Original subtitles

Step one.

Get over this hangover that is the great gay uncle of all hangovers.

Maybe it isn't hangover at all.

Feelings.

Murky. Apart from the drive-in movie in my skull, projecting scenes from when I

was at Lucy's last night.

Now it appears instead of me getting to the bottom of my feelings, my feelings

for the bottom are getting to me.

Jesus P.D. write a poem about it.

Lucy.

Lucy.

Wait for it to pass.

Wait for it to pass.

this deep abyss feeling.

Wait for it to pass and ponder your current deep need to get baked.

And that is all I have to say to myself this morning. A ringing reminder to

satisfy my current deep need to get baked.

Why do I always lose shit?

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuck.

Hi.

Hey.

Oh, praise be to God.

Did I leave it over at Lucy's? I was about to go over there to check.

Yeah.

Thank you. You didn't have to bring it over to me.

So how are you?

Sorry.

Do you want to come inside for a minute?

I just got up. Let me just smoke you out.

For bringing me my phone.

Okay.

Did Lucy tell you where I live?

No, I looked at your ID.

Sorry.

Give me a second.

oh fuck sorry here oh wait that's not lighting use these

Did you stay at Lucy's?

Uh, yeah.

I always get too fucked up at her parties.

It's all a little fuzzy.

Yeah, I feel that Lucy's jello shots are never chill.

Gonna miss her a lot.

Yeah, me too.

Are you staying around here?

Maybe.

For the summer.

Yeah.

Party, party.

I don't know.

It kind of clears out after the semester ends.

I didn't really see anybody else out this morning.

Sounds like total dramamine.

Like, welcome to post-grad life.

It's really boring.

Do you mind if I hit that again?

Oh, damn it. Sorry.

I keep doing that.

I actually need to use the bathroom.

Real quick.

Okay. Be right back.

Sure.

Step one.

Try to make my eyes look less red.

Jesus, save me the loner stoner with a boner unable to forget the hookup I

can't forget.

Last night's inimitable lip lock liaison who happens to be under this roof in my

packed up living room smoking what's left of my weed.

A self-proclaimed straight guy named Zach.

Zach. Zach the snack.

Zach on his back.

Zach, I want to attack in the sack. Zach with a knack for making me jack. I have

to stop.

Step two.

Get a hold of yourself.

Get a grip.

Get real. Get a life.

Don't get hard. And try, try, try to not testosterone yourself to death because

you happen to get lucky at a party with a straight.

Not just any straight.

Zach the Straight. Hoomst has been in the back of my mind since freshman

orientation. Hoomst has been bouncing around the periphery of my social circle

for the last four years. Hoomst was at Lucy's last night when I glanced up and

there were his eyes. There was this guy's eyes. These eyes of a straight.

Like... two searchlights illuminating me in the darkness and I smiled and he

smiled and his smile was a lifeboat.

Step three, call the gay gods.

Query the queer spirits that paved the yellow brick road leading me here to

this moment, to this bathroom. Channel them and figure out how to let someone

know that you want more than another fuck without discounting the previous

fuck and what the previous fuck meant. If it meant anything at all, which why

would it if the objectified object impression is the heretofore hetero

hoomps I'm sure I will never see again. I know, I know.

He's doing that thing that straight boys do, and I'm doing that thing that gay

boys do.

Christ, Petey, you should have grown out of this when you evolved from twinkdom,

and yet why?

Why? Why can't I escape Zack's eyes? His eyes like Christmas, his eyes like New

York City, with a glister hinting at something ineffable yet somehow so

familiar because, oh my god, I could see in your eyes, Zack. When I was

impossibly torn between praying I never stopped kissing you and needing to fuck

you, I could see in the stricken look of face down screaming into the pillow

ecstasy flickering with an awful gratitude and a heart-breaking

gentleness, I could see the thing I knew I wanted even before I'd ever seen porn,

the thing I've been chasing since I came out of the closet. I felt it and I could

see that you felt it and you weren't alone and I wasn't alone because there

was a recognition that I don't think I felt in these last four years or maybe

ever before.

Step one, do what you came in here to do, eye drops.

You okay?

Yeah, I'm good.

I always do this.

Good stuff.

Oh, yeah, thanks.

Got it off someone from Guy Finder.

It's like the place to procure drugs in buttfuck Ohio.

It is.

Maybe I should get a guy finder.

Guarantee you'd be Belle of the Ball on there.

Go for it.

I'll burn the rest out.

Thanks, Petey.

Saved you some.

Appreciate that.

Cashed.

Does the sky look... weird right now?

Like...

Closer?

Oh, um... Oh, fuck. Um, sorry, do you have,

um... Yeah, bathroom.

Toilet paper in the bathroom.

You okay?

Yeah.

Wait. Wait for it to pass.

Wait for it to pass and try to figure out what the fuck my nose is doing. Or

my eyes.

I definitely feel stony baloney, or something close to it, and yet my eyes

are here, they're clear, get used to it, which means in no uncertain way I may

blame this lunacy on the fatty boombaladdy. Wait for it to pass, and

don't wonder if he's noticed my eyes, because whoa, papa, have I noticed his

fucking eyes? Just like I noticed them last night, noticing them, noticing me.

Maybe because we were at a party, but it wasn't because we were at a party, and

maybe because we were a little drunk, but it wasn't because we were a little

drunk. Irregardless, beep beep, motherfucker, PD's look mowed me right

the fuck down, all I could do was- sit on my suddenly sweaty ass and wait for

it to pass.

I woke up feeling like a human skid mark still waiting for it to pass, aware but

unaware of a grappling hook sunk into that gash somewhere within my

gastrointestinal tract that I'm an expert at ignoring, fishhooking me with

increasing insistency here, to this place, and to Petey, to you.

I don't know why I said last night was fuzzy, when in truth the only thing

fuzzy about last night was your arms and your tits and your hole.

Your boss sack and PD, I remember all of it. I haven't stopped feeling you, and I

have a hunch it's not going to pass, no matter how long I wait. And to be frank,

I do not want it to pass.

You smiled at me, and I didn't say no, because I didn't want to say no, and I

couldn't say no. You smelled like two-day-old underwear, which is

something I didn't fucking know I liked. And I could feel every molecule of your

tongue and teeth and lips and stubble, and I haven't stopped feeling that since

last night. I haven't stopped feeling your arms all around my bare-ass skin,

skin that finally feels alive and actually a part of me. Holding onto me

is the heat of our mouths and the heat of the room and the heat of the en-

Fuck.

Oh, hey.

How's your nose?

Fine.

Just had to wait for it to pass.

Did it?

I thought I heard something.

What?

I thought I heard... a scream?

Like... a person in pain?

Penis cream?

I don't know. It sounded far away.

I don't know if this makes sense, and I'm probably just high, but...

When I woke up this morning, I felt this...

Something.

Something.

Kinda deep down.

Kiss him. Do it. Now.