“Okay, first off? AIDS wasn’tjustaffecting gay people.”
“Dude!” He whacks my shoulder. “We were like two-thirds of the death toll. Don’t even go there.” He gives me his version of a stern look.
“And that’s fucking horrible, man, but you weren’t even born then, and—”
“I could’ve been?” he frowns.
“Yeah, and I could’ve been a Viking in the 900’s, what’s your point?” I shake my head, shrugging. “Because gay men died from AIDS, you’re somehow authorized to risk another deadly disease?”
He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.
“What?”
He shoots me a look. “What, CDC sent you? To preach about the danger of social interaction, and the importance of using Purell? I hope they’re paying you for that.”
“Shut up,” I chuckle.
“You shut up!”
I shoot him a grin, shaking my head.
He rolls his eyes, snorting.
“Look, all I’m saying,” I tack on. “COVID’s affecting all of us. Fuck, I haven’t had sex in forever.”
“Well, Kadey-babe, I’ve told you, you know where to find me.”
“Fuck you,” I laugh and he cracks up.
“Yeah, that’s the point. Keep up, will you?”
I’m chewing my lip, leg bouncing as I scroll through Tinder. I make it four swipes before I toss the phone beside me on the couch.
I don’t want to get sick, okay?
It’s not worth the risk, or the fucking paranoia I know’ll be hitting me the second I leave this hypothetical hook-up.
My foster-brother Zach got sick last year, twenty-eight years old and on a ventilator for three weeks.
No, thank you.
Besides, does anyone really enjoy one-night stands? Like, for real? I feel like it’s just something people have kept blowing out of proportions for decades, and now, everyone just goes with it. You can’t hit a bar without being knocked down by horny ass cavemen, trying to be the first to sweep the place down and find a fuck for the night.
I’m a relationship kind of guy. I like to know who I’m doing. And I hate waking up to someone I don’t know, not remembering her name, or where the hell I am, and on top of that, being hungover as fuck.
So, I don’t. And me and my hand’s been getting to know each other pretty well over the last eight months since Tara and I broke up. It’s not that bad.
Except it fucking is, because I’m so sick of solo sessions, I could cry.
I miss a warm body pressed up against me. Hands that are not my own.
I miss exploring someone’s body, learning what makes them unravel and lose control.
I miss kissing. And not only that hot, uncontrolled chase. I miss that lazy, hair stroking, kissing. Like when you’re too tired to have sex, but you still want the closeness because you can’t get enough of them.
Fuck, I miss just sleeping next to someone.
This pandemic? It’s fucking lonely.
