I thought about Patrick, that party, that kitchen. I wondered what he was doing now. Probably yelling at a TV somewhere.
The guy was named Patrick. He had a jawline you could grate cheese on and the kind of unearned confidence that comes from peaking in high school. We were at a crowded Brooklyn house party, and he’d cornered me by the kitchen sink. gay hot
The first time someone called me “gay hot,” I was 22, wearing a thrifted cardigan two sizes too big, and trying very hard to look like I hadn't just cried during a car commercial. I thought about Patrick, that party, that kitchen
It’s the guy who shaves half his head and wears a cropped sweater. The bear with the kind eyes and the massive beard who makes you feel safe before he makes you feel anything else. The twink in platform boots who can recite every episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race but also fix your bike chain. It’s confidence that doesn’t come from being desired by the masses, but from being seen—truly seen—by a few. The guy was named Patrick
“Do you think I’m gay hot?” I asked.
Leo stirred. He opened one eye. “You’re thinking loud,” he mumbled.