Timmy, February 2005

Timmy invites me to a dinner party at his apartment. I’m the first one to arrive because Timmy has invited me over an hour earlier than everyone else. We’re in the kitchen. He’s busy putting the finishing touches on the lasagna he’s making. He puts it in the oven to stay warm and we run to the supermarket to pick up beers and sodas and ice. When we get back, there’s still, like, 45 minutes before the rest of his guests are supposed to arrive.

“Let me suck you off,” he says.

I laugh, but I’m not surprised. I should have seen this coming. And I should already be able to see where it’s going.

“I’ll put on some porn,” he says, and he pops a DVD in.

I don’t really want a blowjob from Timmy. Partly because blowjobs just don’t really do it for me, mostly because I’m not into Timmy, not even a little. But he’s insistent, and since he’s not expecting any sort of reciprocation I figure it’s just easier to let him do it than to argue about it.

Timmy’s one of the only people I’ve met so far in New York, and I actually kinda thought we were going to be friends. Telling him no now would probably put a damper on that. Not to mention tonight’s dinner party. Anyway, it’s just a blowjob.

I end up sitting on Timmy’s couch, watching some severely unimpressive porn, and he’s kneeling between my legs, sucking my cock. He takes his out and strokes it while he’s sucking mine. When I’m ready to come, I tell him so, but he doesn’t stop, so I shoot in his mouth and he swallows it. No one’s ever done that with me before. There’s nothing to even wipe up afterward.

Timmy returns to his dinner preparations, silently and, it seems to me now, kind of sullenly. His friends arrive and we have dinner. All evening long, Timmy is sharp, short, impatient with me. He doesn’t want me there. I’ve served my purpose and that he’s irritated that I have had the audacity to stick around for dinner, that his friends have to see me.

And a few weeks later he invites me over for a Super Bowl Half-Time party—everyone’s already there when I arrive this time—and I get the same treatment. He’s dismissive and rude and says casually hurtful things. He says something smells bad and asks me if I stepped in dog shit on the way over, even though I don’t smell anything. Every comment I make, he contradicts or ridicules. And all night, he’ll occasionally ask if I’m sure I didn’t step in dog shit.

I don’t ever hear from Timmy again after that night, but a year or so later, I’m seeing an indie movie by a filmmaker in vaguely the same New York orbit that I inhabit. And there’s Timmy, playing with a puppet in an orgy scene. It’s just a brief moment, a cameo, but there he is. Still small and impish, and not in an endearing way. But maybe that’s just the way I see him. Still bald. Still making puppets and, I assume, hosting dinner parties and other gatherings at his apartment. Still living, breathing, walking around. Still in the city, though our paths haven’t crossed in years. Still there.


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