A few hours passed, and suddenly, it's 4 p.m. I've made zero progress since that Zoom call. I'm scrolling through stories and random posts from the 600 people I follow. Most are hot Spanish soccer players, and a few are old classmates. Yum, Spanish soccer players make me so horny even thinking about them. One in particular is Sergio Roberto, who is hot as fuck. His tan skin, thin face, and hazel eyes…I'm drooling.
Alright, game plan: I'll message Melanie from high school, the one looking for a duo partner, and then I'll jerk off.
I spotted her in a story, and she’s looking for a singing partner. Brief, but I remember her. She was a senior when I was a sophomore. We never talked. But hey, I have nothing to lose.
After I quickly message her, I open my laptop and pull up a picture of Sergio online. It's amusing how many photos appear when you Google “Sergio Roberto bulge.” The guy has a nice bulge. One photo shows him kicking a soccer ball, and you can practically see his cock outline. I pull down my pants, grab my trusty CVS Silky Smooth Lube, luxury brands be damned, and get to work. My dick doesn’t care about brand names; it just wants to be stroked. Slowly, edging, teasing…I could cum in thirty seconds, but that’d be too quick.
Two minutes later, I'm cumming all over my chest, picturing me fucking Sergio. I don't know why I always imagine being at the top. I bottomed once with Daniel, and it was a total disaster.Bottoming has never been my thing, but maybe with the right person, who knows? And yes, I usually jerk off a second time right after because round two is always better. But tonight? I'm lazy. So I stop.
It's now 7 p.m., and instead of job searching, I'm watching Schitt's Creek for the millionth time. I love Patrick and David's relationship so much. I am definitely Patrick, I just need to find my David.
As I sit there watching the first episode of Season 3, I hear my phone ping and see that there's a new message from Melanie. I doubt she remembers me, but I can't help but start feeling hopeful.
The message reads:OMG, Nate! I remember you from high school. Well, vaguely! You were so quiet but also so cute and friendly.
Okay, she remembers me. Kind of. And thinks I'm friendly and cute? I'll take it. I fire back instantly:Hi Mel! Do people still call you that, or is that a friends-only thing? Haha. I’m glad you have at least one fond (and fuzzy) memory of me. How’ve things been?
I don't want to come on too strong and immediately ask about the duo opportunity. She seems incredible, and honestly, it's nice catching up with someone from high school.
I can’t stand the people still living in their high school glory days, but from a few minutes of Instagram stalking, Mel seems pretty chill.
Her following message is straight to the point, which I love:Obv, you can call me Mel. Mel sounds way better, anyway. Yeah, things have been better; probably obvious from my story, huh? We have to catch up over drinks tomorrow. I live near the 9th Street PATH, just a short walk from The Stonewall Inn. Sending you my number and address now. We can talk about the duo opportunity over a few Long Island Iced Teas.
Well, that was quick and straight to the point, and I am all about it. I think it is easier to talk in person anyway, and Long Island Ice Teas fuck me up. She remembers me as shy and awkward, so the drinks will help loosen me up.
I Instagram message her my number and confirm, noon at The Stonewall tomorrow. About two hours after the call ended, I finish watching a few more episodes of Schitt's Creek and got ready for bed. Before bed, I always follow the same routine: brushing my teeth with Sensodyne toothpaste and over-moisturizing my face with CeraVe. I hope all that moisturizer keeps me young and pretty forever!
I wake up with that rare mix of excitement and nerves, which usually means something good is about to happen or something incredibly awkward is about to unfold. Hopefully, not the latter.
First stop: the Portuguese bakery on the corner. I grab a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which is my absolute favorite breakfast. The ones in Ironbound are unreal and only four bucks. It's as if the universe knows I'm broke as hell and jobless.
Back home, I hop in the shower, belt out a few pop songs to expand my repertoire, and then mess around on my guitar for a bit. Playing music alone is the most grounding thing I do. Whether I'm anxious, bored, or spiraling, I play. And every time, it pulls me back.
An hour before I'm supposed to meet Mel, I head to Newark Penn Station and hop on the train to 9th Street. The train's one of those antique-looking ones, the kind that rattles like it might fall apart at any second, but you love it anyway. I get there early and grab a small table near the door. I order my first Long Island Iced Tea, which is a great choice at noon, and hopefully, it will give me an immediate buzz.
Right on the dot, Mel rolls in like a gust of wind, jet-black hair streaked with vivid purple, fierce brown eyes, a bright yellow shirt, and a matching yellow handbag.
“Nate! How dare you start without me!” she yells, making a scene in the best possible way.
I barely recognize her, but wow, I love her energy. I've been craving brightness like this in my life: just honest, vibrant, unfiltered people.
Before she even sits down, she runs to the bar and orders her own Long Island. Clearly, we’re on the same wavelength.
She launches into her story like she’s been waiting all day to vent. Turns out her singing partner bailed out of nowhere to start a solo career in Chicago. First of all, rude. Second, Chicago? Really? If you’re going to ditch your partner, at least go to Nashville or LA.
She talks fast, jumping from one topic to the next, and I let her. I'm a great listener. Talking, though? That's where I get in my head. But somehow, I don't feel anxious around Mel. Maybe it's her energy. Perhaps it's the alcohol. Probably both.
Eventually, she stops and looks me dead in the eye. "So, Nate, what are you looking for? Do you have experience singing in front of an audience? Ever been in a duo? Are you okay doing backup for part of the set? I know I'm throwing a lot at you…I'm drunk and just word-vomiting everything in my head."
I laugh and take a breath. "Alright, question one: I just want to sing, preferably for money. I've done weddings, college parties, and even some busking, which was humiliating but got me through college. Weirdly, I'm more comfortable singing in front of people than talking to them. Makes no sense, but here we are. I've sung with my brother before, but just for fun. I'm totally fine doing backup vocals, maybe even prefer it."
She gives me a look. Not flirty, not skeptical, just like she knows something I don’t. Or maybe I’m just tipsy and imagining everything.
At this point, I’m definitely drunk. I forgot we were sitting in a historic gay bar until I looked around. It’s mostly empty, probably because it’s a Wednesday afternoon and normal people have jobs. Honestly, I’m glad it’s quiet. I hate when guys stare at me like I’m fresh meat. It’s awkward having to explain I’m not into random hookups.
“Ohh…look at you,” Mel says, catching me glancing around. “Look at your wandering eyes. See anyone you want to bring home?”
I smile. “Let’s get back to singing and when you’re gonna hire me.”
