November 1999

Josh Wink. One white pill, watching gorgeous boy flow, dance. Being human so sublime in e clarity. From nowhere, directed to me, standing in Minneapolis at midnight; simple call and response inside my head



"you're gay."



Eyes still focused on that boy, dancing under lights, torrents of sound.

The next weekend in Chicago at two a.m. in front of a wall of speakers a boy touched my electric hand. One glance, some words.

We kissed for minutes, hours, days.

In Ohio I was a boy seeing the pinprick stars for the first time. I was 18, 21, 10. The stars danced too, I head the bass reverberate against the sky, deep, rumbled, ancient. A boy named josh runs his hands under my shirt. Later, I fall in love with a tall thin boy who looks like an angel when he dances with his eyes closed. We embrace. I believe everything is eternal, every moment feels timeless. I am young and old, I have felt everything. He offers me half a paper square in the morning. I decline. His friend says he has five hundred pills to sell by blue evening.

In Chicago, again, lost in 95 degree sweatbox night heat with three thousand lost children. Music comes from all directions, catches me in midthought, carries me. A boy asks me to go to the restroom with him. I do, he looks at me plaintively. I do not know what to do. We are sweating rivers. I want to take off his shirt, kiss him, run my hands over his chest and shoulders. I do not. I am starved. I kiss a girl for an hour because I am afraid of my friends seeing me with a boy.

There are moments when everything is perfect. I see hundreds dancing in a sardine building just outside of town. My moment, my party and everything is intimate, magical. There is a beautiful boy with blue sky eyes staring at me. I cannot talk to him. I turn away and my soul aches. I need to walk to him, smile and tell him my name, ask if I can touch him, hold him. This is my home, and I cannot do it.

It is summertime, and the days are fiery, every sense dulled by the moist city air which sticks my white shirt to my skin. Everyone in the summer claims that they hate Kansas heat and humidity worse than Kansas cruel cold winter. I know better. I want this boy talking to me to place ice cubes on my back, but I prefer the contrast of cold against warm skin than heat against cold skin. It is night, and I tell him that I am sure an ice cube would melt on my skin in seconds. I am blatantly flirting with him, we are in a park by his house. I know that he's as queer as Oscar Wilde. He is unsure of me, so I flirt shamelessly. I do not care if he finds out, but when I drop him back off at his house later, it is hard for me to answer his question. What would I have done if he had kissed me? I can't lie, of course, I can't lie anymore to everyone. It is easy to tell him, but he does not kiss me. I am awkward and free. He is the first one I have told.

In November, I find out a boy from Chicago has a crush on me. He has slept with friends of mine in St. Louis, Columbia, Detroit and Milwaukee. Do I want to spend two days, three nights in Chicago? We make vague plans. I am driven to sleep with these beautiful boys, who make themselves so available, so friendly, so lets-screw-on-the-floor-right-the-fuck-now sexy. My relative lack of experience with boys scares me, though. I am very much afraid of ignorance exposed, wondering in neon letters 'what do I do now'? The trip to visit him never happens, substituted by one or two enlightening one-night stands. I appreciate the desire of these boys for nothing more than one night, maybe two. I do not want a relationship at this point, I only want sex, needing the experience before I feel confident to seriously date anyone.


Andrew is a 22-year old student at the University of Kansas. Someday, he hopes to write for food. This is part of his life, real and complete. He can be reached at andrew_ks@yahoo.com.

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