Gulliver Takes Five (24 page)

Fine. But you owe me. And not just some of this magical government hooker stuff
.

Government Green.

Whatever
.

Most people are mystified by me and Row-Dawg. I can understand that—we definitely don’t follow any standard, textbook-defined relationship rules. But it can get annoying
.

Yes, okay, we used to date. Then we broke up. And we still live together. Still fuck together. (Guests always welcome! Interested?) And still do basically everything together. Weird, right? Now get over it and let’s get a drink or something
.

I mean, people do all sorts of weird shit in this world! There are furries who dress like foxes and wolves and Pokémon and get off on that. Other dudes who dress in a diaper and get off on being “changed.” Certain dudes grease up their knuckles with Crisco and shove their fists up into other guys. Girls who strap on dildos and plow their boyfriends. Straight men star in gay porn; gay men star in straight porn. In this light, is my setup with Rowan really THAT bizarre? Aren’t we all strange in our little, insignificant ways? And what does it matter, anyway, if we aren’t bothering you?

Now, don’t give me that shit about how it’s “people like us” who are setting the gay rights movement back. Monogamy is a cute concept, but it doesn’t work for everyone. The gays, the straights—we’re all just super horny! And I’m okay with that. I have no interest in some bullshit standard that heterosexuals can’t live up to, either. Politicians are cheating on their wives; wives are cheating on their politicians. Don’t believe me? Check Gawker. In my humble opinion, nobody’s doing a particularly good job of upholding the sanctity of marriage, so just leave me alone about it, okay? Thanks. Moving on
.

And listen, I’m allergic to labels, okay? Honestly. I break out in hives. It all gets so much murkier and muddier when there’s a label.
If we’re boyfriends, we’re expected to sleep with each other and nobody else. Snore. Do away with the label and the rule book is yours to write! If I meet a cute guy, I can go out with him (as long as I warn Rowan in advance). And vice versa. It doesn’t bother us at all when this happens
.

Also, no longer being boyfriends allows us to duck the whole “So when are you two getting married?” thing. Ugh. Don’t get me started! It’s like, ever since gays won the right to get married, it became an expectation that every single one of us needs to get hitched. Act now! Supplies won’t last! Like it’s some time-sensitive thing that will disappear if we don’t all use it. Enough!

Rowan and I live together, sleep together, eat together, and go out together. What, exactly, would marriage achieve? Our friends would hate us because they would get that “Save the Date” card two years in advance of the magical day. Like we know anyone who can plan two years in advance? Ask any single gay man in this city which bar he’ll be at tonight and see if you can get a definite answer. Oh—and then they have to buy us something stupid for our kitchen or our living room? We don’t cook, and we live in a studio. Nice try. In fact, I’ll bet that’s the reason New Yorkers don’t tie the knot (around their throats) nearly as early as our suburban brethren—we simply don’t have anywhere to put all that shit
.

And another thing—our parents don’t even know we were ever dating. I doubt they even know we’re gay. This is the benefit of Rowan’s ’rents being somewhere in Wisconsin and mine retired in Mount Dora, Florida. I’m not saying they would take this news badly. I mean, they might, but it doesn’t matter. If Rowan and I aren’t dating, then we definitely aren’t getting married. And if we don’t
marry, the in-laws never have to meet, and then we avoid the awkward situations that make perfect fodder for Ben Stiller comedies
.

Plus, let’s not forget the stress of getting that church or temple or sandy beach or whatever. Don’t forget the caterers, the transportation, the flowers, and the cake. Endless stress to have one magical day that will inevitably go awry somehow
.

And then what? We say, “I do.” We kiss innocently with the same mouths that were just locked around each other’s dicks that morning. Everyone claps and throws rice (or more bird-friendly fare). Then we get in the limo with the rattling cans bouncing behind us as we disappear off into the sunset to...our apartment in Hell’s Kitchen? All that trouble and pomp and crap and there we are, right where we were that morning
.

No. No, thank you. The notion of marriage hasn’t even crossed my mind, honestly
.

Right now, Rowan and I are doing all the same good stuff we did while we were together. Why mess with that? The word
boyfriend
is a label, like one of those “Hi My Name Is...” stickers you put on at a networking event. And I don’t fucking wear those, either! Nothing changes if we dive back into Boyfriendville
.

Well, nothing changes for the two of US. Everyone ELSE gets to breathe easy because we’re following “the rules” again. Sometimes I think people would rather we were lying and sleeping around behind each other’s backs than just being up front about it. At least that they’d “get.”

I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t just pop your wedding wonderland balloon. If you’re excited about hunkering down for the long haul with the beau of your dreams, please go right on ahead. Just spare us all the questions and inquisitive glances. You do what works for you, and Rowan and I will do what works for us
.

(P.S. Please don’t send that “Save the Date” card too early, ’cause then we’ll totally forget by the time said wedding actually happens.)

So, in conclusion, labels bring no pros and a Louis Vuitton wheelie full of cons to what is otherwise a simple, drama-free arrangement. I’ll leave labels for other guys to stick to their lapels. And while THOSE guys are sweating and nervous about what, exactly, their kinda-sorta-maybe-whatevers are, Rowan and I will be watching Netflix and getting blazed
.

The screech is about as loud as the rat we got rid of this morning. The train grinds to a halt, almost flinging me out of my seat. And then, nothing. Everyone looks up from their Kindles and iPhones.

Oh, great
.

Relax, babe. It’s nothing. This shit happens all the time. This IS the MTA we’re talking about.

How comforting. I forgot a great New York City greeting card: “Congratulations on Riding a Train That Actually Reached Its Destination.”

I’ll be sure to get Hallmark on the horn. Anyway, it gives me an excuse to read these ads on the walls. They’re usually pretty funny.

I’ve already read them, and they suck
.

“We’re sorry, we are stopped because of train traffic ahead of us,” the Moviefone-esque voice of the subway says over a hidden speaker.

Of course there’s train traffic ahead of us! That’s how train tracks work! There are multiple trains on every track! And if they are all running like they’re supposed to, there’s no reason for any of them to slow down!

Chill, Servy. Count down from thirty and we’ll be back on our merry way to Marijuana Lane, okay? Why don’t you tell me what Dora did this week with that monkey friend of hers?

Don’t treat me like a child, Rowan. I will slap you right here in front of these drunken jocks
.

Whoa. No need to get violent, sugar beet.

Also, why the FUCK are they drunk already? It’s not even dark yet!

Like we aren’t brunch-drunk by this time on Sundays?

Fine, but are we THAT loud and obnoxious?

We’re worse. How many restaurants have banned us at this point?

Point taken. Three, two, one...Okay, I’ve counted down from thirty. Choo-choo still isn’t move-moving
...

Then count another thirty seconds and stop acting like a baby.

Ouch. Sorry. Didn’t realize you woke up on the bitch side of the bed this morning and then fell into a pile of other bitching bitches
.

That doesn’t even make sense!

I didn’t even want to go uptown! Fuck you, Rowan!

“We’re sorry, we are delayed because of a sick passenger at the next station,” says the emotionless robot that holds our fate in his hands.

Well, which is it? Train traffic or a sick passenger? I bet you’ve got hundreds of passengers here who are sick to death of your bullshit!

You know, I heard “sick passenger” is their way of saying someone got hit by a train at another station.

Ew! Who told you that? That’s terrible!

It might not be true, calm down. Just trying to make conversation that isn’t wholly comprised of you complaining.

Oh my God, is someone dead? Oh my God!

Why did it just get quiet? Fuck. Subways aren’t supposed to be silent. The air-conditioning just died! The rumbling underneath the car stopped. THAT isn’t good.

Should I count down from thirty again?

“Hiya, folks,” an actual human voice says over the speaker system. “I’m sorry about this, but this train is going to need servicing before it can run again. Thank you for understanding while we try to get this all sorted out. Shouldn’t be too long.”

But it DOES end up being too long, doesn’t it, Rowan?

Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.

Fine, then I will. It takes thirty-plus fucking minutes! We’re sitting underground between stations. And it’s HOT. Ew! Those asshole jocks across the way think they’re sooo funny, endlessly repeating the same three quotes from a movie so dumb it’s probably what made them stupid in the first place. Two girls are huddled in a far corner, whispering to each other. Everyone else is totally quiet, like we’re in a fucking library. Isn’t that always the way in New York City? We can coexist smashing into each other everywhere, as loud as can be, so long as we’re in motion. But now that we’re stuck here, we’re in elevator mode: not looking at each other, staring at our shoes and bags and the advertisements and the poles in front of our faces. Anything to avoid actual interaction
.

Okay, Queen Servando. It’s not THAT bad. Yes, it’s warm, and yes, those douche bags are annoying, but so what? We can’t be stuck here forever. What, do you want to talk to everyone on the train? Sing “Kumbaya” or some shit? Go ahead! At least then I won’t have to deal with you until this fucking train starts moving again.

Wow. Why are you SUCH a fucking asshole today?

I’m not an asshole. You’re being a complete bitch!

Really?

Yeah. Really.

What the fuck! Is it that goddamned rat? Big deal! It’s gone! And thanks but no thanks, I don’t feel like dealing with your attitude. In case YOU forgot, I was the one who didn’t need to get blazed in the first place! I would have been fine staying home and getting lunch. But no, you need to have your smokeout to settle your fucking fragile nerves. And now, because of you, we’re trapped here just like rats with no idea of when we’ll be back aboveground again. It’s been an HOUR! Nothing about the fucking MTA ever works! Every train is simultaneously broken down and being serviced! Stations close without warning and trains change tracks and go places they shouldn’t every damn day! And all the while, we’re getting charged more and more for a monthly pass! While they cut service, put trains out to pasture permanently, close help booths! Why can’t anything in this city just fucking work?!

Jesus CHRIST! You’ve been a sarcastic, whiny, unhinged lunatic all morning! You don’t like the subway? Get a bike! You don’t want to come to the zoo? Don’t come next time.
I’m
frail and need to chill? Look in the fucking mirror! Fuck this! I don’t even want to be near you right now. Just shut up.

Oh, I’ll shut up
.

Do.

I will!

The guy comes back on the speaker: “Okay, everyone, we’re going to try this again. Hopefully we’ve figured out the problem and we’ll be back on our merry way. Again, so sorry for the trouble. Thanks for understanding.”

Thank GOD.

Air-conditioning comes spewing out of the vents over our heads. The belly of the train starts rumbling, shaking my ass numb. The lights on the wall of the subway tunnel quickly become passing blurs.