LIFE & TIMES OF A FAGGOT: THE COMEDIAN

LIFE AND TIMES OF A FAGGOT

THE COMEDIAN

By BRYCE RAY

I watched his latest comedy special and thought, he’s cute, I’d sleep with him. I wondered what his day-to-day life was like and who his friends were. Where does he live? What kind of guys is he attracted to? It’s a very personal comedy special--one that pushes the limits of what one would normally call a “comedy special.” The special garnered a lot of attention and praise because of this. Well--that and he comes out over the course of the special. 

I had just moved to the city. It was Pride weekend, and my friends and I went out in Hell’s Kitchen. (This was before I knew any better.) It was a fun if uneventful night, and I was on my way back to Brooklyn. I was waiting for my second train when I received a Grindr notification. The message was from a faceless, unnamed profile. Only a picture of abs in the rearview mirror of a car. I opened the message. An album. 

I can’t help but open an album when it’s sent from a faceless account. I suppose some masochistic part of my brain loves the anticipation, the sense of danger. Usually it’s the ugliest dick pic you’ve ever seen. A thrilling sight to behold, I must say. This time there were no ugly penises, only a really familiar looking man. Is that who I think it is? I scrolled through the photos, pausing at a photo of the man with Taylor Swift. What the fuck?

I quickly searched the comedian’s name to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. It was him, alright. I considered for a moment that it could be someone posing as him but I was drunk and figured, what the hell?

hey sexy, how’s it going? I messaged. 

Within a minute, he responded: hey chilling what about you

I told him that I was on my way home from Pride festivities. He again asked what I was up to. 

what do you want me to be up to? I replied, intrigued.

i want you in a car on your way over here.

He opened the door to his apartment, and my heart practically beat out of my chest. It was him alright. He was wearing a robe over sweatpants and no shirt. The sight of him--his chest, his abs--sent a tingle down into the pit of my stomach. 

“Come in.” His voice was deep and rich and warm, and I practically blushed at just the sound of it. 

His West Village apartment was spacious with a big L-shaped couch and a large coffee table covered in coffee table books and loose weed. The edge of the couch was lined with rows upon rows of sneakers. There was a vintage looking popcorn machine in the corner below large wrap-around windows with a view of the New York skyline. Every inch of his bar was covered in liquor bottles. It was the quintessential bachelor pad.

“Can I use your restroom?”

I escaped to the bathroom and sat down on his heated toilet seat. My insides were screaming. I was still a bit faded from the night behind me, and any ounce of confidence I’d had in deciding to come had dissipated at the sight of him opening the door. What the fuck was I doing here? I checked myself in the mirror, mustering up all the confidence I could. 

Back in the living room, the comedian was sitting on his giant couch watching an old Lauryn Hill concert on Youtube. 

“You like Lauryn Hill?” he patted the spot next to him.

“I love Lauryn Hill.” I did, in fact, love Lauryn Hill. I went over to the couch, trying to play the situation as cool as possible. What the hell is one supposed to talk about with someone famous? “She’s actually my favorite artist,” I added.

“Really?” He seemed surprised I even knew who she was. “She’s one of my favorites, too.” He slid closer to me on the couch, adding, “You smoke?”

I laughed nervously, “Yeah, I do.”

He rolled a joint and we made more small talk about Lauryn Hill. Stroking my thigh, he passed me the joint. He asked me how long I’d been in the city--where I was from, what my family was like--as we passed the joint back and forth. I asked him indirect questions about himself, never letting on that I knew who he was. I didn’t know what the protocol was, and I certainly didn’t want to ruin the moment by saying the wrong thing. The weed had us both buzzing when he finally leaned in and kissed me.

We kissed and fucked and talked and kissed some more until the sun came up, filling his apartment in a soft dreamy glow. The whole thing felt like a dream. I told him I had to go, and he called me a car home. I got into the car in a daze, unconvinced that the night behind me had actually happened.