I can’t write a story for you. 

The last time I saw you was not perfect, and the time before that I can hardly remember.  Somewhere in between the drinks and the heat something happened that I needed to scrub from my mind and it’s gone.  It’s all gone. 

Well, most of it is.

What I do remember is you pressing against me at the bar and then turning away every time I tried to kiss you.  I remember your hair smelled like coconut and we were drinking cucumber martinis because they reminded you of summer in Maine.  I remember a quiet corner in the back of that old dirty bar and I wouldn’t let you up off my lap.

When I got home that night someone came with me.  You told me over and over again that I dreamed it, but I remember smells and tastes and I can’t make those things up.  I even wrote it down, and I read it again and again the next morning.

“It’s too fucking late, and the bed is soaking,” I wrote.  “We fucked like goats, and you bit me so fucking hard that I slapped you.  You told me that wasn’t your name, and I cried in your hair as you kissed me and slid my hard cock back inside you.”

I could hardly make out the words, but it must have been true.  I must have had you and you must have held me because even though I woke up alone I could smell you on my sheets.  I woke up with images in my mind and as many times as you told me I’d forget you I didn’t.

So, this isn’t for you.  You might read it, and you might pass it on to a friend—as you do with everything—but it’s not for you.

—Guy New York