An Alphabet Of Me And Men
A is for Abecedarian. To arrange alphabetically; to give shape to things that long to be free; to start from the beginning; basic, like all those insults you thought but never said.
B is for Born Again. You told me you felt reborn after that performance of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Not born again like the Christians, but fresh and newly committed to your “craft.” Actors are tiring.
C is for Christians. I don’t want to be a Christian, but you told me Jesus appeared to you in a garden and I was so fucking jealous.
D is for Dick. I have a dick and so do you. Yours is curved to the right and mine to the left. We can never seem to meet up.
E is for Elephant. There’s one in the room and it’s your breath. How do I get Facebook to advertise mouthwash on your Newsfeed?
F is for Friends. You were great. I’m sorry I ran away, and then ran away again, and again, and — oh, once more, I ran away from you again. The problem is you pop up everywhere I go.
G is for Gender. I like my boyish parts but feel 60–90% female, depending on the weather. You can call me He but I don’t care if you call me She. Do our pronouns contain multitudes?
H is for Honor. You can have too much of it. Ned Stark had it coming.
I is for Ice. We hit it and you slam on the breaks and we spin out of control. Goddamnit. You’re not supposed to do that.
J is for Jewelry. I wanted a charm bracelet for my 9th birthday. All the cool girls at the waterpark had charms that spelled their names. I would have bought A-A-R-O-N for Aaron Carter. It doesn’t matter. You bought me a football.
K is for Knuckles. You showed me how to punch — put my thumb there and fingers curled like that — but the only man I ever wanted to punch was you.
L is for Leather. I didn’t mean to laugh when you showed up in a harness. You’re right, it does make your chest look hot.
M is for Men. Oy gevalt.
N is for New Years. I want to see the ball drop but our phones died hours ago. It’s too loud at this basement show to ask someone for the time. Someone will yell when it’s midnight, right? I grab your skinny arm. Mine’s skinny, too. Someone yells WHO EVEN MADE TIME!? It wasn’t me.
O is for Ozone Layer. I don’t know where it went but I hope it misses me.
P is for Pentagon. You tell me you used to work there and I ask for secrets. You roll your eyes but I wasn’t kidding. Hand them over.
Q is for Quagmire. You move your road in front of mine and it’s a fucking mess. How am I supposed to get to the port? I scream I’M NOT HAVING SEX WITH YOU LATER and you say (quietly, but with strength) It’s just Settlers of Catan. Fuck you.
R is for Right. It’s not my hand of choice. You hold it and I pull away. We’re in San Francisco, you say, as if the problem is me and not you.
S is for Summer. Aren’t you exhausted by how much there is to do? There’s that bar and that show and that hike and that drink and that and that and that and and and —
T is for Take me home. I’m overstimulated.
U is for Unemployed. Isn’t that what you are? It’s not a dirty word. You’ll probably get somewhere if you tell people you’re unemployed instead of a freelance dramaturg.
V is for Virginity. This also isn’t a dirty word. It’s surprisingly clean. But clean things are meant to be spoiled.
W is for Water. I hear central California is particularly suffering from the drought. But I visited you there and your mother-in-law told me it was all a conspiracy. Fill up the pool! Take another shower! We can drink when we’re dead!
X is for XXX. Google it and you’ll get porn. It’ll be pretty vanilla and probably straight. And I’m well aware you only like twinks who can only say
Y is for Your name. We’re many things to each other. It was nice and boring and exciting but let’s forget about it and keep on keeping on, and so it goes, yada yada yada.
Z is for Zero. Where we end is also where we begin. And yet, it’s nothing. Nothing. We’re done here.
