Heaven Tonight is a series of erotic stories that transgress the conventions of desire. Authored by artists and writers, each story offers its own perspective into the effects of passion, shame, lust, loathing––and all things sex-driven.

I was high on molly, standing in the middle of the dance floor. We were at The Dream House. Everyone was young and beautiful. I felt friendly, confident, aroused. I felt good. So good that I decided to say the dirty word I’d felt conflicted about my entire gay life. Marriage.

Six-foot-something Felix towered over me. I pulled him down to say the taboo out loud. In his bad ear I yelled, “SHOULD I MARRY PAUL?” It was 3AM.

He gave me a bear hug and kissed my cheek. “YES, Michael. Absolutely YES!”

“But I don't have a ring.”

“Can you hear yourself? Who even are you right now?”

Felix knew I cared about how cliché it all seemed. Weddings and wedding rings were things I associated with status, rigidness, normativity, and possession. Things I hated. Between the pounding nineties techno and my inability to form words, it was hard to explain what it was I really wanted. Felix, my best friend and business partner, knew what Paul meant to me, and he also knew how much money I didn’t have. The ring would be cheap, that wasn’t what worried me. It was that the proposal needed more. It needed to measure up to my sixteen years with Paul. Felix’s approval was everything. As one of our closest friends he had had a front row view to the ups and downs of my relationship with the man I planned to spend the rest of my life with. His was the blessing I needed.

I had a plan. Anita Baker’s Farewell Tour had just been announced and I had finally gotten tickets. It had been frustrating because her concerts were listed one or two shows at a time with no information about where she would play next.

Paul found Anita Baker when he was six years old. The first cassette he picked was Baker’s Giving You The Best That I Got. Growing up, his mother incessantly played The Doors and his stepdad blasted Hank Williams, making Anita an anomaly in that household. Baker became Paul’s guiding light. She was everything he wanted to be: butch, beautiful, honest. She embodied a Detroit style that captured the aspirational elegance of factory workers, like his grandmother. Baker’s songs made Paul, this little kid in Ohio, long to be an adult in love. His fascination for her deepened when he discovered that they also shared the same origin story of being from Toledo. We didn’t know it at the time but when Paul and I moved into our first apartment the previous tenant, strangely, had also been named Anita Baker, a freaky coincidence but one that comforted us. Thirty years since Paul first played Anita and he had still never seen her live. Now the stars felt aligned. Even my horoscope read, With Venus in your house of true love, this is the perfect month to become engaged, possibly for Valentine’s Day.

Post-molly hangover, I rolled to my side to kiss Paul as he slept then headed off to my usual Sunday spot, the Russian baths in the East Village. 

Once again I found myself in its maze, among a hundred men. We hurdled like the naked horny animals we were into the steam rooms and saunas with only a few spots to sit. The goal was finding a way to sit next to your crush. Even though the crowd was pretty gay, patrons liked to maintain a thinly veiled decorum that it wasn’t. The unspoken code was that discreet hookups were allowed but only with men sitting right beside you. I had chosen my target. A pretty guy with golden brown skin who had the face of an angel and a thick black mustache. He looked about ten years younger than me, probably in his late twenties. Short, about five feet, a half-foot smaller than me. He had a soft little belly which I found cute. It didn’t look like he worked out but he seemed young enough that I didn’t care. I studied him as he stared at the men around us, analyzing their mating rituals like he was watching caged animals he’d never seen before. He seemed out of place, which I liked. As I watched his careful movements, I noticed an innocence in him which seemed at odds with his guarded expression. If he was trying to act tough, it was easy to see through.

I let him watch me watch him. He returned my gaze with a bashful smile. Then he looked away again. I had no idea what he was thinking. His face seemed determined but also unsure. There was a hint of something slutty in him that seemed intertwined with sensitivity. I wanted to taste that sweetness. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that drove me wild. Ethnically he was ambiguous. Maybe Latino or Black… Blatino? He could have been Puerto Rican or Indigenous. He had a shaved head but it looked like the stubble had grown back and showed signs of balding. Was he older than I thought?

After an hour of playing seating chess my luck changed and we were finally side by side. A station dedicated to eighties R&B played from the attendant’s stereo. An announcement blared that Anita Baker’s final concert was four days away. Don’t Miss the Queen of the Love Song’s very last show of her career this Valentine’s Day at Radio City Music Hall!

I wondered if I should get Anita to dedicate a song to Paul in celebration of our engagement? What if he says no and there is no chance to stop her from congratulating us publicly? I got nervous. I felt stupid I was nervous. I had never given a fuck about marriage. Kids or impending death, those seemed like the only reasons for the government to get involved in what I had with Paul. Two years ago, I didn’t even like using the word marriage in relation to people like us. Most of our friends were against marriage. They saw gay marriage as a slippery slope towards queer self-imprisonment: church, kids, military, and all the terrible that came with it. Why choose a dysfunctional nuclear life that we had been so lucky to be excluded from? We wanted rights, sure, but that didn’t mean we would accept the bullshit values and confinement of that institution.

My crush brought me back by sweetly singing along to Anita. Is there something I can give you, in exchange for everything you give to me? Was it possible that this attractive stranger loved her as much as Paul did? The tension was thick. Did he think of me as a daddy and if he did, then did he need me to make the first move?

He answered that by stretching his arms over his head. When his hands came back down, he not-so-accidentally skimmed my thigh. It was just the encouragement I needed. Our eyes locked. I was done playing coy. I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him close. We started making out. I don’t know if it was Anita or my proposal anxieties, but this felt different than my usual encounters, and even though we were surrounded by a slew of horny men sucking dick in the shadows, I was convinced that our kiss had an intimacy I had never experienced at the baths before.

A familiar Jamaican voice yelled, “Hey! Batty boyz! It’s a-wrap, ladies be coming, cover them asses!” The attendant passed out shorts. We weren’t finished and moved to a bench to introduce ourselves.

“I’m Seviano.” He had an accent I hadn't recognized when he was singing. “My friends call me Sev.”

“Italian?”

“Africa… Cape Town. My father named me after his favorite tennis star. It’s my first time in this city.” He paused and straightened up. He seemed nervous. “I’m here, negotiating a flight route between African World Airline and JFK.”

As we continued talking, I could feel in his voice a need to let me know that he was worldly, established, and professional. I still wasn’t sure what it was he did but figured he was a flight attendant. Then something in him changed. He got quiet as he moved closer and whispered, “I have a secret.” He moved even closer. “This is my first time. I’ve never been to a place like this.”

“The Russian baths?” I asked, confused.

“I’ve secretly watched gay porn since I was twelve and decided New York would be where it happens.” He looked me straight in the eye. “Last night, I booked an erotic massage, but it didn't feel right so I looked up ‘gay bath house’ and here I am.”

“You're a virgin?” I blurted. I was both surprised and aroused by this possibility. My dick got hard. I struggled to contain it as two elderly women entered the baths.

“Well… I’m a gay virgin.”

“But in the sauna, you were very eager.” I wasn’t sure if he was lying.

“I studied how they do it here, exchanging glances, locking eyes.”

“What, you’re like, twenty-five?”

“Thirty-three.” I couldn’t believe anyone would wait that long for the type of fucking they needed.

“But how? You’re so cute and I thought Cape Town was gay friendly?”

“At University I studied choreography. My closest friends were dancers. All fags. It’s such a cliché. I refused that label and thought the urge would pass, but it never did. I had already lied to everyone for so long that I was too embarrassed to stop so I just kept dating women.”

“Your shame kept you straight?” I sounded annoyed. I was.

“Well, I was hoping …. Um, ah… will you be the one?”

I had never fucked a virgin. As a teenager, the only men I fucked were older and experienced. It had never occurred to me that I could take someone’s virginity, not that it was something I fantasized about, but I had to admit that after sixteen years with my boyfriend, new sex stuff was rare. It could be a big responsibility, but it also seemed kind of perfect? Sev was my type, and besides, he was an adult, and leaving the country in a few days. It seemed ideal and kind of fascinating. But how would Paul feel? Was I really going to fuck a virgin before proposing? I knew Paul would find Sev hot. Why not offer him up as a pre-engagement present? I was buzzing with all my plotting.

“Happy to be the one.” I answered casually, like it was no big deal. Then I really went for it. “My boyfriend’s going to love fucking you too,” I was curious to see how that would land. If he’s a real virgin maybe a threesome was pushing it.

I felt his body shiver. “My favorite porn is always with three! Every time I jerk off. I PRAY about losing my virginity that way!”

I wondered if I should pray too. Was this real? It was the ultimate gift. I was smiling like a devil in a movie.

“I’ll send you Paul’s pic, if you’re into him, it’s on.”

“But… um, apologies if I’m being too personal but I don’t get it, your lifestyle, I could never send my girlfriend a pic of another girl. Doesn't he get jealous?”

I was charmed by his childlike wonder. “So many questions. Come over tonight and ask him yourself.”

Once I left the baths I called Paul.

“I don't know,” Paul said, “Virgins aren't really my thing, it seems like work.”

“It’s not like I was trolling Grindr for eighteen-year-olds! This just fell into my lap! It’s probably the only virgin opportunity we’ll ever get!” There was a neediness in my voice I didn’t even realize I felt.

“Let’s see him, then we’ll talk.”

Sev’s selfie put to rest my suspicion that he was some freak into virgin role-play. It was taken in the most hetero space imaginable: a sports bar where a football game played in the background. In the corner was Sev, cheersing himself with two Guinnesses. A drunken smile lit up his face. I was so used to seeing heavily curated, polished gay sex pics that the ultimate earnestness this image contained made me want to fuck Sev right there.

Paul texted back immediately. “I’m so down. Is he married?” Then he sent me a photo of himself for Sev which I’d never seen before.

In the mirror selfie, Paul wore green sweatpants which he’d pulled down just below his thick cock. Across his left pec in a Celtic font was a tattoo that read, KITTY. That was what he’d named his childhood cat. KITTY lived a remarkable thirty-three years and when she died, Paul memorialized her with this butch tribute. I’d seen it all the time, but now I saw it differently, the way a stranger would. I liked how he gave a cocky, slightly menacing vibe of a deer hunting Midwestern bad boy. I took a long look at his body. Paul liked to joke that he wasn’t a bear or an otter, that his gay animal was a dolphin. That felt true. Like dolphins, he was intelligent, slim, and grinned in a way that still excited the romantic in me. I sent the image of my dolphin boyfriend to secure our devirginization date.

Sev replied immediately. He seemed excited. All afternoon I received new texts from him that spanned a multitude of emotions.

My heart’s beating out of my chest right now, I’m sweating and I’m not even in a sauna! Followed by a string of five fire emojis.

Ur both so hot, I’m at lunch but still so hard! I need your cocks in me right now! Followed by a string of three laughing-with-tears emojis.

So many firsts today, first blow job, first time stroking a dick... Followed by a devil emoji.

Also I’m not into BDSM, choking and crazy things. I would like my first time to be sensual, erotic and fun! Followed by a string of six scared-face emojis.

My apologies for stupid questions but I have fantasized about this forever and now it is real and I’m scared. FYI, I’m negative, may I know your statuses? I feel stupid being a grown–ass man and being so nervous, thank you for your kindness, I’m so glad I met you today! Followed by a mix of biohazard and three unicorn emojis.

I went home and read the texts to Paul.

“You’re gonna need to teach him about cleaning up. If it’s really his first time, you have to school him.” I nodded and texted Sev, “Be here at nine and make sure you’re ready.” I sent a winking-face emoji. “You can pick these up at any drugstore.” I texted an image of a box of Fleet enemas. I wasn’t usually this direct, but I wanted tonight to go smoothly.

“Okay! I live close to a CVS!” Sev texted back.

“A real bottom’s bottom,” Paul laughed. “Perfect for you.”

“Let’s daddy him and break the cycle of the reckless devirginizers who abandoned us!” I preached like I was running for office. It was kind of true. I had a mission. I really was going to change things.

“How old were you again?” Paul asked. We knew each other’s virginity stories but it was time to revisit these ghosts.

“Fifteen. I remember thinking that muscular twenty-eight-year-old was so old then.”

“That gym should have installed a plaque in your honor commemorating your residency as the Locker Room Lolita.” Paul laughed. “With that little teenage wrestler body, you must have made those closeted dads lose their minds.”

“I did… eventually, but it took some time. After that first guy dropped me, I was heartbroken.”

“How did it start with him?”

“I baited him. All my friends were bragging about sex and I wanted it too. I timed my workouts so we finished together and then I’d linger outside the steam room door. I did that every day until I finally got his attention. That fucker never even kissed me. He just bent me over, pressed my face against the foggy glass door, and told me to ‘keep watch.’ No warm up, nothing. One brutal stab and I had a real cock in me. I froze. But I was proud. I was getting rewarded like all the prettiest cheerleaders.”

“Did it hurt?” Paul asked.

“It wasn’t the first thing I’d had in my ass. I’d been practicing with a miniature Red Sox bat my dad gifted me.”

Paul laughed, “That’s fucked! Your dad gave you your first dildo? You never told me that.”

“I forgot. I guess I never told anyone. Anyway, that guy’s dick was thicker and he fucked fast, came in like five minutes.”

“So hot. My little closeted jock taking a stranger’s load at the gym.” Paul laughed. He seemed a little aroused. Paul knew all about my straight passing jock days as a teen who despised flamboyant signs of homosexuality. Those days I got good at hiding what I really wanted.

“I was so naïve then. I thought that having sex would make us boyfriends. After he fucked me, he grabbed my face, looked me in the eyes and screamed, ‘NEVER EVER do that again without a condom!’”

“Jeez.” Paul commiserated, “That dick forever linked your first sexual experience with shame, fear, disease, and death.”

“I sat alone in that steam room, terrified, with his cum dripping out of me. He never spoke to me after that.”

“Of course he didn’t talk to you again, he fucked a minor.”

“Yours was traumatic too, right?”

“Horrifying,” Paul shook his head, “I was eighteen, thrilled to be at my first house party in New York City. This handsome jacked man in his thirties came up to me. I couldn’t even talk I was so drunk. All I remember were his baby blue Diesel corduroys. I thought he was the coolest guy that ever talked to me.”

“Didn’t he rape you?”

“He fucked me after I blacked out and I only realized it in the morning because of how crazy my ass felt. He didn’t know it was my first time. I left before he woke up. I thought he was a monster.”

“That’s why you became a strict top?” I was trying to lighten the mood. “That was… 2001? Not to excuse what he did to you, but back then most gay men still lived in so much shame.”

“Yeah, they couldn't help us, AIDS ruined everything for their generation. They weren’t proud of bringing new kids into this world.” Paul said. I nodded. We had made peace with the things we’d learned the hard way.

“By the way, I discovered him so I’m taking his virginity.” I was going to stand my ground.

“You’re stupid,” Paul said, dryly.

I opened the door to a wide-smiling Sev. In our doorway, standing as tall as he could, he was smaller and more adorable than I remembered. I introduced Paul to Sev and watched as they formally shook hands like it was the start of a business meeting.

“You’re even sexier in person,” Sev said, with a smirk.

“So you’re from Cape Town?” Paul asked, innocently.

“Yes sir, here for work.”

“Drink?” Paul opened a beer and handed it to Sev.

“I got really drunk last night… in Africa I hardly ever drink! New York life is insane. Friday night I was so naughty… I got home at one in the morning!” He continued this small talk as he downed the beer in one nervous shot. Paul rolled his eyes at me in secret. I knew what he was thinking. We had a real nerd on our hands. While I got off on the idea of being a gay sex doula handholding someone through their first sexual journey, Paul didn’t. For Paul, thirds were strictly entertainment, for sport and variety. Never emotional bonding. That was for him and I only. He preferred our thirds to be grown and sexy, as he liked to put it. He didn’t want a mess to clean up.

“Can I ask a question?” Sev said. “How long have you been together?”

“Sixteen years.” We answered, almost perfectly in unison.

“You’re married?”

“No way,” Paul interjected. “What’s the point of that? To be validated and controlled by a capitalist heterosexual society? Why would we ever assimilate to that misery?” Paul squeezed Sev’s ass. “Does this feel heterosexual to you?”

A feeling of pressure rose in me, but I stood there, trying so hard not to show I had a secret.

“So you work for an airline?” Paul asked.

“Yes, but I also have a side job I love. I choreograph Africa’s Miss Universe,” Sev said.

Paul burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Sev was actually serious?

“That’s the gayest job I’ve ever heard of. You really think you’re not out?” Paul said. Sev looked disappointed.

“Come on Paul,” I said, trying to soften the blow. “Maybe in Africa that registers diff-”

Sev interrupted, “GUYS, I’m sorry but this small talk is KILLING me, can we just do this already?” It was brash and kind of hot.

Paul grabbed Sev and started kissing his forehead then his mouth, I reached around Sev’s waist from behind and unbuttoned his pants. His beige khakis fell to the floor. Underneath his hetero drag was who Sev aspired to be: hot pink ass-less Andrew Christian briefs. This was underwear designed for sex parties and porn, exclusively worn by seasoned whores.

“Nice… underwear,” I said hesitantly.

“I wanted you to think I was cool so I bought what the actors wear in Cocky Boys videos!”

A silence fell. There wasn’t anything really to say. Paul pushed Sev down to his knees. Sev unbuttoned our flies and put our dicks in his mouth. Paul eyed me suspiciously. I knew what he was thinking. Would a virgin really be this aggressive? Sev was a man possessed. I watched as he kept sucking us, his eyes glazed in excitement. “Oh Boy!” he said, licking his lips. He looked up at us with his wide puppy eyes. “Thank you… Thank you… Thank you both so much!” Sev was the definition of joy. He sucked good, actually. I wondered if he’d learned how to suck from studying all the porn he’d watched, or had his desire been unleashed once it had found its form? Did he feel like himself now that he had two hard dicks to please?

As Sev sucked, I turned to Paul, my future fiancé, I thought, and kissed him. We had had many threesomes but with Sev this felt different. Our sex took on a new dimension.

Paul pulled Sev up and started kissing him as I got on my knees. I tossed off Sev’s “cool” underwear and buried my face in between his perky ass cheeks. What did it mean for me to be the first person to rim him? I liked picturing him replaying this moment of my tongue entering his hole for years to come. Just then, Sev tensed up for a moment, after years of having sex with screens the reality of two bodies probably overwhelmed him. Paul grabbed Sev by the back of his neck and led him towards the bedroom.

Sev paused, “One question first. Why me? I don't have a muscular body like you guys do.” He was already violating Paul’s threesome rules: no emotions and no neediness.

“You really have no idea how hot you are?” I said, as Paul dragged Sev onto our bed. Paul was not going to grovel. Paul leaned up against the headboard as Sev inserted his face between Paul’s hard thighs, welcoming his dick in his mouth. Sev spread his legs wide open in an upside-down V-shape with his hole fully on display surrendering himself to my service. 

In the past, Paul had critiqued my technique as a top, saying I could be violent, and had encouraged me to ease into it, to pace myself. He was right. I could be harsh. I tried to remember this as I opened Sev’s hairless ass cheeks and lined my cock up at his hole. He never once looked back to see if I was wearing a condom, I wasn’t; PrEP made me feel invincible.

I entered Sev with confidence as he continued sucking Paul’s dick. I pushed deeper inside and Sev let out a whimper. His asshole resisted at first and escaped but then it returned, ready to go. I began again, fucking him, slowly but forcefully, and then I couldn’t help myself, I wanted him to really feel me. I started pounding into him harder and harder. “SLOW! Slow down!” Paul instructed. I slowed. Sev moaned as I entered him again. He was one with our cocks inside his little body. I felt him tremble. I was a little sad I couldn’t see his face. I wanted to see what all my dicking was doing.

I leaned in low and whispered in his ear, “You were born for this.” Positive reinforcement! I thought. I wanted to teach him that his desire was good and natural. I wanted him to know that everything was going to work out. I wanted that too. For me and Paul. I looked at Paul. He smiled at me happily. Even with my dick in someone else I felt Paul’s love so intensely it was making me blush. I wondered if Sev could feel it too. The power this moment had. We were a collective now. Made from the fucking that had been passed down through generations of men. It was warm and safe. I felt lucky and protective of it. Caught up in the rapture of love, I sang to myself, as I fucked Sev’s ass to the rhythm of Anita’s love song. I leaned in and gave Paul a deep kiss as I closed the circle between the three of us. I felt feelings of bliss tingling all over my body. I wanted to hold onto this forever.

Then, suddenly, Sev broke it entirely. He struggled off my dick and jumped out of bed. Had I gone too far? Had he? Had I set off something in him that made him rediscover his shame? Sev ran to the bathroom and I turned to Paul. “I told you you’re too rough,” he murmured. The sink in the bathroom ran on and off and on and off again. Sev poked his head out, “One minute, guys,” he said, his flight attendant mode coming on. He stepped back into the room looking proud. He got on the bed, this time on his back. We were face to face. I wanted to see his eyes bulge as I entered him. I gave him poppers. “From this day on you’re a proud slut!” I proclaimed, envisioning myself as a priest blessing an altar boy at his communion. Paul laid on his side and watched us, looking a little confused. I never usually spoke during sex but Sev’s need for validation made me perform a version of myself that Paul had never seen.

Poppers, dick, and hangover, combined with the permission to be a true fag, seemed to push Sev over the edge. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “You’re going to make so many men happy,” I said, as I exploded inside him. I kissed him and wiped his tears, dismounted, and waved to Paul, who wasted no time in taking my place. The room felt ritualistic. We were shamans leading an inverse conversion ceremony, exorcizing his internalized homophobia by pumping our dicks in his hole. The true path was ass. It really was holy. Paul’s cock was only in Sev for a few minutes before Sev ran to the bathroom again. “I’m sorry, but you’re hitting parts of me that have never been touched before. It feels like I need to urinate.”

The sex continued for an hour or so. We tried different things. Sev was always the sub. The more we dominated him the happier he seemed. Paul eventually came, mixing his load with mine. When the moment arrived for Sev to conclude this by coming, he couldn’t. We tried everything, jerking him off, making out, pinching his nipples, eating his ass, biting his belly, licking his balls, sucking his toes, but nothing worked. I realized that throughout the whole encounter Sev had been only semi-erect. I felt guilty ending without his release, but after some time, it was just getting awkward.

“I’m too excited. I just can't do it!” Sev exclaimed, he was visibly frustrated.

“It’s porn,” Paul said. “Guys that watch it excessively can never come with other people. From now on stick to the real thing.”

“Yes sir. I promise,” Sev complied.

Paul and I laughed. “How do you feel?” I asked.

“This is the best day of my life! You two are my gay Godfathers!” I know he meant it as a compliment but we weren't that much older so we ignored it.

Days later I woke up to a text at seven in the morning. “Good morning sexy men. Happy Valentine’s Day! I’m grateful for what you did for me.” Followed by a string of three heart emojis. I choked up. I was touched that Sev had embraced his true self and that I could play a part in that. I felt like a gay God. “Who’s texting this early?” Paul asked. I kissed him on the cheek and showed him the text. “Cute,” he yawned and went back to sleep. A panic came over me. Could I execute the proposal perfectly tonight? I mean, was I really going to do this?

I told Paul to meet me back at our place at five, which seemed suspiciously early, but I explained that this way we could relax, shower, and change into our formal Anita Baker attire to toast Valentine’s Day with a bottle of champagne for him, sparkling cider for me. That was the thing with quitting booze, under the spell of alcohol I could escape myself and exist in the blur where decisions felt right and easy. Clarity was exhausting.

First stop, my barber Jose. A fresh fade always made Paul want to fuck. I called Indochine to confirm our dinner reservation. That fab eighties decadent hangout was having a revival after being featured in Pose, a show we had enjoyed together. I stopped at my office to get the ring. I was proud of my choice. I had struggled for months scrolling for the perfect thing. I held the sterling silver ring up to the light in admiration. Two dolphins faced each other. They looked slick and sexy, about to kiss but welded together at the tail just before. One was slightly bigger than the other. They had toned bodies and seemed happy about that. The band was not closed which symbolized an openness that felt just right. Space existed for each of them and when the right opportunities allowed for it, there would always be room for a third in their world.

I bought sixteen heart-shaped balloons. I wanted silver but red was the only option. I rode the subway with this annoying-ass bouquet. I was sure I would be hated but strangers seemed fine, even pleased since I figured they saw it as a gesture of love. I wondered if they secretly wanted to look this stupid.

I bought a plate of Dominican appetizers from our favorite bakery down the street. I got home thirty minutes before Paul was set to arrive. I blasted Anita Baker’s Greatest Hits. You're my angel, crooned the songbird, she sounded confident even in her longing. I hoped my proposal would embody that same tone.

My anxiety grew as I moved around the room. I tried to arrange the balloons in the kitchen, but they still looked insane. I gave up and showered then shaved. I was rarely clean-shaven, but Paul preferred it. I put on a new outfit, faux leather pants and a mock muscle sweater that looked very eighties R&B but updated for today. I felt cool. I doused myself in Calvin Klein’s Obsession. I warmed ham and cheese croquettes.

I was almost done but there was one final thing. I had called Anita’s booking agent earlier that month to arrange a live dedication for our proposal, but he had advised me to DM her as that was the way she connected to her fans. This was my 11th hour plea. I started typing in desperation, then I paused. Would Paul, who usually eye-rolled at public displays, even like this ridiculous gesture? I looked around the room at the mise-en-scene I had created. It was too late now. I pressed send. Should I propose on my knees? Yes. I needed to feel the ground, maybe that would soothe me. Actually, never mind, I didn’t want any cliché hetero shit! I didn’t even want to say “wedding.” I was hoping to sell Paul on the phrase, commitment celebration.

The words of a close friend whom we had once lived with echoed in my mind: You’ll call it a wedding and you’ll own it. You must expand marriage’s borders, not shrink to its artificial boundaries.

The first gay wedding I went to remained in my gut and still made me sick. Hosted at a conventional venue that churned out multiple weddings every weekend, it had conformed to all the clichés: the couple dancing with each other’s mothers, the cutting of the cake. I glared like a witch as the bottom in the couple tossed the bouquet to a bunch of unwed middle-aged women. This normie ceremony seemed to please the parents, rich white Texans, so much that it felt like it was designed to appease their closeted homophobia. I had felt such disdain then. But why? Why did I feel I was better? It was probably the color coordinated outfits their toddlers wore. Or maybe it was the waspy pastel suits of the grooms. This family was the picture-perfect image of the new heteronormative gay. For a moment I wondered if it was subversive. Had they queered the American dream? I was getting anxious. Why did I care? Why did someone’s desperation for hetero acceptance threaten my own queer image? It was getting hard to breathe. I looked at the balloons. The red looked better against our white walls than the color I’d originally planned. Some clichés worked.

I dimmed the lights and lit a candle. I arranged the croquettes. My non-alcoholic bubbly and his real champagne were chilled and ready. Baker sang, When we met, I always knew I would feel the magic for you. On my mind constantly. In my arms is where you should be. Paul was minutes away. What was he going to think? We had openly rejected marriage and here I was breaking our pact. I still believed everything I believed—that marriage was mortifying—but despite my condemnation of it, I still wanted my matrimonial fantasy. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I needed to forget what was wrong and right and just do what I wanted. I was eating too many of these croquettes.

The front door swung open. Paul scanned the room. He looked confused and a little annoyed. Without another moment I dropped to my knees and reached for the box. I held up the two tail-touching dolphins. Paul squinted. I wasn’t sure if he hated the ring or was trying to make out what the hell it was that I was holding. “Will you marry me?” I asked. I said it in a way that sounded like I was also asking myself.

“Of course,” he said softly. There was not a moment of hesitation in his voice. We were both teary-eyed as I stood up and slid the $21.99 ring on his finger. I felt proud, and surprised I felt proud. Here I was taking pride in something I’d rejected for so long. Love was an intricate thing. But did this mean we were basic now? Did I fuck up a good thing? I didn’t know but being connected to Paul in a new way felt sexy. We kissed deeply for the first time as fiancés.

“Is this a cheap ring or an ironic Tiffany’s version of a cheap ring?” Paul asked as soon as our lips parted.

“It’s really a cheap ring,” I cried.

“Perfect,” Paul said, wiping a tear from his eye.

Just then our tender moment that was being soundtracked by Baker’s melodies was interrupted by a call. It was Sev. I wasn’t sure if I should answer but Paul saw it and told me to put him on speaker.

“How are my gay Godfathers doing? I want to tell you again how important­–”

“Sev! We just got engaged. We’re going to be husbands! You're the first to find out!” It felt good to tell someone else. It made it even more real.

“Oh, congratulations.” Sev replied, flatly. There was a sadness in his voice. “Does this mean we can't fuck again?” he asked, quietly.

“Don't worry Sev. I’ll always be happy to share my husband with you.” I affirmed.

“Actually, why don’t you come over tomorrow night to celebrate?” said my new fiancé, grinning. His words made the future look bright again.

Anita never answered my DM. ♦