Art by James Sherriff.
We’re making out at Stonewall.
His beer soaked hands glide through my hair
as I kiss his neck.
My lips burn as they press against his cheap aftershave.
He stops.
“Want to head bro?”
I turn around to see who he’s talking to.
Wait…
Omg no……
I think he’s talking to me?
I don’t think I’ve ever called my own brother ‘bro’?
Do I call him ‘bro’?
How do you even use ‘bro’ in a sentence?
Is ‘bro’ a noun?
“Um sure thing…man?”
The tiles get filthier the deeper we go into the city.
Brightly coloured rays are quickly replaced by the dull dim of streetlights.
I’m cold so he hands me his Adidas jacket.
I ask him about his hobbies.
He says that he likes to play FIFA with his mates.
“Yaa- I mean yeah. I love soccer.”
Wait, is it gay to call it soccer?
“I mean football.”
Wait. I’m gay. Should I call it soccer?
Fuck.
I notice my footsteps transform from a sashay, shantay, panther down the runway
into a stiff, lifeless march.
I ask if he goes to Stonewall often.
I slowly realise that I’m the only one asking questions.
Am I really that uninteresting?
He says nah, the guys there aren’t ‘really his type’.
“What is your type?”
He’s got this weird look in his eyes,
like he’s about to Ben Shapiro this woke snowflake.
“I just like guys who act like guys.”
I know I should call him out,
but like,
I just don’t think he’d appreciate the nuances of Judith Butler’s theory of performativity?
And he’s just like really hot.
I hate myself.
We get back to my place and I make us a drink.
My throat is sore from keeping it at an octave lower than it’s used to.
He pushes me onto the couch (ow?)
and starts kissing me.
I can’t tell if he’s really into it or if his tongue is having a stroke.
He says that I’m buzzing.
I’m flattered until I realise that he’s talking about my phone.
It’s my mum.
She asks how I’m going.
She asks if I’m safe.
She tells me she loves me.
I tell her I love her too.
We hang up.
I look towards him,
He doesn’t look back.
He tells me that he hasn’t spoken to his parents in six months.
He tells me that they won’t ever speak to him.
He asks me why it has to be so hard?
“I don’t know.”
He starts to cry.
He tries to cover his eyes with his hands but I stop him.
I tell him to relax and that this will all work out.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know.”
I lean down and kiss him.
He looks up at me and smiles.
I wipe a tear off of his cheek and whisper
“That’s pretty gay bro.”
