Dear Brother

Featured on The Huffington Post, BuzzFeed & OUT

Dear Brother,

We’ve never met and we never will, because last night you were murdered.

You were out at a gay bar called Pulse in Orlando, Florida when someone walked in and ended your life, along with the lives of 49 [or more] others. In his eyes, you were less than human and you deserved a gruesome, organized massacre. And while he was putting you down with bullets, I was more than 600 miles away — waking up from a sound sleep to use the bathroom. It was just after three in the morning when I came back to bed, where my boyfriend Andy was also awake. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was quick and uneven. “I just saw on Facebook there was a shooting at a gay bar in Orlando,” I whispered into the darkness. “Oh no, that’s terrible,” he said without opening his eyes. “Yeah it’s fucking terrible,” I said absently. We laid there silently until we drifted back to sleep.

All The Men Who Never Had Sex With You

Featured in Leur Magazine

There's something you should know.

Very far away, there's a planet in a galaxy you'll never find. And on this planet there's a single chunk of land in the middle of an endless sea. And on this tiny, jungled continent live all the men who never had sex with you.

You haven't heard of this before because it's kind of a secret. Because if someone had told you years ago that every man who turned you down or never gave you a shot in the first place was taken against their will to an alien planet lightyears away, you'd probably be an entirely different person. You'd probably be a lot more secure in your weight and in the imperfections of your smile. Who knows? You might even have a better job!

I Should Go

Featured in Hello Mr. Magazine

I should go.

I should be going. 

As soon as I open my eyes, I’m going to grab my underwear from that chair by the window, and my shorts from under the bed, and my shirt from wherever I tossed it — wherever that is.

My shoes are by the front door, I think. Loafers with tassels. Why did I even do that? Oh right, because I couldn’t find my flip-flops this morning.

Shit. I should go.

But I think I’ll stay a little longer. 

I hope you don’t mind. This is usually the part where we both get redressed and stutter through mindless small talk. So what are your plans later? How long are you in town for? What do you do, again? These are just things to be said so that we don’t have to face our own indignity in front of someone who just discovered how [and who] we really are. But we’re not doing that right now. I mean, we might do it eventually. But right now, you’re laying on your back and I’m laying on my stomach and half of our bodies are overlapping — all the way down to our feet and all the way up to our cheeks — and you are warm.

Here’s What You Do

Featured in Hello Mr. Magazine

Meet him at a place you won’t be ashamed of when you tell the story later.

My friend met his boyfriend on Grindr, but he tells everyone they met at a coffee shop.

Don’t be like him.

Instead, go to places that don’t embarrass you.

Better yet, just avoid places that don’t fit the way you picture it.

You might not think you have control over how you meet people, but you do.

And when you meet him, you’ll know you’re supposed to be meeting him. 

Maybe you’ll feel it on your skin, or in your dick, or in your stomach.

But somehow, someway, you’ll know this is happening for a reason.

And don’t lie to him.

If I Were A Woman

Featured on HelloGiggles.com

If I were a woman, I wouldn’t feel paranoid or uncomfortable in Victoria’s Secret.

Instead of popping in once a year at Christmastime and running straight to the counter to buy a gift card for my sister, I could mosey and maybe even buy something for myself. Because I could. Because I’d be a woman. I would be nice to the sales girl with the pink measuring tape, and I might even ask her to take my bust size, because What Not To Wear taught me that many adult women are wearing the wrong bra. 

I’d go to mani-pedi parties, even though pedicures give me anxiety. As a man, I recoil when the aesthetician files down my little toenail, and I feel like I’d react the same way if I were a woman. But maybe the shared experience of a mani-pedi party might curb my anxiety because I’d be too distracted by dishing and mimosas to notice the girl with the paring knife jabbing into the gutters of my toenails. In nice restaurants, I’d excuse myself to the bathroom with two or three friends where I’d sit on the sink, reapplying my eyeliner and talking about everyone who isn’t in the bathroom with us, but I’d try not to say anything catty because there’s enough of that going around, anyway.