Not the Type

par­don our French

Hello Mr. Magazine - - TABLE OF CONTENTS - Text by CHASE BURNS Il­lus­tra­tions by PACIFICO SILANO

There is the stan­dard pre­am­ble be­fore kiss­ing. We talk about some­thing unim­por­tant, do­ing the nec­es­sary fid­dling and wait­ing be­fore the op­por­tu­nity to de­vour each other. This is how I imag­ine the “stan­dard pre­am­ble,” since I haven’t brought many men to my bed­room be­fore Adrien. Too tired, not ready, look­ing for some­thing dif­fer­ent. But here is this Parisian, kiss­ing me gen­tly now with plenty of spit, pushed against my se­cond­hand dresser.

The kisses are good. Ex­cep­tional, re­ally. Like French pop from the 60s. Our heads lock to­gether, rock to­gether as we move to my cheap Wal­mart bed with the mat­tress that came rolled up in a box. He says noth­ing about the squeaks com­ing from the bed’s plas­tic legs and crum­bling frame. Se­cretly, I hope he finds these squeaks en­dear­ing, nos­tal­gic, just like I do.

Adrien pulls my legs over his shoul­ders, slid­ing off my pants even though they’re skinny

and my thighs have grown too big for them. He pauses, my un­der­wear in his hands.

“This is what I’ve wanted all day,” he says, look­ing up with a smile, and then I’m naked.

Ear­lier in the day, Adrien called my ass a “Juicy Lucy,” the name of a fa­mous Min­nesotan burger stuffed with cheese. Carbs and fats and heart at­tacks, the Juicy Lucy is Min­nesota’s state trea­sure. The burger is never go­ing away be­cause Min­nesotans are proud peo­ple. These are the peo­ple who wear shorts when it’s 35 de­grees. As long as the Min­nesota State Fair stands and Babe the Blue Ox roams the north woods, the Juicy Lucy will be made. Chefs will ar­gue on Cedar Av­enue about whether it’s Jucy or Juicy, but the patty pro­duc­tion will never cease. I like the thought that my ass is Min­nesota’s state trea­sure. Obama has eaten a Juicy Lucy.

Adrien says many Amer­i­can phrases that aren’t so sexy. He says “no big­gie” and “booyah” and asks if Lake Street is the “hood.” I don’t blame him, as he gath­ered all his ideas of Amer­i­can cul­ture from Buffy the Vam­pire Slayer. I gen­tly cor­rect him on some of these id­iomatic mis­steps, though he has quickly learned that re­peat­ing these phrases makes me up­tight and touchy, which I guess he thinks is cute. But Juicy Lucy – I do not cor­rect Juicy Lucy.

We gasp for air. Fore­play, check.

“Roll over,” he says.

The In­ter­net told me a good bot­tom should trim, shave, lo­tion, and douche prior to en­coun­ter­ing his top. I give Adrien a look that sig­nals I have com­pleted these steps.

“I’m go­ing to take a nap on your ass.”

“A nap?”

“You know,” he says, “like your ass will be my pil­low, and you’ll put your head – your head, um – ” he searches for English, “un­der my balls.”

Hmm, I think. This must be a French nap.

I called my mother one time and told her I wanted to be the kind of boy who has “a type. ”Things seem more en­joy­able for men who can view men as body parts. But my taste is a shot­gun, not a ri­fle. I liked Rick, the Marx­ist mid­dle school teacher who lived in a man­sion and had a beer belly. I liked John, the slen­der ur­ban plan­ner with a porn­stache who picked me up when a rain­storm scared away all the taxis. I liked Michael, the gro­cer who was a yoga teacher and then a chef and then a real es­tate agent but al­ways a prick.

I made a list.

MY TYPE OF BOY 10-15-15

Boy Next Door. Slim. Or Fit? Not Too Fit. I Don’t Care About Their Body As Long As They Have Mys­te­ri­ous Eyes. No, As Long As They Have Thick Eye­brows. But Maybe I Want A Daddy. An Ira­nian Painter. In­tel­li­gent But Gen­er­ous. Fore­skin Op­tional. Tat­toos Prefer­able. Not Corporate. Ezra Miller. But Not Ezra Miller From We Need To Talk About Kevin.

It wasn’t help­ful.

Adrien’s balls are fine. Re­laxed, even. Hy­gienic.

This is all very new to me.

“Mm,” he moans, “this is nice.”

I imag­ine nap­ping on my ass is prob­a­bly nice. Pale, hair­less, round, and firm. A qual­ity pil­low.

He’s get­ting the bet­ter deal, I think, at­tempt­ing to mouth-breathe un­der his scro­tum.

“Yeah, this is nice, too,” I say. I might mean it.

“Would you con­sider this sex?” Adrien asks, pulling his head up from my ass.

The skin of his cheek and the skin of my left butt cling to each other a lit­tle be­fore they *pop* apart. I wish the spot of the *pop* would leave a per­ma­nent mark so I could show it to the world. “Here,” I’ll say, proudly dis­play­ing the beige mark, “is where a Parisian napped on my ass.” On my right but­tock is a sim­i­lar beige mark, which I say is a birth­mark, even though it’s a burn from a tan­ning bed I used in the back of a ru­ral post of­fice in the Rocky Moun­tains. The Parisian nap mark would be much more im­pres­sive.

“No,” I say, “I typ­i­cally only call pen­e­tra­tion sex.”

“Ugh, Amer­i­cans.” He rolls his eyes – he’s very good at this. I’m jeal­ous of how good he is at this. “So if I put my cock in your mouth,”

he does, “is this sex?”

My mother al­ways said I should never talk with my mouth full.

Pulling out, he re­treats and sits on my hips, legs rid­ing off like I’m a sad­dle. I like him in this po­si­tion – on top. I fear this means I’m not a real bot­tom. I frequently have this fear.

“In France, it’s all sex. What if I don’t want to fuck you? Like to­day, I was so horny be­fore meet­ing you.” Say more, I think. “I kept mas­tur­bat­ing but not com­ing. So I’m spent. But, I wanna be here with you. I wanna see your ass. I wanna lie on your chest, spoon you, nap to­gether.” This must be how women felt in 90s Rom-Coms, like how Meg Ryan felt in those movies my mother likes. “And I wanna fuck you in your mouth.”

He stops, con­tent with this fi­nal state­ment. I’m learn­ing he gives a con­sis­tent pucker when­ever he’s proud of him­self.

“But real talk now. You want to have real talk?”

I say yes be­fore I’m able to pon­der 1) How he learned the phrase “real talk,” and 2) How I’ve never had some­one ask for “real talk,” for bound­ary set­ting, for re­la­tion­ship defin­ing, on Date Three. “Do we sleep with other peo­ple?” “Yes,” I say, know­ing that’s what he wants. “Good. Do we tell each other?” I feel a fa­mil­iar panic, the one that be­gins as a lump in my throat. I’ll soon over­think our texts and check if he’s on Grindr. Re­mem­ber, you have a life, and it does not re­volve around Adrien, I’ll think be­fore swip­ing through his pic­tures. Those lips. That hair.

I bite his neck and say, “I wanna know ev­ery­thing.” He smirks, but in a kind of scary way. “Come up here,” he says. I pull up to his face. “Now kiss me.” We do. There’s a lot of spit. There’s al­ways a lot of spit.

In be­tween the kisses, I stop my­self from giv­ing ev­ery com­pli­ment I can think of. I know that say­ing your eyes are blood moons, your hair is a field of Afghan pop­pies, your tes­ti­cles smell nice is a sweet dis­guise for please stay. I can change, but please stay. He whis­pers, “You’re my beetch.” “Do you mean bitch?” I ask. “Yes. Beetch.” “So I’m a hookup?” “No,” he says, tersely. He’s ruf­fled up. An­gry? “No. You’re not a hookup. You’re my beetch.” “Do you have a lot of bitches?” “I had beetches in Paris,” he sighs. “But I let all my beetches go. I said, ‘Be free beetches. Go be your beetch selves.’”

This is a boy who says a nap on my ass is sex, so all my for­mer re­la­tion­ship lingo is out the fenêtre.

“So, I’m your bitch, and we sleep to­gether, and we go on dates – ” “I give you home­work,” He in­ter­rupts. “Like…” “Have sex with other peo­ple. Once a week.” He puck­ers, sat­is­fied. “I could,” My an­swer isn’t en­tirely cer­tain, “def­i­nitely do that.” Each word as­sem­bles a new pos­si­ble-me. “Do we kiss in pub­lic?” He asks. With­out ques­tion, I say: “Yes,” but re­al­ize this is my first mis­step. He squints.

“Oh,” I stum­ble, “We also don’t have to kiss in pub­lic. I’m kind of new to this – this whole poly thing – ”

“No, no,” he stum­bles too, “you never know – ”

“Right,” I say, “You never know, but we don’t have to – ”

“Maybe!” He blurts out. “Let’s see how it goes.”

“Great.” The ne­go­ti­a­tion is over. His tongue gives me a slow and proper phys­i­cal, wan­der­ing from my neck to my thighs.

I’m think­ing maybe Adrien is my type. Maybe I’ve al­ways been wait­ing for some dom French top, ready to tell me how I like it and when I like it, con­fi­dently mov­ing my body and spank­ing my imag­i­na­tion. Maybe I’ve just been wait­ing for some­one to say, “Now kiss me.” Or maybe this is just an­other ex­per­i­ment. I’m ex­hausted by the idea that this ex­per­i­ment will be fol­lowed by an­other, and an­other, and an­other. “Keep go­ing,” I ask. He smiles. “You’re never sat­is­fied.” “That’s not – ” He eats me out. It’s bet­ter than a Juicy Lucy.

CHASE BURNS is a writer and per­former based in Seat­tle. His writ­ing has been pub­lished in City Pages, L’etoile Mag­a­zine, Min­nesota Playlist and Talk­ing Soup.

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