Our Ugly Honesty—A Tale of Two Fishes

The boy didn’t know why he was there. The place wasn’t his vibe. But turning down a generous friend’s invitation wasn’t either. It was a crowded place, even for a Sunday. But a Sunday never kept the gays from partying the evening and eventual night away.

“I’m Evan’s friend,” said the boy as he stood at the entrance, like his generous friend had suggested. The door man—a big, muscular man that meant business through his gruff exterior—allowed him entry. And so did the girl with the pinkish-redish hair charging a cover fee upon entering that building. The boy lingered inside the complex for a few minutes before proceeding to the doors leading to the patio; the inside was dark, had chairs and tables with fancy tapestry, a full bar, and even an empty stage which was assumably used for drag performances. But none of those accomodations intrigued the boy as much as the portrait he saw on the wall: it was his favorite classic film icon, Audrey Hepburn. A beautiful portriat which felt foreign in that otherwise dark and tasteless place.

“There you are,” said the generous friend as he approached the boy, he was one foot out the door to the back patio. “Let me show you around,” said the generous friend as he led the boy out the building and to the dreaded patio. The patio was dreaded because, even though the boy had yet to explore it, he knew what awaited his eyes. The boy had been to similar back patios in Palm Springs, in Key West, in New Orleans; in every gay-centric party destination in his home country. The boy had explored them all and fled from them all not a day too soon.

“This is it, pretty cool, huh?” the generous friend asked the boy as they went down the stairs leading to the back patio’s main attraction: the dance floor filled with a sea of men. The boy didn’t know what to answer that wouldn’t otherwise be a lie. He hated lying to his friends, but the truth might have been too ugly for his generous friend to bare considering he had made a career out of managing these events. “It’s a good crowd,” said the boy, choosing a little white lie to spare his generous friend’s ego. They descended down to the patio and looked at the crowd of mingling men, who were all high on everything but life: they were smiling, but their faces were drenched with sweat that required them to douse their faces with their overpriced bottled waters every couple of minutes; their eyes wide with the fire of “Sunday, Funday,” but the bags under their flesh spectacles reflected their body’s cry for rest. They were jumping up and down and holding onto each other in the heat of the moment, but for many, they were hanging onto their replacement for a bed and a goodnight’s rest.

“Want a drink?” offered the generous friend, staying true to his nature. The boy debated; he did want to drink. But his body pleaded otherwise. His body didn’t just plead, it offered the boy a fair warning: his legs felt sore, and not from the up and down stair climbing that big city’s subway system entailed; it was the combination of three consecutive nights of dancing and copious shots of whiskey. The boy’s belly was bloated, and the right side of his stomach burned, likely gas and acid but the boy feared it was a cry for help from some vital organ. His eyes felt heavy, and while poor sleep was partly the culprit, the boy knew his insides were beginning to reflect their struggle through his outsides, just like the crowd of men on that dance floor. “Maybe in a bit, thank you,” the boy responded to his generous friend, using the possiblity of a future drink as an excuse to avoid the drink altogether; the generous friend would soon enough be too overwhelmed with securing the peace to make the offer twice in one evening.

“Have fun,” the generous friend said as he returned to his post by one of the bars, overseeing the fun with a Stella in hand, one of his many benefits from working this event; the main benefit was the job itself: watching men in their jovial prime dance the evening and night away as they embraced their bodies and sexuality, something the generous friend could only do vicariously. The man was of a certain age, and “by a certain age” wasn’t solely a numerical implication, but an observation of the man’s exterior: a cap covered his shiny scalp; his shirt had grown a size too small throughout the span of the generous friend owning it; and genetics weren’t generous with this man as wrinkles covered every inch of his face similarly to the crowd of men on the dance floor.

The boy took a seat by one of the benches by the bar, empty-handed. But this was fine with the boy as his mind was already heavy enough to spare any strength for his hands. And the boy needed his hands remaining strength. The boy needed his hands because the boredom of that dance floor made the boy use his hands to escape. The boy started typing away on his phone, but he wasn’t messaging anyone. The boy was detailing and fictionalizing the events from three nights back. Three nights back since meeting that new man. And even though it was still very much early evening, the dwindling sun pouring on that crowd of vivacious, blissfully aloof men, the boy felt the same darkness from three nights back approaching; a darkness where he hoped to revisit the man. But the boy knew the ugly honesty; he wouldn’t find that new man there, in that crowd, amongst that sea of men. The boy was adept at picking out men that kept themselves at bay from crowds. And eventually at bay from the boy.

After an hour and sixteen minutes of sitting and typing, and watching, and typing, and back and forth with this routine for that duration, the boy started to look for him in that crowd of men. Pointlessly. Then the boy looked back at his Instagram message and the “seen.” Being seen never felt so ugly.

After revisiting this mesaage for what felt like countless times, but in reality only an hour and twenty-five minutes, the boy decided to move. The boy needed to move or else he wouldn’t be able to for the rest of that day; the boy was on his last leg both physically and figuratively as the aching of his left foot increased. He stood and continued to the stairs, debating whether to make his exit or prolong his appreciation for the generous friend’s generousity by sitting through another sixteen minutes. For a grand total of an hour and two twenty-six minute intervals; two intervals too many.

The boy sat by yet another bench near the entrance seperating the dance floor from the building. The boy sat alone despite the men crowding the neighboring benches, sobering up through greasy dinners, only briefly. The boy always sat alone always. The boy did this for another twenty minutes; sitting, watching, and checking his Instragam for an unread message, a response to replace that “seen.” The sitting, surrounding men continued to gorge on chicken fingers and fries, preparing to resume their gorging on the dance floor the moment a brief sobreity made its presence. It was at the twenty-eight minute interval, marking three intervals for a total of two hours and ten minutes, that the boy decided to move again; to move towards the exit. But then he moved to the boy’s bench. “He” who was sitting at the bench by the stairs leading to the dance floor. “He” who moved for no apparent reason aside from moving.

He was neither tall nor short as he sat: he was the boy’s size. Both their bloated bellies matched, and the boy suspected that just like his, this man’s mid-section was suffering the aftermath of a weekend of alcoholic gorging. He also had a heaviness in his eyes the boy saw in the mirror that morning; and just like the boy, he was pleading to his body to expand his remaining strength. And just like the boy, he gravitated to his phone screen every couple of minutes to briefly check his unread social media. They were one in the same in their ugliness.

“Hi,” the boy introduced himself, shocking himself with this newfound confidence. He turned to the boy and smiled, a genuinely confident smile, and responded with “Hey.” The boy was speechless. The boy hadn’t thought of what to say past that introduction. The boy paused for a few seconds, resorting to his fleeting mental energy to try and come up with something witty and engaging. But his search was abruptly ended when the man followed his introduction with “This place is lame, I don’t even know why I came.”

“I don’t, either,” the boy said what he had been thinking since his arrival. “This place sucks,” the man said with what sounded like relatability, but then contrasted his comment with “Look at that guy—he’s so hot!” The boy couldn’t judge him; a tall, muscular, blonde man was standing before the boy and the man and the boy couldn’t help but admire the man’s object of affection. “Is that your type?” the boy succumbed to curiosity. But the man just shrugged his shoulders and took a sip from his orange beverage which the boy had never seen before, just like the shirt he was wearing. The shirt was nothing unique, but still alluring to the boy’s glance: it was a white, short sleeve with fishes covering it.

“Are you a Pisces?” the boy asked, though he felt he already had his answer simply by sensing the man’s internalized angst. “I am,” the man responded and proceeded to giggle. That was perhaps the most intriguing part about the man; even when he was complaining about his dislike for the place they were both willingly imprisoned in, the man kept a smile on his face. His smile was his biggest shield and winning chess piece. “Me too!” the boy said, his own smile coming to the rescue. To the boy, only a Pisces understood the emotional purgatory of a gay life. An emotional purgatory in general as a twenty-first century millenial. “The fishes full of emotions,” said the man as he took another sip of his orange drink. He then looked onward and said “That guy is hot!” It was a different guy who physcially mirrored the first, except this one was wearing blue shorts and concealed his torso with a green tank top.

“You should go talk to him,” the boy suggested, proceeding to succumb to his low self-esteem. The boy didn’t remotely rival the physique both those objects of affection exhibited. Nor did he ever plan to. The man giggled again, a little louder this time, and took another drink from his orange escape. “Guys don’t like me like that,” he said in a self-deprecating tone that reminded the boy of someone who said this daily: the boy himself.

“I know one guy who does,” the boy confessed, as he looked at the man, but then quickly turned away. His confidence wasn’t that polished and the man didn’t make matters any better with his constant eye contact. “You like me?” asked the man as the boy still looked away, shielding himself pointlessly. The boy couldn’t be shielded from himself as he again succumbed to his low self-esteem and asked “Let me guess, you don’t?” The boy expected awkward silence, but instead the man quickly and confidently answered “No, I don’t like you like that.” The boy was shocked, but not by the man’s rejection. The boy didn’t expect honesty. Ugly but appreciated honesty. The boy felt...fine.

The boy and the man continued their conversation for another hour. They spoke about their respective Pisces experiences; they spoke about their favorite films and theater pieces; they spoke about every one of the man’s objects of affection, all of which the boy admired in their undeniable aesthetic, but the boy’s affection and attention wasn’t as fickle-hearted nor fickle-minded as the man’s.

“Never seen ‘The Bitter Tears of Petra Van Kant,’ I’ll look into it,” said the boy as the man finished a three-minute rant on his favorite play. The boy didn’t mind it; the man’s passion for the theatrical piece reminded the boy of his own elaborations on his favorite play, “Wait Until Dark.”

“That guy—look at his butt,” said the man, redirecting their conversation to his newest object of affection; the boy had stopped counting by that point. “It’s nice,” said the boy; it was. Even for someone who was submissive, the boy was an avid admirer of a nicely sculpted behind. “Want to dance?” the boy proposed, no longer questioning his bouts of confidence. The man smiled and nodded and they were both on their way down the stairs, the man holding onto his third orange escape for the evening. The boy holding onto the man’s hand. The crowd; sweaty, tired, beaten bodies holding onto each other for support; minimal, fleeting support but support nonetheless. The boy grabbed the man and with every ounce of remaining confidence, started to dance. Dance, dance, dance. He and the man flung their arms up in the air like adult-size Pinocchios and danced and danced the remaining evening into the night.

“I need some water, want a drink?” asked the man as the boy and him stopped abruptly, the sun completing its descent into the night. “I’m fine, thanks,” said the boy as he looked at the man, who was signifcantly sweatier than the boy. He was sweaty period. The boy wasn’t. The boy was completely dry compared to that crowd of men. Granted, this crowd was on a rollercoaster detox muddled with bouts of relapse. The boy’s detox started the moment he read that “seen.”

“You don’t drink, do you?” asked the man as he returned a few minutes later to find the boy typing away. “I have this trip,” answered the boy, remembering his last four days of welcoming in the big city sunrise with a last shot of whiskey. Then he remembered the regretful noon hangovers. “Here,” said the new man as he handed the boy some water. The boy quickly chugged the beverage in hopes of not carry around additonal baggage.

“Thirsty?” the man asked the boy, again with that same smile. The boy was thirsty, but not as much as the man who had pointed out five to six objects of affection to potentially take home; the boy had started counting again.“Not as much as you,” the boy said, not only confidently but carelessly. The man seemed to be the type who could take bluntness. “What is that,” asked the man as the boy’s phone was still reflecting the writing app.

“Just something I was writing...” the boy responded. The man also responded—by taking away the boy’s phone without warning. The man started scrolling from sentence to sence, paragrah to paragraph, word to word, smiling. The boy would have nornally been somewhat apprehensive about a mere stranger—a new man—reading his writing. Reading into his universe that quickly. But this man, something about him that the boy couldn’t quite name, something about him calmed the boy into allowing someone to just read him as he was.

Smiling, laughing, eyebrow raising; smiling, laughing, eyebrow raising; this was the man’s pattern for a whole four minutes and twenty-four seconds, all in one interval before stopping. “You’re a good writer,” he said in a one sentence critique. The boy just stood still, a nervous smile cracking and that was about it. The boy had gotten that compliment before, but it was never from someone who had supported their statement through so many facial reactions. The boy allowed himself to accept the compliment, even if it was simply because the man was a better actor than all the boy’s friends and classmates combined.

“Thanks, I love doing it,” the boy said; confessed. Confessed with an unexpected and different confidence from the first. But it was a nice feeling. Confidence. “If only I could make some money from it,” the boy added, this time with undertones of frustration and sarcasm. The boy had been showered his entire life with compliments, the most eloquent praising when it came to his short stories and screenplays—but not one friend nor classmate, much less a new man, had offered the boy monetary retribution for his creative devotion and exertion. “You will someday, I promise,” said the man, his smile fading for the first time that whole evening; now it was night, and the boy’s phone screen illuminated the man’s face; illuminated the smile replaced by an honest seriousnes, but a seriousness nonetheless.

“You’ll make it, but it’ll be hard..” the man continued. Continued and added to his omen: his seriousness. The boy was ensared by the man, but for reasons completely unique to any new man before him. “No one likes an honest writer. You use honest words. You are honest,” the man said; persisted with his vote of confidence while still holding onto the boy’s phone, looking directly into the boy’s eyes. For the first time that whole night, the boy was at a loss for words. After a few seconds of silenced muffled by EDM music, the man returned the boy’s phone and resumed to his smiling, dancing, his moving; his default humanity. If only the boy knew which was the honest version of the man. If only the boy knew which was the honest version of himself as he grabbed the man’s hands and started flinging them in the air, resuming with their integration into that crowd of men. All too beautiful to be their honest selves.

The boy and the man repeated this cycle for another twenty minutes. The smiling, dancing, moving from both ends continuing until the man put a stop; a stop to the boy’s embrace of his waist and the feeling of the man’s sweat touching the boy’s cheek as he leaned on his chest, the fish shirt losing the battle to the man’s perspiration. “I have to go to the bathroom,” the man said as the boy continued to hang onto his hand. The boy’s cold fingers intertwined softly with the man’s chubby, warm ones. “I’ll wait here,” said the boy as the man ended the lock and made his way up the stairs, leaving the boy to the crowd of dishonest men.

The boy waited for about six to seven minutes, and not once did he look at his phone. The boy had no business doing so anymore. The man had given the boy a newfound belief not just in men, but in himself. A newfound belief he hoped would survive the disillusionement this man was sure to deliver as he stood by the bathroom, smiling, and looking down at the crowd and every man in it except the boy. The boy waited. The boy was always waiting. The boy was always left waiting.

After a brief, three-minute interval of just watching the man smiling from above, the boy moved closer, and closer. He didn’t know where his boundary should but he had to move closer to the man, get closer to his eyesight so that he’d notice the boy again. The boy stopped by the foot of the stairs and looked up, curious and terrified. Terrified and curious. “Curiousity killed the cat,” the boy thought to himself as he waited at the foot of the stairs, searching for the same confidence he had used to first talk to that man.

After a few more seconds of doubt, the boy set his right foot on the first step, then the left on the second step, then he continued with this back and forth rotation as he descended up the steps until he reached the man. The man who was in his own back and forth rotation between texting an unknown someone and looking down at the crowd of men, smiling, but looking down at them nonetheless. The man’s smile was undeterred by neither the boy’s presence nor absence. After a minute and ten seconds of the boy staring at the man, and staring at his phone, and staring for a possible explanation for the man’s new but expected behavior, the man turned to the boy and said “Yo.” The boy simply reciprocated the exact phrase and followed the man as he abruptly started their return to their spot on the dance floor.

And they continued to dance for another eternal ten minutes, an eternity riddled with the man looking around the dance floor and down at this phone, and then the dance floor again. An eternal ten minutes during which, for the first time that evening, the feeling of exclusion really sunk in for the boy.

“I have to go...” the man said to the boy as their arm flinging, dancing, and moving began winding down. The man was onto to his next move, one the boy suspected didn’t involve him at all. “I’ll walk you out,” the boy offered as the man had already given him his back and started making his way towards the stairway that had led them down to the crowd of men. The man started on his way again, and the boy followed despite the man’s unspoken objection. They made their way up the stairs, past the bench where they first spoke, all thanks to the boy’s unexplainable confidence, one that was long gone as they approached the entrance seperating the outside patio from the building the boy wished he had never stepped out of.

They made their way past the portrait of the classic movie icon the boy was a huge fan of, one the man also adored. And they walked by the bar the boy never visited and that the man was all too familiar with, as he sipped the last sip of that orange, alcoholic indulgence. And they walked by the boy’s generous friend who had gotten him free entry into that building, and a free entry to an ugly but honest reality: no matter where the boy went, the man would always be the same. The man would always escape from the boy. Escape from their ugly reality that no amount of orange, alcoholic escapes, nor dance floors crowded with men could beautify.

“What subway are you taking?” the boy asked as the man looked into the streets, phone in hand. “I’m not, I’m getting picked up,” he answered the boy, the smile, for the first time that whole evening, gone. Gone like he soon would be. “I’ll wait...” the boy started to offer, but stopped himself midsentence upon realizing he couldn’t bare the ugliness of seeing the man meet the new boy in his life. A quick replacement, but serving a different role than the boy had. “I’m kind of hungry, but let me give you my number,” said the boy, bringing to light the realization that their only connection was their evening of bonding, a bond that would soon become absolved. “Let me enter it,” said the man, taking the boy’s phone just like the man before him had. The man typed away, slowly, intently and without a trace of his smile. A smile that had welcomed the boy into his ugly honesty. “I’ll text you so you can save my number,” said the boy as he took his phone back. If only the boy could take back his decision to accept his generous friend’s invitation that evening.

“I’ll be back in a few weeks,” said the boy, being ambitious and optimistic in the prospect of returning to the big city. That second trip already had him questioning his meals upon returning to his own city. “Then you’ll have a friend here,” said the man as his smile briefly returned. Very brief. Too brief for the boy’s comfort. The boy decided to smile, somewhat genuinely and somewhat spurred by the ugliness of their finals moments together. The ugliness of saying goodbye. The boy started to turn his back and make his way towards his own transportation, leaving the man to his. The mugginess of the night comforted his skin as the boy got farther and farther away from the man. Five seconds; ten; fifteen; the boy was almost half a minute away from the man when he decided he couldn’t let it end. Like that. Abrupt. Unspecial. Forgettable. He ran. Ran in the opposite direction of time’s passage. Fifteen; ten; five seconds counted down before he was in front of the man again.

“Can I...” the boy looked at the man, who looked at him, a solemn look in his face, no trace of that smile, but a solenmness without reservation. The man sensed what was coming. The boy leaned in, and abruptly and without any confidence, not that there was an ounce left in the boy, he wrapped his arms around the man. It was a warm, wet embrace, wet and soft to the boy’s skin. The man’s natural body odor entered the boy’s being and left its mark on his clothing; the boy’s own odor did the same to the man’s, even though it was significantly less odorous considering their difference in frame. The man’s curly, brown hair rubbed against the boy’s forehead. It lasted a minute and forty seconds. It was the longest hug that boy had experienced that second trip. The longest hug for him. Ever. The boy only let go when he felt the man’s phone vibrate, the boy’s cue to move. To move on with his life without the man that seemed to fit perfectly into it.

“Be safe tonight,” the boy said to the man as he got going, not turning back, this time sentenced to look forward. An ugly sentence. Honest and ugly. It was honest because it showed the boy the truth; he was alone in that big city. He was alone in his own city. Alone, with only memories of the man from that evening, and the one from three nights before, and the one from his first trip. And the ones from his own city. And with only words to revive and keep those memories alive. To keep the boy alive.