From my apartment, I heard the occupants of the Arroyo de los Chamisos howl. After work, my ritual became a bottle of wine and a pack of American Spirits — the blue box. On my third-floor balcony, I faced west and took in the summer sunset. As darkness became tipped with orange, the wind nipped softly on my skin. Yes, I was home.
I hid my sexuality from my friends and family.
But, feeling frisky after the second glass of wine, I crept into the kitchen and read Craigslist ads on my laptop. At first, it was missed connections that I loved reading, but then my curiosity led me to casual encounters, then to men seeking men. I scrolled through the ads and only clicked posts that promised photos. In my darkened kitchen, I scanned dick pics from all sorts of men: cut, uncut, hairy, smooth, hung, bottoms. It was all there, online, and I was intrigued. I was horny. I was alone.
The train jumped and squealed to a halt, scraping metal against metal, forcing me to open my eyes to the new set of characters that filled the car while the old characters scurried off. The music vibrated thirst into my ears during this brief intermission. I was lonely in this city, and scared. I thought of those who might want me, but also might want to hurt me.
I was no one to this city. I was nothing to anyone near me.
Across the carriage, my bench neighbor squinted a smile with his turquoise eyes. The blondish stubble on his chin glimmered with age. He winked in my direction.
A part of me wanted to smile back, but I didn’t. Instead, I shut my eyes and avoided a response. I fell into the music, and the darkness of the tunnel consumed me — “Child I Will Hurt You.”
Down-to-Earth Guy — m4m 28 (Rodeo Road). Sane white guy here. Great smile, short black hair, moderately hairy, blue eyes, athletic, looking for more than just a hookup. Love to hike, run, bike, and soak in the New Mexico hot springs. New to the area. Would like to explore the city different as well as the desert. Get back at me. Versatile, if it goes there.
With an alias and fake e-mail account, I e-mailed Down-to-Earth Guy. He responded quickly. His name was Jordan and it was past twelve when we began exchanging e-mails. With words, I flirted the best I could. He replied handsomely, in full sentences. It was well past one before I noticed the time and responded with one last e-mail. He sent a phone number. Without thinking, I texted him good night as my high wore down to a faint hum of sleepiness. I wasn’t even sure if I was texting a landline or a cell phone, but my phone lit and rang. I was startled by the loudness, the brightness of Jordan’s number flashing on the screen. The phone rang for a moment before I accepted the call — silence. Moments passed as I listened to the breathing on the other end, until finally, a raspy voice broke the awkwardness: “Hello?”
I lay in bed listening to Jordan talk. It took a few moments before I felt comfortable enough to speak. The night breeze brushed the curtains and swept across me.
“What are you doing?” his deep voice asked.
I replied shyly, describing the motion of my hand. Each finger surveyed the landscape of my body. His breath hardened on the phone as he exhaled deeper. My thumb pressed into the waistband of my boxers, exposing the hardness of my dick that throbbed with precum. His voice deepened as he continued to talk and described his own movements. I inched my way out of my boxers, kicking them to the edge of the bed, exposing my body wholly to the night. I lay upon the ghost sheets of his hands and wrapped myself within him. Satin licked my skin — my fingers crept down, touching the hairs of my thigh and pubic area. I let a gasp of excitement escape me.
“I want to fuck you,” he said.
We talked in whispers, as if we were next to each other, our bodies melded harmoniously. I imagined his tongue deep in my mouth, pressed against my tongue, deep inside his mouth. The coyotes sang in the arroyo below. The hum of tires filled my room with light and the wind touched me.
I listened to his breaths. The excitement forced itself into his receiver — deeper, deeper, he moaned into the phone, into my earlobe, into my mind — until he groaned, and his voice quivered to a pause. “Oh. My. God.”
For an hour, I lay naked with my cell phone pressed against the pillow, then the phone beeped. Now silence occurred in death — the death of my phone that needed charging. In my quiet room, I watched the shadows pass. The hum of St. Francis Drive and the laughter of the arroyo proceeded, and the Sangre de Cristos crested with white.
I had been up the whole night talking with Jordan. I thought about his silky body pressed against mine.
I held my breath as the train barreled under the East River. I often thought of the river swallowing the subway. It’s been a fear of mine since childhood — the water — Tééhoołtsódii lived inside.
The water is not for the Dine’é, I was told, we escaped it once.
As a child, Tééhoołtsódii grabbed my legs and pulled me under Morgan Lake, the cooling pond for the power plant. It was my dad who saved me. He grabbed me from what held me under. I never knew what held onto my legs, but water filled my mouth and my throat and my chest. My mom was mad at my dad for taking me there. She yelled at him for allowing me to swim in that dirty water known for death. She reminded my dad of Tééhoołtsódii, the water monster who grabbed those who swam to his world and took them below.
I never swam again.
“Many of our ancestors died during the Long Walk,” my mom said. “The Rio Grande is what swallowed them because the Diné were too cold and too tired, from walking, and could not swim in the winter’s bitter cold water. The US soldiers didn’t care. They proceeded forth to Santa Fe, on their horses, and left those to the water’s hunger.”
Hwéeldi is a haunted memory for the Dine’é.
A loud gasp for air escaped my chest when we reached the first station in Manhattan. The neighboring cast members in the car looked in my direction, as if I were one of the crazies. I closed me eyes again as the music submerged me back into its trance — “Ghost Lights” played.
Jordan showed up on my doorstep. We’d been talking for a few nights before I decided to give him my address. He stood at the opened door with a toothy grin, the same grin he displayed in the photos he texted. He wore that Western blue shirt I liked from his selfies, the one with the pearl-snapped buttons. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top and exposed the thick hairs of his chest. His eyes reflected the desert sky.
I hid behind the door, just a little, because I didn’t want the sun to expose too much of me too soon.
“Oh my,” he said. He leaned in for a hug and threw his arms around me. He smelled of musk, cologne, and coffee. The thickness of his arms wrapped around my back like a boa, bringing me into him. “You’re fucking more beautiful in person than you were in photos,” he said. “Jesus!”
We sat for hours, in the kitchen, chatting. We moved to the chaise longue and relaxed further. Jordan leaned against the armrest and used his hand as a headrest. Two darkened bands wrapped parallel around his forearm. He saw my eyes move in the direction of his headrest. “Youthful tattoo,” he smiled. “For a minute, I was told I was part Indian.”
I smiled.
“I know, I know,” he said, “you’re probably thinking Cherokee princess, right?”