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Jonah
I’m bored. Give me a dare.
Hittingsend, I drop my phone on the table and shovel in the last bite of my overpriced cheeseburger. I’m tucked away in a corner of the LAX terminal, cocooned by my oversized Carhartt jacket as rain pounds the window by my shoulder.
So much for seeing Los Angeles on my layover, all the sunlight and neon colors and surfers eating fish tacos on the beach. Now I’m just worried my plane will float away before we can take off.
It reminds me of the time my dad looked over my shoulder while I was watchingThe Amazing Raceand asked,What’s the point of traveling if it rains everywhere you go?
I had an answer, something to do with watching the sun break open the clouds over somewhere you’ve never been before, but I’m so terrible with words that I gave up and listened to him chuckle at his own joke and repeat it again when his buddies came over so they could get a kick out of it too.
My phone buzzes, and I lick ketchup off my fingers before tapping the screen. My best friend Elliott and I have been playing this game since freshman year at Iowa State, and he never lets me down.
E: Get yelled at by airport security.
Me: Already done. Try harder.
I leave out the details, letting him imagine something more badass than not knowing that you can’t take shampoo bottles on airplanes. Such a rebel, mumblingsorryover and over as I shuffled past a bunch of annoyed travelers to find the red trash bin for stupid people who mess up. My mother would have hunted down the busiest-looking security guard and asked if there was a way to mail this half-full bottle of Axe back home to save $1.28, but I just chucked it and got back in line.
E: Tell someone your darkest secret.
Propping my elbows on the wobbly table, I turn my Hawkeyes ball cap backwards and rub my tired eyes. My laugh comes out weak and strangled. I’ve been traveling since my first flight left Des Moines at three o’clock this morning; right now, everything seems like the best and worst idea in the world.
Me: I want to know what your mouth tastes like.
I type it all the way out and hover my finger oversend, just to scare the shit out of myself.
I’m a poor farm boy from rural Iowa. I date girls. Someday I’ll propose to one and we’ll get married in the church where my parents had their wedding and have four hearty, corn-fed children and a dog. I’ve known this since before I knew my alphabet, and it’s never bothered me at all.
Okay, maybe a little. By the time you’ve broken up with seven or eight perfectly nice girls in four years, you start to wonder if some wires have gotten crossed.
And now, instead of good grades or a job, I’m graduating college with a fat fucking crush on my male roommate. Not the kind where you float around getting palpitations when they talk to you—the kind where you take up a habit of hugging pillows because even watching them brush their teeth makes you hard.
And thedreams, my God. It’s just a stress-fueled phase, but at night when I can’t fight back my body goes off the rails, begging for what it wants, playing with me. I wake up and kneel in the bathroom at three in the morning with my forehead resting against the side of the tub, jerking off and hating myself.
Just not enough to stop.
When I realized I hadn’t masturbated to anything but men in two weeks, I hyperventilated and made myself watch straight porn all afternoon. My body still reacted, so I couldn’t be gay.
I know that’s not how sexuality works. I know it can beand, notor. But with all due respect to everyone who identifies that way, poor farm boys from rural Iowa can’t afford to be anand.
Holdingdelete, I watch the message disappear. My only friend and future law school roommate means a lot more to me than a couple of sex dreams.
I start a new message, chewing on the tines of my plastic fork. After all, who only has one darkest secret?
Me: Hey, Mom. I’m dropping everything and running away to Alaska to sell chum to fishing boats. Because flying to NYC for law school orientation week is the scariest thing I’ve done in my life and I’m a lot less brave than I pretend to be.
I re-read my work carefully, humming in the back of my throat, doing my best to fix all the spelling mistakes. Then I tilt my head back and close my eyes and hold my breath until my lungs burn.
“American Airlines flight 2307 with service to New York is completing final boarding—”
I jolt upright, choking on my self-pity. Even though Mom sewed a strap onto my roller bag to help me manage it, I keep dropping shit and bumping into folks as I take off running for my gate. I don’t think I’ve ever saidI’m sorryso many times in one day, and it’s only ten in the morning.
When I stagger up, sweating and gasping, a college girl with pastel hair and a matching Fjallraven backpack is holding up the last of the line, arguing with the staff. There’s no way her guitar is getting its own seat, but I appreciate the delay.
The loudest scream I’ve ever heard fills the waiting area. Following the direction of everyone’s glares, I see a woman huddled at the information desk, clutching a hysterical toddler. Her glazed eyes tell me she’s tried everything to make it stop and has no choice but to stare at the ground and wish for death.
Since I’m waiting anyway, I shuffle around and catch the kid’s attention over her mom’s shoulder. Damn, I don’t know how anyone could stay mad at something with such tiny blonde pigtails and chubby, red cheeks. Kids may be whiny and self-obsessed and ridiculously dramatic, but so are we. At least in their case it’s cute.
