The first thing I do when I get home is palm myself through my jeans. I’ve been excited all day to be here. Close. I want to be closer, like in the movie ‘Closer.’ I’m hard after a few lazy rubs.
I invited myself out to a bar the night you told me you were going on a date with someone from your Literature class. I wasn’t jealous. Not in the slightest. Why would I care about what you were doing?
I couldn't exactly figure out why I like you, but what I did know when I wasn’t around you I felt like the market crashed and fell on its back. You, not with me, was nothing short of the great 2008 recession.
I want a BLT, and you’d probably want some kind of damn salad, and you’d ask me, ‘why are we eating lunch at 11 at night?’ I’d tell you time is an illusion and lunch doubly so, and you’d look at me confused. Because, of course, you’re the only person in the entire world who hasn’t read Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
I want to call you, tell you I desperately want a BLT–that I want more than a BLT, but you’re with that fucking Literature major. You’re dating someone whose favorite novel is Gravity’s Rainbow. They’re a liar. Who likes Gravity’s Rainbow? Don’t you get that? If you were Douglas Adams you’d find me interesting, but you’re not him. So you don’t, and if I was in a better mood I’d quote Kurt Vonnegut. I started crying, and the bartender cut me off.
I spent my entire life looking for someone exactly like you. All loving, all listening, and never fully knowing but I make up for it. I know enough for the both of us. I unbutton my pants and pull myself out. I slid in between legs, and it’s wonderful, truly.
What the fuck is this?
You told me you wanted to get me a gift for Christmas–despite me telling you I was Jewish. I wasn’t sure how to feel about the obnoxious red and green bag with a plump white Santa.
You grinned at me and this is wrong, right?
I slowly pulled out tissue paper from the bag, trying to give you time to change your mind. To realize this is vaguely offensive. But you don’t. You beckon me to move faster like you have somewhere else to be.
I think I fell in love with you then.
I held up a knitted doll of a clown you made me. Wonky, loose threads, mis-proportioned limbs–perfect.
You looked so happy, and chirped, “do you like it?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
I want it, over, and over, and over. I move my leg and that’s it. My strange fit of passion, my love. So easy to move in and out of. I let out a small whimper in the back of my throat, and Jesus, since when did I do that?
This was the first honest thing that came out of my mouth since we came to the deli on what I called our first date–what you insist wasn’t. I looked at you as earnestly as I could. “I really have to vomit, I’m–” Nope. I felt something sickly sweet in the back of my throat. I gagged and I covered my mouth with my hand.
Your eyes widened. Surprised or disgusted?
I wasn’t fine. I wasn’t fine at all. My fingers fished around for my wallet in my back pocket and threw it at you. I hit your tits and I wanted to apologize so much at that moment.
You’re not Brett and I’m not Jake, and before you could tell me anything I ran out the door. The deli’s front is all windows, and I felt awful, I really did.
My stomach convulsed and I pressed my hand tighter against my mouth–willed God, anything that was listening, to let me not vomit. I don’t think God listens to Russian Jews after they eat non-kosher food though.
Despite trying–honestly–to swallow back vomit, it eventually came out of me. You watched me as I vomited in a random Russian Deli parking lot, a mix of ham, chocolate, and farmers cheese. I cried afterwards. I cried about everything, being a Russian immigrant, about eating pork, going to Jewish hell–even if we don’t believe in hell–you.
You came out into the parking lot and held me, wiped away my tears so tenderly I was convinced you loved me half as much as I loved you.
Turned out I had the flu. I spent the next four days in bed with a fever and you kept coming back to my dorm room to check on me. You brought me soup and tea, and I hated both but ate it for you. Because they’re from you. On the fifth day you still came to my dorm despite already feeling better. You brought me more tea and I finally told you I really fucking hate tea and that made you laugh. You told me I was funny.
I grab handfuls and I move faster, more purposefully. I rub my cock against stomach, teasing myself. I start giving myself rug burns on my shaft and tip but the pain is worth it. My stomach knots and there's a pool of heat in my lower stomach. My orgasm hit me all at once, painful, static pinpricking pleasure that left me shaking and panting. I wiped my tip on the clown's hat. Crusty, and starting to yellow.
It’s the last day of August and I still miss you. I've missed you for the whole 37 seconds, 50 minutes, 19 hours, 6 days, 3 weeks, 4 months since you’ve been gone. I still keep your favorite popcorn on top of the fridge.
In my head, it’s still March and you haven’t left. The clown still smells like you, and I never hurt you. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.
