The 2nd Annual Exy Awards

Hello and welcome to The 2nd Annual Exy Awards. Once again, we’re here to honor those brave men who made a significant impact on me [and my private parts] in 2014. I met my current boyfriend in March of last year, but I got it in A LOT before he showed up. So settle in and please refrain from sending emails trying to guess who’s who because I won’t respond. Unless you give me a really good reason to do so. And if you’re the recipient of an Exy, you will not be presented with a physical trophy. Your award is knowing your performance did not go unnoticed. Good or bad, you made an impression. Don’t change for no bitch.

Our first Exy of the year is for Most Fumbly Morning After and that goes to Guy With Wrist Tattoos. We’ve been friends for years and then one night we got drunk and hooked up. I tried to leave early the next morning so we wouldn’t have to face each other, but you woke up and we did that whole, “So that was weird, right?” thing. And it was.

The Modern Romantic Comedy Award goes to Guy I Met At The Backpacker. You came over and asked me if I needed help finding anything and my first thought was, “Yeah, can you help me find where to direct this boner?” But of course, I didn’t say that. Instead, I did the most cowardly thing imaginable: I went to The Backpacker’s Facebook Page, searched fans with your first name [which I knew because of your nametag], found you, added you, messaged you, and asked you out. That night, I went over to your house and we had sex. I didn’t have the balls or finesse to run game in person, but I do have a funny online personality and that’s really all I need, right?

The Oldie But Goodie Award goes to 45-Year Old Who Looked 30. You are the oldest person with whom I’ve ever hooked up. Congrats! Also, I stole your copy of Lolita off the bookshelf on my way out. I already have a copy, but taking yours felt poetic. I’m not giving it back.

Worst Sibling Award goes to Me for banging my brother’s friend. It was a dick move, and I shouldn’t have done it. And sending my brother a picture of the guy exiting my car the next morning was also a bad decision. Sorry bro. We good? Yeah, we good.

Worst Kisser goes to Guy With Boyband Hair and Tiny Mouth. Man, what a letdown. A handsome guy who kisses like a CPR dummy is the human equivalent of...

Well...

A sexy CPR dummy. And I know you’ve got a small mouth, but you should be making up for that with tongue skills. You brought nothing to the party. Plus, you made me work overtime and I don’t even do that at my real job. So many metaphors!!!

Hardest Break goes to North Louisiana Stoner. Telling you I just didn’t feel the spark wasn’t easy, but you handled it like a champ. Probably because you were super high at the time.

The Muse Award is bestowed upon those who have inspired personal essays that went on to be published in print or online in 2014. This year, the award is given to Guy I Dated For 3 Years for inspiring two pieces that were published: One in the 4th Issue of Hello Mr. Magazine and another in the 21st Issue of Gertrude Literary Journal. I turned our relationship into literature and it’s some depressing shit that people enjoy reading. I think you’re the worst, but you bring out a better writer in me. Get fucked.

The No! That's Not What I Meant! Award goes to Litigation Attorney With Chest Tattoo. When we were doing it and I said, “Spit in my mouth,” I didn’t expect you to cock back and shoot a loogie in my face. It wasn’t funny at the time, but it’s hilarious now. I’m seriously laughing at my computer thinking about it. What an asshole.

The Exy for Worst Date goes to Guy Who Wanted to Get Coffee. When you asked me to have coffee with you, I thought it was a nice idea. Then, halfway though my Mochasippi, I realized I knew you! A couple years back, when I bartended at a club downtown, you used to come in with your boyfriend and sit at my end. Your boyfriend was hot and would check me out when I tended bar in my underwear. You, on the other hand, were rude and never tipped me more than 10%. And even though I hated you, I didn’t fuck your boyfriend [even though it would have been easy]. So that’s why I never texted you back after we hugged goodbye in front of CC’s Coffee House. Because years ago I showed you clemency at a time when I could’ve fucked shit up and then you didn’t even have the decency to take me to a real restaurant for a first date. Who raised you?!

Best First Date goes to Andy Rivière. I knew halfway through breakfast at French Press there was something different about us. And I could make up a million different awards to give you (Favorite Travel Buddy, Most Romantic Outdoor Slow Dance, The I Don’t Deserve You Award), but I won’t. Instead, just know that I love you and I will continue loving you as long as you let me. You win.

Congratulations everyone! I’ll see you all in hell.

FUCK!

So here you are.

You got piss-in-your-pants drunk again and invited a complete stranger from the Internet over to your place for sex.

Now you’re in a bit of a pickle aren’t you? All because you got brave for a split-second and asked, “Wanna come over?” And to your surprise, he responded with, “Address?” And then you were like, “FUCKKKKKKK!” So now your brain can’t catch up with itself because you have a million things to do before he gets here. Also because you’re drunk, you stupid asshole.

Sorry. There’s no use making you feel frantic AND disappointed in yourself. Let’s save that for tomorrow morning. For now, let’s prioritize:

Start by cleaning the living room.

NO! The bedroom.

NO! Go shower first. You can make excuses for the state of your apartment, but not your hygiene.

Okay. Take your clothes off and put them in the hamper.

FUCK! Where’s the hamper?! Do you even own a hamper? Screw it. Jam it all behind the bathroom door.

You definitely need a playlist to shower by. And worse case scenario: He arrives within the next five minutes and gets to hear what great taste in music you have. “Is that Sylvan Esso?” he’ll wonder. “I love Sylvan Esso.”

Alright, so definitely some Sylvan Esso. Maybe some Sinkane. Leagues. Real Estate. Yeah, this is good. Eclectic and tasteful without being too hip or overtly anything. You’re actually really good at picking out songs. Maybe you could freelance as a playlist curator. That’s a great idea! You’ve got to write that down. Where’s your phone? Oh shit, your phone! That guy’s on his way! Get in the fucking shower!!!

Alright, alright. Soap under the arms. Soap on the dick and balls. Soap all up inside the asshole. If he goes back there with his face, at least you did the bare minimum. That pube situation is not good, but it’s not out of control either, so don’t even think about grabbing the scissors and trimming the hedges. You’re washed now, so just try to keep this momentum going!

Yo, this bedroom is fucking gross. Why is there a pair of boots in the middle of the floor with a sock hanging out of each one? And those jeans over there are practically standing up on their own. And the fucking Q-tips on every surface?! You’re a farm animal. But you can’t fix your shamble of a life right now; you can only fix this shitty mess. But you need to put on some clothes first. The trick to dressing for sex is looking relaxed, but confident. You are neither, but should appear as such. Don’t overthink this. A pair of gym shorts without underwear; the man’s lingerie. Very practical. Oh, and a T-shirt from high school. Good idea, appear youthful and nostalgic. Now slap on some deodorant and try not to sweat a lot when you’re cleaning this house — which looks like a group of people hosted a cockfight in the middle of a frat party after the world ended.

Go find a candle. Worse case scenario: He arrives within the next five minutes and at least you’ve got a candle burning. Candles make people think of mom, and being home, and sometimes real romantic fucking. All of which are nice thoughts, but not in that order. Oh, you don’t have any candles? Well make yourself a reminder to buy candles tomorrow. Where’s your phone? Oh shit, your phone! That guy’s on his way! Jam that pile of clothes in the closet and muscle the door shut! Febreze this bitch and move onto the living room!

NO! First run to the kitchen.

Grab the trashcan, run back to the living room, and just start pitching everything on the coffee table into it. And don’t you even think about cleaning that kitchen, bitch. He’s never going to see it, so just shut the lights off and pretend it’s not there. Let’s just focus on, what appears to be, a student project about how landfills work spread out all over the coffee table. That’s a bowl of crusty jasmine rice with pieces of rotisserie chicken congealed in, what appears to be, yellow mustard. That’s it! No more weed for you. But that’s a bigger problem, kind of like the one where you get piss-in-your-pants drunk and invite a complete stranger from the Internet over to your place for sex. You’re just coming face-to-face with a lot of mirrors right now and none of them look particularly glamorous. But just keep cramming that trashcan with Taco Bell wrappers and flimsy paper Burger King and we’ll deal with one issue at a time, starting tomorrow.

But right now you have to make one decision: What should be playing on the TV when he shows up? The obvious choices are: Bob’s Burgers, Modern Family, and Parks and Rec — lovable comedies, with which everyone is familiar. You can watch any of these without really being too invested or just use it as background noise while you force small talk. You’ve already seen these episodes, but you won’t have to fake-laugh in front of him because each one is genuinely funny. Go with Parks and Rec.

Alright, one more lap around the apartment. The kitchen is a black hole, your bedroom is serviceable for the 12 seconds he’ll see it with the lights on, the bathroom is out of toilet paper and there’s water all over the floor. Replace the roll and move on. The living room? Meh. That’ll do, pig.

Now flip on the porch light so he can find the address and flop yourself down on the couch in front of the TV. Adjust your limbs and torso to appear as chill as possible. You’re just kicking it. Yeah that’s right. You’re kicking it. And you’re down for whatever. Pfft. You always stay this relaxed. And you talk like a black person when you’re feeling relaxed, don’t you? Yeah, son. Relax. Just don’t fall asleep. That guy will be here any minute, and you don’t want to miss him. You can close your eyes for a second, but don’t drift off. Everything looks decent for once. Show it off to someone. What are you doing?! Stay awake!!!

Oh, fuck it.

He's not worth it.

Plus, you never got around to sending him your address, anyway.

But at least your asshole's clean.

Meet-Cute

I pull his index and middle fingers out of my mouth, but I keep my lips tight around them until the finger tips. Then I let my lips go slack and his fingers practically fall out.

“Where do you want to go next?” asks Joey. I stop staring at the guy behind the counter and look down at my phone on the table in front of me. “Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “Maybe a movie?” I turn my head just enough to watch the barista again — his thick fingers strumming against the countertop.

Buh-da-dum.

Buh-da-dum.

Buh-da-dum.

I bite my lip and I can taste his oils — dirty from handling other people’s money. I catch myself panting when Joey stands up and knocks his porcelain mug onto the floor. It cracks in two and suddenly the barista with dickfingers is swooping over to pick up the pieces. He squats down in front of me and I feel my face turn red and splotchy, which is the same reaction as when I drink tequila because I think I have a tequila allergy but don’t actually know that for a fact. I probably have just a second before he stands up, so I pivot my body and mime picking up a shard, just as he’s rising. His ass grazes my hip and slides up the side of my body until he’s standing upright with a khaki butt cheek planted against the side of my face.

“Oh shit,” I say feigning surprise. “My bad.” He looks over his shoulder at me with an expression that says, That was an accident and we should both bail, immediately.

But what if I’m reading his expression wrong? What if he’s thinking how embarrassed he is? Or what if he initiated this and he’s relishing the moment? What if he hurried over here when the mug broke just so he could be closer to me, if only for a couple seconds? What if he felt me behind him just now and poked his ass out to intentionally? What if the attraction I’ve had for him since he took my order* is flowing counter to his for me?

And…

And what if…

And what if this is our meet-cute?

This is the part where he starts laughing; little nasally snortlaughs and bunched up eyebrows. We stumble through apologies and brushing imaginary strands of hair away from our faces because that’s what people in movies do.

A year from now, we’ll talk about how clunky this whole scene was and he’ll describe my face as “red like a Solo cup,” because he’s said that phrase a million times since our first date at that Indian place. After that, he started using “red like a Solo cup” to describe anything he thought was beautiful. Even if it wasn’t red — which was weird at first and then my second favorite thing about him. On some nights after we’ve been drinking, I’ll rub his fingertips against my lips while we’re half-asleep and that will be my first favorite thing about him. Because it always has been.

We’ll date for a few months after the year anniversary and then things will begin to fall about because we’ve always been in different places. Me: Down on one knee, staring up into his confused face with a handful of ass a half-inch from my face. And him: Looking down at me and wondering what the fuck I’m doing. And then he clears his throat, steps directly over me, and excuses himself.

And just like that, our timeline — our future — disappears.

Later, at the movie theatre with Joey, I sit four rows behind and seven seats across from a guy with a full head of the most beautiful blond hair I’ve ever seen. I imagine accidentally brushing it when I pass, followed by our first long car ride together and a petty, easy break-up over the phone.

On my jog later, I pass a guy running in the opposite direction. I imagine taking a few more strides and turning to see him looking back at me. We’ll have sex on the third date and never again until his mom goes to the hospital and he calls me because he knows I’ll say, “Sure. You can come over.”

And when I finally go to sleep, I dream about being a little boy at summer camp. I sit on the edge of the volleyball court and stare at all the guys, inventing futures. One of the counselors, Kyle Gaudet, peels off his shirt and tosses it to the sand. "Rogers!" he barks. "Grab me a water." I stand up and rush to grab him a bottle.

This is how it starts, I think.

He has no idea what I've got planned for us.

*A medium cappuccino. Middle-of-the-road enough so he can't make any snap judgments about me, even though I didn’t want it.