Faux Pas
I was slightly drunk when I invited him to my apartment.
From two dry ciders left in my fridge from Tuesday’s book club I brought to the party in a tote bag. I passed them to the girl sitting beside me on the couch and asked if she could open the cans. She had bare, manicured nails and fringe bangs. I asked her if anyone had ever told her she looked like a famous actress, a nepo baby who starred in one of my favorite films. Yes, she demurred and passed the ciders back to me.
I made small talk with her and her friend, a nervous girl with gauzy, curtain-like hair and a piggish nose who worked at the museum where I was employed years earlier. She complained about her wages and moaned she was going into debt for her job. She looked between her friend and I as if we might intervene and protest on her behalf or at least reassure her the prestige of the job was worth this pittance. Neither of us spoke. She recited the names of several coworkers and asked if I knew them. I wondered if she hoped enumerating our number of mutual acquaintances would spark a feeling of camaraderie.
I confessed to her that I no longer spoke to anyone who worked at the museum besides our host and excused myself to get another drink, reluctant to recite a canned speech about the abysmal state of my former profession.
As I skirted around the couch and entered the hallway leading to the kitchen, I heard her whisper to her friend, the nepo-baby-look-alike: Why did everyone leave when I sat down?
Because you started talking about work, her friend reprimanded.
In the dining room, I poured myself a glass of tequila. There was neither a mixer nor limes. Woah, nice, a guy with a shaved head and a faded bicep tattoo of a semi-nude woman said, complimenting my overindulgence. You look like someone I know, I told him. Did I meet you on New Year’s? You cut your hair recently? I asked. I can be whoever you want, baby, he purred, and I deduced we had not in fact met. His friends joined us, a taller brunette with bulging eyes and a blonde twink who I had run into at several house parties recently and had a small crush on. I recognized the guy with bulging eyes too. He shared a name with my family’s now deceased dog—Isaac.
Wait, I follow you on Instagram, Isaac said. He pointed his bony finger at me as if preparing to make an accusation. You know my friend, Cherie!
Yes, Cherie and I worked together a couple years ago, and we went to school together, except we never had any classes or anything. We did a photoshoot in her studio apartment once. I think that was the last time I saw her. I always liked Cherie. She was one of those girls who had sagging middle-aged tits even though she was practically still a teenager. They gave her a sort of maternal quality I always found comforting. As I added this last detail, I looked at Isaac’s friends to gauge whether they found this incidental misogyny humorous. Neither laughed. I downed half the tequila. How is she? I asked Isaac.
She’s married and sober now. She lives in South Dakota with her wife and goes to AA meetings, he explained.
I feigned interest in Cherie’s fate momentarily despite my incuriosity; I nursed a pointless grudge. Cherie unceremoniously quit the retail store where we worked without warning after I persuaded the manager to hire her even though she had no experience, an incident the manager recounted during my annual review. Isaac rarely focused his attention as he talked. Instead, he scanned the room, appraising the odd arrangement of millennial gay men sprawled around the room, and I wondered if he was afraid of aging, no longer being the sparkliest, thinnest personality in a room. Or maybe he was trying to decide who was most likely to offer a bump of ketamine in exchange for gentle petting in the bedroom where everyone’s coats were piled on the bed.
Our conversation dwindled.
Who do you know here? The blonde twink asked. Just Jordan, I replied. He acted aghast as if I had confessed I had stolen a book from one of the host’s shelves or spilled red wine on their couch. But you seemed so at ease in the living room, he said, you looked, like, cinematic talking to those girls, so I assumed you knew them.
Cinematic, I repeated. No, I’m just good at making conversation, I said drily, a self-congratulatory statement that omitted the numerous faux pas, awkward pauses, and my abrupt exit. But I smiled to convey I was teasing, inviting him to volley back.
He angled his body toward mine in a manner that suggested he wanted a private moment. I am in desperate need of intellectual conversation, he said, repeating a phrase he said weeks earlier when we saw each other. Are you? I asked. Both his friends drifted away to assess whether there was more alcohol or if the party needed to migrate to a nearby bar. The twink looked at me. His face was pretty, narrow, and smooth like a rodent. I told him I enjoyed being one of the few girls at the party. I’m entering my fag hag era, I claimed. You keep forgetting I’m bisexual, he teased.
The last time I saw the twink was at a friend’s princess-themed birthday party. He was wearing a strap-on sans the accompanying appendage as a belt to cinch his tulle dress. He told me he was interested in pegging, and out of self interest I brainstormed potential colors, textures, and lengths for his synthetic dick, hoping to say something unexpected that might capture his attention: purple, six inches, arched curve, like a boomerang, to better reach the G-spot, but not overly realistic, no veins or distinguishable head to avoid the uncanny valley. He laughed along before one of his friends interrupted and begged him to join them in the living room to dance.
I forget because you never seem to act on it, I said and pressed the bottom edge of the plastic cup against my collar bone. There was no tequila left. He kissed me this time. A halfhearted kiss that gradually loosened like a poorly tied shoelace. His mouth tasted like the artificial fruit flavor of his seltzer. My tongue searched the gap between his teeth and gums like a hand groping between couch cushions for misplaced change. I retreated empty handed. But our lips were carbon paper, the reddish outline of my mouth smudged around his, and I felt possessive for the first time.
He pulled away, touched my forearm, and said goodbye. He fetched his friend, the one with the shaved head, and left. They’re fucking, Isaac explained, returning from the bathroom. We’ve all fucked. We’re all so predictably gay, he continued. His eyes seemed larger and more luminous than before, as if they were celestial bodies brought closer by some gravitational force. Everyone in the dining room was wearing mesh tank tops. It was frigid outside. I rebuffed an invite to join Isaac and some others who were relocating to a gay club and decided to leave.
At home I scrolled through messages on my dating apps.
One intrigued me. A guy I had matched with three times over the course of the past year. His opener was overly familiar: you again… should we finally meet?
We exchanged a few messages. We both claimed we were reading before bed. He sent the name of a book that wasn’t a Stephen King novel or A Confederacy of Dunces. The semblance of a normal reading habit and mixture of alcohol softened my judgment and compelled me to invite him over even though I assumed he would refuse: it was 1:13am.
Ok. He replied and asked for my address.
I will be there in 20 minutes, he messaged back, and I hurried to prepare myself.
When he arrived, I watched him from the entrance of my building as he walked back and forth reading the house numbers. Opposite side of the street, I texted and opened the door. I shivered. I was wearing tiny athletic shorts and an oversized t-shirt with a Pegasus graphic. He crossed the street and apologized, sorry, I’m bad with addresses. He was wearing a yellow Floyd Mayweather shirt. Inside my apartment, he removed his baseball cap and placed it on the table. A few inflamed pimples on his chin made him look more youthful. He smelled like menthol. I like your eyes, I said. They give you this sort of distant, appraising quality, like the eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg.
Oh, thank you. He frowned skeptically. I’m kind of self conscious about my eyes. I have this eye condition that causes the cornea to thin and bulge outward, so I have to wear specialized contacts, but they make my eyes incredibly itchy. His eyes appeared outwardly normal I thought. But this description of his eye condition endeared me to him, and I worried I would develop a crush because I am predisposed to romanticism, can easily envision my life rearranged around someone else, a personality flaw perhaps, or an admirable belief love is born when we decide where we spend our time and with whom rather than some mystical connection, like a home-prepared meal, pleasurable because of the time and labor required to prepare it. This mentality is perhaps why I am unlucky in love.
I offered him a glass of water and sat at the table. I pulled my legs toward myself, wrapping my arms around my knees. He sat across from me. Did you see what the President tweeted today? He asked. No. He paused, searched his pocket for his phone, and then recited aloud: He who saves his Country does not violate any Law. I shook my head speechless. It’s a horrible time to go to law school, he joked, as they erode the legal system. Maybe there won’t be any jobs when I graduate. It’s a horrible time to be working and alive generally, I countered, laughed, and wondered if discussing politics so early in the night boded well for our sexual chemistry.
I stretched my bare leg toward him and brushed the side of my foot against his. He did not react. Maybe he found me less attractive than my photographs. We talked for three hours: about the lack of furniture in his apartment because his brother refused to share the cost of a couch; other drunken midnight trysts with women from Tinder, including one who inspected all his belongings before accusing him of being a slut for owning a box of condoms; his hometown, a city I had visited twice, both of us happy to reminisce about breakfast burritos with green salsa and Southwestern sunsets; his disdain for white people who live in Lakeview.
He thanked me for inviting him over after I yawned, and I assumed he would insist on leaving but he continued to talk. He mentioned a viral Twitter post of mine he saw circulating online. Every time it appeared on his Instagram Explore page he considered it punishment for his poor initiative. Well, you’re here now, I gestured toward the room with my hand. I’m really glad you invited me over tonight, he insisted. Me too, I replied.
He asked to see my bookshelves after I fetched two books by South American authors I thought he might enjoy—Not a River by Selva Almeda and Ancient Tillage by Raduan Nassar. I sat on my bed while he inspected the shelves. He joined me. Your bookshelves look expensive, he said. They’re pinewood, I corrected him. I wondered if he felt emasculated by our obvious class difference, whether the illusion of wealth endeared or repulsed him. I continued: And look, the right bookshelf is collapsing because they’re flimsy, but I refuse to buy another one.
Have you ever considered moving abroad? He asked. Yes, I answered, maybe for school. You look like someone who would get their PhD in Berlin, he offered. Because I look pretentious? I turned on my side and tried to imagine what I looked like from his perspective: a twenty-something transsexual living alone with her expensive furniture and in-unit laundry. He countered. No, because you seem smart and somewhat serious. I had been quiet I supposed. I was sober, tired, and uncertain if I even wanted to have sex still. Have you been to Berlin? I asked. He replied: No.
He finally asked if he could kiss me. Of course, I consented like a sleepy child allowing themselves to be carried from the couch to their bed, ambivalently grateful. We fucked. The condom broke twice. I excused myself and ran to the bathroom to find another. The third remained intact. We laid together afterward and talked. I invited him to sleepover even though it was sunrise. He insisted he wanted to but had to remove his contacts. Ah, yes, your eye condition, I whispered and touched his neck. He ordered an Uber, and I followed him to the front door where we kissed again. I want you to fuck me again, I begged, and he considered, calculating whether the cancellation fee was a significant percentage of his student loan disbursement for the semester; I thought about offering to pay for his car but hesitated, unsure if he would be grateful for my charity or offended and conclude this short-lived fantasy of endless lovemaking.
Money is tight until the end of May when I can start working again, he explained before cancelling the ride and following me to my bedroom. I laid facedown and asked him to leave a mark on me. Wherever he wanted. So I could feel like I belonged to him temporarily, that he wanted to possess me.
Image: Anthony Cudahy, Eternal Lovers, 2024.
Currently: My review of Vera Blossom’s “How to Fuck Like a Girl” was published this week. I poured my heart into this one <3 You can read the review here: https://sixtyinchesfromcenter.org/fucking-like-a-girl/