Jere play-punched my arm a little too aggressively, but it was meant as a friendly gesture. “Going to start my rounds and make sure no one is overdosing in the bathroom.”
I watched him make his way toward the bathroom, the club-goers parting for him. He was huge and didn’t take kindly to being groped by anyone, because he only existed for Danny, which was another reason to like him.
As I adjusted the manikin dressed like Santa holding a red sack of dildos, I wished I could find someone like Jere, someone completely devoted that promised a happy ending. The opportunity was slipping through my fingers. Thirty had snuck up on me and though I didn’t freak out about it like most gays, thirty-six had hit me pretty hard. Only a few more years until forty and then it was all downhill. I wasn’t freaking out about aging, I just didn’t want to do it alone.
I slipped my phone out of my pocket and sent a response.
ME: Oh, really? Is that why U hound me? Because I'm not cute?
I figured until the perfect one actually came along–if they did at all–I’d enjoy text-flirting with an adorable twink with a wicked tongue. He must have been sleeping because he didn’t respond until it was nearly midnight.
MATTEO: Nah, I hound you because I know how badly you want to tap this ass.
Well, damn, but he wasn’t wrong. I had a lot of self-control, but I’d considered more than once asking if he wanted to find a quieter place to spar. I tried to imagine him sitting in his hospital bed with the oxygen mask on his face while he was texting. Was he smiling like I was?
ME: Get back to me in a few years, jail-bait.
It was the best I could come up with and I could hear the classic crash-n-burn sound effect in my mind.
MATTEO: LOL, I’m twenty. Next excuse?
ME: Really? I thought U were a lot younger.
MATTEO: Everyone does. Just means when I’m thirty, I’ll still look like a twink.
As I made my way to the front of the club to make sure everything was running smoothly, I texted back.
ME: Well, U might B a cute twink, but you’re seriously overestimating yourself.
MATTEO: Yeah, how? I’ll wait.
I mulled over how honest I wanted to be.
ME: For one, guys your age R peacocks but get them in bed and they fumble the ball. Two, the experience of older men is unmatched. Three, there R plenty of cute twinks in this city. You’re not special. Should I go on? I’ll wait.
Minutes passed and he didn’t respond. An hour later, I regretted the message. It could be difficult to judge someone's tone over texts.
The crowd thinned, the few die-hard partiers rocking back and forth on the dancefloor. By two, everyone was gone, the doors were locked, and I made my way upstairs to my apartment. I peeled off my clothes until I was naked and slipped under the blankets with my phone. I scrolled through our messages, re-reading them twice, before sending a follow-up.
ME: Sorry, I shouldn’t have been so hard on U when you're so sick.
MATTEO: Don’t get soft on me now, Pooh Bear. Oh, wait. *pokes belly* Already dough-ball soft.
I growled at my phone, hoping I’d gotten the upper hand for once, but it looked like I’d failed. I decided to leave it alone as I’d gotten enough of a reaming for the day.
I promised myself, one day, I would win this battle we had going on.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MATTEO
“Alright, Matt,” the nurse said as she appeared with a stack of papers in her hand. “I need you to sign this, and you’re good to go. Is someone picking you up?”
I nodded and accepted the discharge papers. I scribbled my semi-fake name on the line without bothering to read all the important information.
“We’re sending you home with a prescription for antibiotics and a decongestant. All the details are in these papers. It’s important that you complete the entire round. Take Tylenol as needed.”
She said some more about at-home care, but all I could focus on was leaving. Between text-flirting with Pooh Bear for the last three days–which was nice, actually—and sleeping, I worried that my parents would find me in the hospital. Sometimes I thought I heard my father’s voice speaking to one of the nurses outside my door. The clip-clop of women’s heels from a visitor reminded me of my mother and her impeccable presentation.
