spending the first hour of them meeting in a drunk stupor, building up the courage to go talk to another boy at the bar. It was a winding journey up to the twenty-first floor, almost as if life itself was committed to making their tale more suspense driven than it needed to be.

“Thanks,” said the man as he quickly peed a minute into entering the room. The boy looked at him as he placed his backpack on the floor and sat on the bed, “You don’t mind, right?” the man asked as he made himself comfortable, proceeding to lay on his back. “By all means,” said the boy, as he looked at the man laid there, his green shorts sliding up with the friction of his bed movements, his hairy knees showing; attractively hairy. The boy didn’t know what to do, so he followed the lead just like the night before and laid next to him, the man looking up the ceiling with the same glossy-eyed look as when they laid in the grass holding hands, the same as in the restaurant, the same as when they entered that room for the first time the night before; the same as when they first looked into each other’s eyes at the bar.

“I like your beard,” said the boy as he, as if by some act of unholy intervention, proceeded to touch the man’s face; the man didn’t mind. He smiled. Smiled and proceeded to direct his own hand to the boy's chin. He caressed it with the tip of his rough fingers which contrasted the rest of his softness. The boy had never met someone who could be so simultaneously rough and soft.“Mind if...” the man asked as he started to gravitate to the boy’s shirt; the boy didn’t mind at all, but instead of giving the man his approval this tim, he motioned it by reaching for the man’s shirt, starting to lift it up. The man pulled up his arms, giving the boy full access to removing the shirt and full access to his torso; a torso as attractively hairy as his knees, as attractively hairy as so many other parts of the man’s body. The boy paused; he wanted to revel in that torso, every brunette hair on it, before going any further. He did, for a whole minute, maybe two, then he continued, this time with his lips. The boy’s lips connected with the man’s torso, his attractively hairy skin, for the second time. It was rough and soft and the boy couldn’t decide which of the two feelings he rejoiced in most.

The man took the lead next, taking off the boy’s shirt and laying him on his back. This felt nice, to have someone take the lead for once. The man proceeded to take off the boy’s shorts; he moved fast. But that was ok. The boy liked the validation at whatever speed it went. The man went down on the boy, just like the night before. He was good with his mouth, in all ways. The boy hadn’t come across many men who were so skilled with their mouth, or even remotely adequate. The boy decided to return the favor, as the man had given him so many compliments on his own mouthing skills the night before. The boy also liked this compliment. The boy liked every bit of praise the man gave him, which were more than he had received from any man in a long time, maybe ever.

“Can I…” the man asked as he started rubbing his penis on the boy’s bottom. He didn’t have to ask; the boy would have said yes to just about anything the man suggested. The man stood up, off the boy, to go grab the condoms from the cabinet after asking the boy about protection. The boy appreciated this the most, the man's concern for his protection; a foreign sentiment considering past men. The boy laid still as the man put on the condom, looking at the naked body, idolizing it silently but wholly. The man proceeded to put on lube, again for the boy’s protection; he seemed to always have the boy’s protection in mind, especially when he started to enter him, asking “Tell me if you need me to go slower, I don’t want to hurt you.” He hadn’t yet, but there was potential. There was always potential when a last night together was in question.

The man slowly continued to enter the boy, the thrusting motion producing an elation—an ecstasy—in the boy he hadn’t felt in awhile: a forgotten feeling. The man continued to slowly feel his way inside the boy, but even slowly, the boy felt the juxtaposition of pain and join; it hurt but felt so good all at once. The most beautiful and ugliest of feelings. Just like their impending the goodbye. “You like that, baby,” the man whispered, engaging in the dirty talk that the boy, unlike his usual preference, actually enjoyed coming from him. “I do,” the boy responded, and reiterated the notion through a moan. He tried to contain the uttering the night before at 3 a.m., but it was 11 p.m. this second time and why should he fight his natural reaction. A natural reaction of absolute sexual nirvana. The man kept on going, he was big and the boy was small and tight, but that was fine because it made everything better, and because despite being so small, something about being with this man made the boy feel bigger than when he finished puberty.

“Kiss me,” pleaded the boy after another loud moan. The man did; he kissed him and kept thrusting, and pushing, and going. Going and going and smiling at the boy. The boy kept pressing for more kissing and the man did; he was extremely skilled at that too, ignorant to it being the most important engagement for the boy. “I’m about to come,” the man whispered yet again. The boy didn’t respond; the boy was too immersed in the touch of the man’s soft and rough fingers as they made their way along his skin, down his legs and ever so often caressed his bottom as the thrusting increased, and with it the pleasure. “You want me to come inside you?” asked the man. “Yes," the boy exclaimed without second-thought. He wanted the man to come inside him, but not just that—he wanted every ounce, every bit of the man inside him indefinitely. He wanted him and the man to be one for as long as time allowed. Finally, the man climaxed, and he remained erect. “Stay inside me, and kiss me,” the boy instructed the man as he took control. The man listened and did as the boy commanded, a smile on his face. That was yet another beautiful thing between them: their commands always complimented the other’s desires. They were compliments to their respective existences.

They laid in that borrowed bed naked for another half hour or so. The boy did the listening as the man shared his coming out story, a funny tale involving his first gay bar while on vacation. The boy listened intently as he mentally photographed every detail of the man’s naked body; his hairy chest, the curls leading down to his belly button, and below to cover his thighs, those attractively hairy knees and everything below. Then there were his glossy eyes, which had a fixed glossy look. The boy photographed these with the most precision, illustrating a mental image he’d be able to retain long after their time together expired.

“Want to take a shower?” the boy asked the man; his last, ditch effort to extend their time together as the clock on his phone read 11:35. The man looked at the boy with those glossy, aimless eyes, and answered “Sure.” So they did. They took that shower and the boy giggled as the man, who had otherwise been so manly, uttered a high-pitched scream as the cold water touched his skin. They both laughed as the water warmed-up two minutes later or so. They laughed and the boy washed the man’s body and instead of returning the gesture, the man stood still and embraced the boy’s control. The boy, in turn, appreciated the trust, and appreciated every touching moment life had given him with the man. Every moment they shared together in the big city.