Paris, Texas?

by Diego

I am not advising anyone to do it like I do. But I have this tendency of going the extra mile for guys who OBVIOUSLY are impossible to last. You can be a perfect guy living a few blocks from me and I probably won't even text you once a day. But tell me you are moving to San Diego in two weeks and I will automatically be head over heels. Tell me you are married, I will be in love instantenously. Tell me you are being drafted to Irak, getting your Master's in Japan or backpacking through the Balkans for the next 5 years and I will immediately think marriage, and kids, and parental introductions and Upper West Side brownstones.

There is something about the impossible that gets my urges for sex and love to peak. So when I met Justin a couple months ago at a local bar (i.e. Manhunt) and he told me he was moving back to Texas for a while, there was no turning back. As much as I tried to be rational about it, something in me knew right away I was about to fall in love. Or at least make myself believe he was the one to have. Simply because I so obviously couldn't have him.

So we made love, drank Dean & Deluca coffee and watched American Idol reruns for three nights and three days. The next day he disappeared and I wanted to die. A day later he turned up saying his phone had died (i.e. he was hooking up with some other hotter Latino bottom) and he had had to go to the emergency room due to a uniranary tract infection (i.e. gonnorhea). If you aren't me you would say "fuck off". But since I am me, I said "ok, fine" and took him back for the remaining 24 hours before he had to fly back to Bushland.

For the next several weeks we texted back and forth and pretended we were ever going to see each other. We pretended we were being monogamous and that our parents would one day meet and he would get me pregnant with a baby as blond as him.

Turns out I actually do believe in crazy love affairs. I am aware that in America people's idea of love is more like a stage or business transaction: something you get over with so you can stop looking. But after living in Europe I also know humans are capable of mad cinematic love stories. So I book a ticket to fucking Houston, Texas to see him. He probably didn't believe someone would be this crazy. Someone in American soil who followed their desires? Who knew.

He lives with his parents so I have to book a hotel too (i.e. Motel 8). When I get there it's awkward for five minutes and then we go back to making love, watching "Hannah Montana" (white people have the worst taste!) and listening to comedy radioon XM (wtf). He eats me out like it's pussy and never even touches my dick -- both major pre-requisites. He is also pretty racist, which is kinda hot if you don't think too much about it. The kind of guy who sees nothing wrong with drinking and driving ("I hold my liquor really well") or domestic violence (hot!). It all feels like a refreshing breather from overwhelming Manhattan. But a fag can only eat so much hash browns and see so many miles of Highways punctuated by Costcos.

While getting to know someone you don't is often a priceless experience, New York does something really perverse to someone's mind. Like fucking opium, you can only go without it for half a weekend. After that it's withdrawal time.

He is white so when we say goodbye there are no tears nor promises of longevity. He basically pushes off of his truck so that he doesn't get a ticket. Which is fine, I guess a faggot likes it like that. An ellusive male figure who rejects them as much as they don't. Like our dads. And all men that came after.

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