“so…..when can I taste you?” he asked while I sat in the passenger seat of the muggy, parked car. The humidity hanging in the air smelled of his breath and my nervousness. His eyes, dark and squinty, just like they were in his profile picture where he claimed to be looking for ‘friends only, none of that gay shit’
And yet…..here we are. In his mother’s car, I presume based on the decorative pumpkin spice air freshener and Shekinah glory CD in the glove compartment. I caught a glimpse of it while he was scrounging for loose change; First quarters, than optimistically accepting dimes before tolerating nickels.
I recognized the disappointment on his face when he had to start choosing nickels.
It’s the same look I had when I realized dating apps don’t have doctors, and barely has sane individuals, so I settled on a dinner date with him.
He is the proverbial nickel of my dating experience, with his face tattoo, unclear backstory, and vague interests consisting of ‘chillin’ and 420’
I realized I hadn’t responded to his desire to “taste me”. His glassy, beady eyes and pouty, cracked lips looked as if they desired to taste the good end of a tube of Chap Stick.
I laughed to stall for time. Like a flirtatious laugh, sort of thing, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of nervous laughter. “I’m serious,” he said, choking on his own laughter, coughing and not covering his mouth. I decided at this exact moment we couldn’t be any less compatible. Don’t try to raise children with me.
“I don’t know what you tryna get into” I replied, at this point playing along. My ability to speak ‘trade’ is limited, and I can’t conjugate the verbs well, but I know enough for the standard strangers attempting to have sex with one another conversation.
“Man, you, hopefully,” he replied.
I’m not one to believe homosexuality is a sin, but this kind is. This is that blasphemous shit God is talking about. But for this, there is repentance, and I’m just going to repent in advance but it’s been a few months and the pickings in this city are slim.
“Well if you wanna go back to my spot, my roommate’s out.” I said. I don’t even have a roommate. I make enough to live perfectly alone. Again, I’m purely speaking trade.
“That’s wussup” he said. I don’t know what that means, but that’s what he said, so that’s what it was.
AH. Don’t let me forget. The illustration here is provided by Blake Guildaphish, who is one of my favorite living illustrators. He lets me use his work when I want to. And I want to. Find more of his stuff on his tumblr.