Don’t be, Margo didn’t say. She didn’t even want to say don’t. Don’t was negative and negative was bad like death was bad. She wanted to live.
And as though reading her mind, Harold said, “It’s too bad you can’t come live with me. I’ve got a nice, cozy house. From the den window you can see the most beautiful trees in the world—sunsets that would bring a tear to your eye.” As evidence he dragged a finger down his cheek.
“Do you have a library?” Margo heard her voice say.
“Of course,” said Harold. “It’s made of bricks from some place that doesn’t even exist anymore. And I have bookcases filled with books from all over. I have children’s books, self-help books, rare books, cookbooks—”
“Are any of the bricks missing?” Margo said, looking past him. “Is there a hole in the wall? Do you see anyone standing in the hole?”
Harold leaned back, looking wary. “I can check,” he said. With that he stood and walked into the darkness. Alone, Margo and the Yorkie regarded each other with pity. Then contempt. Harold came back wiping his face with a satin handkerchief. He pinched the fabric above his knees before sitting down. Then he told her when she already seemed to know. “There sure is.”
Like a doll inside another doll, by Harold’s account there was another brick wall, in which there was another cave, in which there was another tiny man, this time named Ahmed.
Ahmed, she thought fearfully. Whoever he was, she feared she might want to love him, too. She feared she might want to love him more than she wanted to love Harold.
This discovery incited something in Margo. Her head felt small and full of coins. She remembered the desert princess looking for her soul and not finding it. It was terrible not to find things, but it was terrible to find them too.
Margo sent Harold back into the cave and he returned to report that in the next cave was the next man, a Devonté Washington-Myers.
But Margo wanted to know, “Is there anybody else?” And in the next cave was the next man, this time named Ralph.
“Is there someone else?” Margo wanted to know. She filled up with surprise after surprise. Harold started to speak but picked up the Yorkie and turned away. He walked deep into the cave on soundless male footsteps. Every so often he called out, “Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes . . .”
Candy Boii
SAM J. MILLER
Gather any group of gay guys together and sooner or later we’ll get around to it: recent highlights from our own private Sex App Horror Story anthologies.
You would not believe the body odor on this guy—I threw those sheets away, like even if the laundromat got the stink out of the linen they’d never get it out of my mind, you know?
In the middle of me blowing him, this guy goes, Wow, is that an actual old-school Nintendo? And then we’re done and I just want him to get the fuck out, he turns the thing on and starts playing!
Generally pretty tame, as horror stories go. The real stuff, the true trauma, we keep to ourselves. The guy who didn’t stop when we said no—the one who took the condom off halfway through without telling us—the one we kept sucking on even after we saw the sores—all real downers, plus none of us are in a hurry to let our friends see how we are weak, or how we are scared.
Every time, I stay silent. Once in a while I’ll toss out something trivial, to throw them off the scent—Dude started crying, really blubbering, said he promised his wife he wouldn’t do this anymore—because if they ever heard my real story, they’d never believe it. And if they did believe it, it’d ruin their whole day. Possibly also the entire sacred enterprise of app-assisted promiscuity.
This was two years back, now. Saturday: the night when you’re most hopeful of finding a fuck for the ages. Ten p.m.: the time when you’re most miserable, realizing once again that you won’t be getting lucky with a guy uphill from you on the Hotness Slope; you’ll have to settle for one of the downhill dudes. Or say fuck it and crawl into your own empty bed.
Springtime. My open window brings in screams, laughter, sirens. I’m toggling between three separate apps—woofing or growling at strangers—responding to innumerable instances of sup or hey or u looking or want head? Wondering why that dude I had such a great conversation with last week, when I couldn’t have any fun because I had to get up early the next day, is ignoring me entirely tonight.
And there he is, ~700 feet away—thick beard, thick spectacles—looking younger than the 33 he says he is: Candy Boii. Handsome, sure, but nothing superhuman. So I got no problem hitting him up.
Hey, I say. What are you up to?
Candy Boii: Watching horror movies. You?
ColbyJack (which is me): Reading. I’m Colby, by the way
Candy Boii: I figured. You a big cheese fan?
ColbyJack: Who isn’t?
Candy Boii: No one I want to know
Here an eyebrow rises, at his failure to respond to my name with his own, but some guys are like that. Skittish about anything that points to their true self. As if the sex-thirsty self is something separate.
ColbyJack: Looking for anything?
Candy Boii: Trying to get this dick sucked
ColbyJack: I may be able to help you out with that
A photo follows. Candy Boii in a mirror, brandishing an admirable erection. Backlit, angled oddly, his face half lens-flare.
My heart hammers, in the silence of my slowed breath. I’m secure and alone on my couch, but my body responds like I’m standing beside a stranger in a bar. Or like a prey
