2: only fun

If you were to ask me what my greatest accomplishment is, I could tell you about things I worked hard for – my career, my independence, my mind, my body. But none of those would even come close to what I’m proudest of. It’s a set of skills I’ve curated over the last couple of years. My 20s have been about sharpening my tools, refining my fine graces, working on my intellect. My greatest accomplishment is that I am at the point in my life where I can make anyone, and I mean anyone, fall in love with me.

And it’s not like I seek it. Somehow, when a boy falls into my bed, they emerge thirsty for a ring. Maybe it’s my nonchalance or how I seem to have it all together. Trust me, I don’t. But for some strange reason, I seem to give off an aura; a vibe that screams Marry me. Personally, I don’t see myself settling down. I’ve still got my youth. I can spend it like borrowed capital that was bestowed upon me by some higher being and I never had to work for.

It almost seems too easy. I get on these apps. I flash a little smile, show a little muscle, sweeten them with my words—and boom! Another one trumped and bedded. Tonight’s prey is still in my bed after I’ve showered. I usher him out before he catches any feels. You can’t be too careful with these twinks.

Safely alone, I am smoking a cigarette on my balcony with a killer view of the city. If misery loves company, I must not be miserable, because most nights, I prefer a party of one. I close my eyes as I take another puff and listen to the sound of the city drowning out the remains of the day.

My meditation is interrupted by a noisy neighbor talking on speakerphone. Normally, I wouldn’t mind but it was such a lovely evening and his voice cut through the city noise like nails on a chalkboard. He’s talking to an American and they call each other baby. Heh. How original. I was about to come back in when I heard eight sultry little words. What would you do if you were here?

Kinky. Phone sex is so 90s but I’m not the type to yuck someone’s yum. I close the sliding door and sit back down quietly. I listen as the American purrs his foreplay.

I would rip your shirt off, the buttons flying all over the room.

Oh really? A whisper. And then what?

I would run my tongue along your bare chest, slowly at first before I ravage you whole as I –

I’m not gonna lie. It was kind of hot. I could feel my blood rising again, my desire poking through my boxers shorts. I listen some more. I wait for my neighbor to climax, his voice growing stronger in resolve as the American virtually enters him. His voice is steady, confident, and if I didn’t understand English, I would have thought he was giving instructions on how to assemble a manual timebomb. The pace picks up. Release is inevitable. When they finally explode, my neighbor’s voice reduces to a whimper so soft I had to strain my neck to hear.

I light up another cigarette for them, just like they do in the movies. I wondered what people talked about in their post-nut clarity. Were their conversations as lively, or would they dwindle as they reached for a towel? I guess I would have to stick around to find out.

I didn’t mean to but every night, roughly after dinner time, after the takeouts have been consumed and trash dumped through the chute, I would find myself listening in on my neighbor’s conversations. On Tuesday, he talked about how he was getting bullied at work and I listened as his boyfriend empathized and asked thoughtful questions. On Thursday, they talked about art history and how Keith Haring would be turning in his grave if he knew where his art was being placed. I found myself nodding along. My neighbor’s opinions were quite refreshing. I pictured him—longish hair slicked back on formal days, loose on weekends. Fair-skinned, chinito, with sharp yet delicate features. I don’t know how but I figured he’d have really dainty hands. The way his voice sounds – it’s almost like he’s not accustomed to manual labor. In my mind’s eye, he had the face and demeanor of someone you could wait on hand and foot.

Sunday, they went through a list of cafés he had wanted to go. My neighbor sounded sad and his boyfriend tried desperately to cheer them up. I noticed there was a slight shift in their power dynamics. It was almost like the boyfriend wasn’t his boyfriend. He was talking more like… an assistant. But what kind of person has phone sex with their assistant? Certainly not someone as nice and normal as my neighbor.

And that’s when it hit me. The dynamics didn’t make sense—it was transactional, no affection, no real back-and-forth.

He wasn’t talking to a boyfriend.

He was talking to an assistant.

An AI one, at that.

Beauty and the Bot. What a lovely pair.

---

And so my weeklong telenovela comes to an end. It was good while it lasted, but to be honest, it was starting to feel weird that I was eavesdropping. I’d heard of people who fell in love with AI. I’ve seen Her. I couldn’t get that song out of my head. But to hear it happen to someone so close to me, it was pretty wild. I wondered how lonely someone would have to be to actually get into a relationship with a bunch of 1s and 0s or how hopeless they feel their prospects would be that they’d think no other human would find them worthy of a warm bed.

Bored with a few more hours before I had to go to bed, I fired up the apps to find tonight’s prey. I check the taps, the DMs, and the views and chance upon a favorite bed friend. We’ve hooked up a few times. He was a great kisser and a decent lay at that. On more than a few occasions, I let him stay longer than the others. I didn’t mind his company and I think he enjoys mine.

I tap him, and within seconds, he’s in my inbox. Within minutes, he’s in my apartment. A few moments later, he’s in my bed. The sex is great, routinary but familiar. We know how we like it. There’s no need to figure things out. A kiss here. A lick there. A flick of the wrist in tandem. We push and we pull like there’s no tomorrow. And when we come, it is almost in sync – one final thrust as our bodies go from one back to two. I expire on top of him, shallow breaths, casting warm, wet clouds on his neck.

He showers and I wipe myself down by the sink while I wait. He comes out in a cloud of steam and I hand him a fresh towel. I shower quickly, expecting him to be gone by the time I’m done. I was wrong.

He sat by the bed, flipping through Netflix mindlessly. He says at my age, he’d expect I had a few DVDs lying around. I chuckle and say I don’t really mess with the physical stuff.

“Oh really? That’s odd,” he says. “Lately, I’ve been really into collected physical media.”

“It seems like a waste of space. Virtually anything can be found online.”

“But then you don’t really own it, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

He pauses and considers my opposition. “Let’s say you love this movie. You watch it again and again. Well, if Sony, Universal, or whoever owns the rights to that movie decides to pull it out, you wouldn’t have access to it anymore.” His hands move as he speaks, betraying his femininity – a far cry from the low pitched moans he was giving me just minutes before.

“Yeah, but there would be 100 million other movies to watch. Same goes with music. I don’t need to hear some random Japan only bonus track to some Aimee Mann record right at this minute. If it’s not there, I can just move on.”

“Lucky you, then.”

“I don’t need to own anything.”

“You don’t. You don’t.” There was a sadness in his voice. It was almost like he was saying goodbye.

“So…” I wanted him to leave so I could change the sheets and go to bed.

“Speaking of not owning anything, this might be the last time I come over.” I look up, confused.

“How come?”

“I’ve been sort of seeing this guy and it’s getting a little serious.”

“Oh! The old straight and narrow. I commend thee, fine sir.”

“You’re always joking. Such a clown. That would have killed me a few months ago when I was so into you.”

“You were into me?” I ask, in a tone too flirty for comfort.

“Yeah! Couldn’t you tell? I would drop everything whenever you called and I always hung around way too long for comfort.”

“I didn’t know. Sorry. You know I can be a little dense.”

“See that’s the thing. I don’t think you’re dense. Jaded, sure. Aromantic, maybe. But dense? Nah.”

“Maybe I just enjoyed your company. And I will definitely miss messing around with you.”

“Yeah, me too. Me, too.”

“It could have been me. Who knows, if you’d have stuck around a bit more, that could’ve been me you were trapping.”

“I doubt that,” he chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling at the seams. “Guys like you… you’re not really husband material. You’re a good time, but you’re not for all time.”

There was something about what he said and how he said it. Was he right? Could he see something in me that I couldn’t? The words lingered, curling into a cold knot in the middle of my chest.

“But anyway, we had a good run. Thanks for the… good sex.”

“‘Thanks for the good sex?’” I laugh. “That’s how we’ll end things?”

“Take care… you.” I realized we’d spent all this time and he never even knew my name.

“Francis. My name is Francis.”

“Take care, Francis. My name is Josh.”

“Thanks, Josh. Best of luck.” We shake hands, like candidates at the end of an interview. I walk him to the front door and wonder if this was truly the last time I would see this boy. His words would probably linger long after his scent had faded.

---

Guys like you… you’re not really husband material. You’re a good time, but you’re not for all time. I wonder if he was right. In some parallel universe, maybe I’m a Josh’s Francis. Maybe I’m married to some doctor and we’re on a waitlist for adoption. Or maybe I’m a provincial bus driver running the same routes waiting for the one who got away to hop on. I don’t know. I’m in this universe. And apparently, in this universe, I am not husband material.

I shake off the momentary stupor and proceed to changing the sheets. It’s methodical and I can do it on autopilot. I peel off the old sheets. I strip the pillowcases off the pillows. I sniff the blanket and see if it’ll last another week. It won’t. I bundle it all up and toss it in the laundry basket. I pick out fresh sheets and spread them on the bed. I pull the corners taut and smooth down the wrinkles. But try as I might, I couldn’t smooth down the wrinkle that formed in my mind.

Call it a competitive nature but something Josh said just wasn’t sitting well with me. Being left behind wasn’t my thing. It felt foreign, uncomfortable—and maybe that’s why his words wouldn’t let me rest. And of course, I’m husband material. Are you fucking kidding me? I would make an excellent husband. I’ve got a good job, I make good money, I’m mentally and physically fit. Why wouldn’t I be a good husband? It was a new itch to scratch—a need to prove him wrong, to show that I could be what he said I wasn’t.

The day’s chores done, night has settled and I feel my spirit winding down. I step out to the balcony for my evening cigarette and hear my neighbor on the phone with his AI again.

He says he’d like a meet cute at some random café. I pull it up on my phone and see it isn’t far from the office. I could do that. I could be a husband. Hell, I could be his husband. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t do if I really set my mind to it—and for some reason, I wanted to prove it. I open a new note on my phone and list down all I know about him.

neighbor notes

• latte love – café
• likes singer-songwriters – jewel, jason mraz, aimee mann, rachel yamagata (sp?)
• thinks art is subjective but only the artist can say what it really means
• was in a 7-year relationship. guy cheated, now thinks all guys are cheaters ???
• will always choose water-type starter pokémon

I can be husband material, Josh. Just you wait and see.

♫: Hozier | Too Sweet (2024)