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Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. II

Less Than Butterflies Gay Dating Houston Grindr

Less Than Butterflies, No. 4

I’d only ever had an experience with one guy from Grindr before in my life, and it had been enough at the time to steer me clear of hookup apps for a while. It’s a story for another day, but as previously mentioned, it involved a man urinating on me as I was knelt down in the shower to blow him. Still, being that my sex drive had hit its peak and that over a year had passed since that nauseating experience, I was inclined to download Grindr and Scruff in the hopes of finding someone willing to have sex with me immediately.

One night, as I was sitting in my office writing, my phone buzzed beside me. I peered up at the clock in the upper-right-hand corner of my laptop and realized it was nearly a quarter past three. As many normally-drunk friends as I had, I couldn’t imagine a single one of them texting me after two, unless it was from the side of the road as they prepared to be incarcerated. But as I slid my home screen away on my phone, I realized that it was no one I knew at all. In fact, it wasn’t a text message at all.

It was a Grindr notification I’d missed nearly an hour before.

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Where a profile picture should have been for this man was only the shadowy avatar that comes by default with a profile to which one hasn’t attached a photo. Moreover, where there should have been some sort of headline or name, there was nothing. All that stood beside the avatar was a bright green dot indicating he was online and the words 1 mile away.

Assuming it was more than likely some creepy dude I had no interest in wasting my time with, I decided to be a bit more petty.

Screenshot_20171130-222929-e1512207123630-286x300 Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. IIFor a creep, he wasn’t coming off terribly … well … creepy. I mean, sure, he had initiated the conversation by offering me a blowjob, but it was a Grindr message, after all. What else was I expecting? An invitation to a romantic evening at the symphony?

As the banter played out a bit more without so much sexual connotation, I found myself oddly aroused. I’d gotten messages on Grindr the last few days that always ended up being an offer to either pound me, a request to be pounded, or an unsolicited dick pic. This man, however, was actually quite clever—a quality I assert to be very important in the men I engage with romantically, though not necessarily for those I engage with strictly sexually.

Screenshot_20171130-222938-e1512207342326-300x228 Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. IIWhen the picture arrived next, I was shocked, to say the least. His face felt very familiar to me. Not the sort of familiar that surprises you when you recognize your eighth grade math teacher in line at the grocery store, but can’t place her name. It wasn’t even the kind of familiar you experience seeing the stranger you’d smiled at as you’d pumped gas into your car groggily before work one morning suddenly walked past you a second time. It was as if I’d seen him more than once and actually acknowledged him.

Aside from that, he was quite attractive. He bore olive skin and a some slight, messy facial hair. His eyes looked sleepy from having just woken up. His eyes were the color of a dark, natural honey and lips were plump and pink with a sheepish smile.

 Screenshot_20171130-222945-1-e1512207625710-259x300 Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. IIScreenshot_20171130-222950-e1512207814758-247x300 Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. IIScreenshot_20171130-222957-1-e1512208234376-245x300 Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. IIScreenshot_20171130-223005-e1512208035204-248x300 Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. II

 

I’ve always had a massive complex about my weight and size. I’m not like morbidly obese or anything like that. In fact, I must not be terrible to look at considering how much dick I was catching before I’d sworn off sex for three straight months in the name Never-Will-Love-Me-Ezra. But the photo on my profile had been taken by my friend, Iris, when she was visiting for the party and made me look at bit thinner than I ever perceived myself to be. So, I sent him another photo someone had taken of me as I’d been hosting the Volunteer Open House for Pride Houston the same weekend my profile photo had been taken.

Only, I realized quite quickly that I looked rather slender in that photo, as well. Maybe I’d lost a little weight without realizing. I certainly hadn’t been eating much as my workload consistently increased.

 Screenshot_20171130-223014-e1512208548730-250x300 Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. II

Screenshot_20171130-223020-e1512208931871-249x300 Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. II

I eventually gave him my number and told him to text me while I thought about it. Only … I didn’t have to think about it long. I wasn’t as coy as I’d been pretending to be with this man. I’d been in need of sex for far too long. I certainly wasn’t going to let the fact that my hair was up, or that I had eaten pork earlier that day, or that I was wearing a pair of volleyball shorts that read eat me across the ass stop me from getting laid. In fact, the latter of those had actually been for the purposes of doing so.

So I dashed to my bathroom, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair down, ran a brush through my short, chocolate-colored locks, and applied a new coat of deodorant. When I’d finished, I slid the shorts off of me, then took off my underwear and threw them into my messenger bag.

It’d been three months. And as I stared at those underwear in my bag, all I saw were another few seconds longer I’d have to wait to be touched by a man.


If it was possible, I’d say he was even better looking in person than he had been in his photo. In fact, he sort of bore a slight resemblance to Jeremy Piven … minus the sexual assault.

Forgetting to first exchange names, he showed me around his apartment, talking to me in a smooth, yet masculine voice. He became apologetic about the fact that his living room was a bit of a mess and about how he’d left a pile of laundry in the corner of his bedroom. I wasn’t seeing any of that, though. All I could focus on was just how fucking beautiful this man was. And as he led me to the bed and took my hands into his own, he suddenly didn’t feel like some stranger from Grindr. When he placed his hands on my waist to pull my shorts down, it didn’t seem at all like we’d just met.

And soon enough, he was completely nude, illuminated only by the light coming from his half-shut closet. He was what other gays would call an otter. Chiseled frame. A little hair on his chest and stomach. Manly.

Staring at him took my breath away, a bit … and not in a good way. It suddenly became very plain to me that this man—though polite and funny and ever-so-willing to sleep with me—was vastly out of my league. To be honest, if I were him and he were me, I wouldn’t have even given myself a second look. Yet there he was beside me on the bed, kissing me like his high school sweetheart and wrapping his legs up inside of mine.

And as the foreplay grew more intense, so did my anxiety. I couldn’t help it. I was sure I was only minutes away from breaking into hives or losing the ability to breathe. Still, my anxiety didn’t manifest in those typical ways that it did when I hadn’t met a deadline or when I had spent too much time at my mother’s house. No, rather than falling verklempt or beginning to shake uncontrollably, my body took on my nervousness and insecurities in a brand new way.

By keeping me from getting an erection.

For nearly half an hour, I did everything I could to distract him from the fact that I wasn’t getting hard. Don’t get me wrong, I was very turned on. It’s just that I didn’t appear to be aroused. I started by sucking him off, which proved difficult because he had to have had the largest dick I’d ever seen in person. Still, he must not have sensed the fact that I was about to choke to death the entire time, as he kept telling me I could teach lessons on how to give a blowjob because I was so good at it.

Oh, how proud my mother would be.

When he was getting a little too close to climax, he rolled over on his back, ass-up, and asked me to fuck him.

The problem was that I still couldn’t. I’d been going down on him for the better part of ten minutes and all I’d managed to erect was a list of ways to distract him from the fact that I couldn’t get it up. It took everything in me not to take my dick to the side for a last minute pep talk. So, instead, I did something I know I’m very good at, but that I only do to men I’ve slept, to whose hygiene I can attest.

The rimming process probably didn’t last as long as the blowjob, but he certainly was more vocal about it than he was about the latter. I was doing everything that I could to run my flag up its pole, but nothing was doing the trick.

A moment later, when I’d pulled my tongue out of his asshole, he rolled over and asked me if I’d rather him be on his knees on his back. I didn’t even give him enough time to answer before I laid down next to him and pulled him in to make out with him some more. As we kissed more, he reached for both my hands and took them into his own. It wasn’t something I’d experienced often when hooking up with strangers—the hand-holding, even the kissing—but I took it in, basked in it, even. There was something romantic about it, something that made this feel like we weren’t going to just be fucking one out and high-fiving when it was over. Contrary, and though I’m not sure I can explain why, it felt more like I was making love to someone I’d known and loved for years and years.

Still, I couldn’t bring my penis to cooperate. It was almost as though it was down there napping after a long shift at work, when in fact the motherfucker had been laid off for the last three months. Anxiety and self-consciousness or not, there was no reason I shouldn’t be able to perform this simple task—one men have been doing without effort since the dawn of time.

He was absolutely perfect. To say that he was the man of my dreams might be too literal, as he felt familiar to me in a way I could only recall as if I’d created him myself. Everything about him was perfect. His ass. His face. His slight facial hair. The way he held my left hand with his right. And as he kissed me, I ran my hands down his well-muscled arms, which had just reached down to find my penis … flaccid.

He did his best to make it work, but nothing came of it. He grazed his ass against my pubis, rubbed his pelvis against mine as we kissed. He kissed me from head-to-toe, then back again.

Finally, feeling so humiliated that I couldn’t stand it anymore, I began to sit up.

“I’m so sorry,” I told him. “I’m sure you’ve heard this one before, but I really do mean it: this has never happened to me before. And it really isn’t you. It’s me.”

“It’s okay,” he said as soft as the lighting the haloed the room.

“No, it’s not okay,” I told him. “You are … very attractive. In fact, you are the most attractive man I’ve ever been in bed with. Like … if I were to show my friends a photo of you and told them that you actually wanted to have sex with me, they’d call me a liar and slap me in the mouth.”

But the man whose name I still did not know didn’t laugh at my little remark, nor did he break from that bedeviling look on his face. Instead, he said, “Hey,” and again, “hey,” while his left arm snaked around me and the knuckles of his right hand nearly levitated from my thigh up to my chin. He pushed my face up to look into his eyes and said, “It’s okay,” before he kissed me. “You don’t need to apologize.”

His hand trailed back down my shirt—which due to self-consciousness I’d never taken off—and fell lightly into the space between my thighs.

As cliché as it sounds, I shuddered and let out a gasp. His fingers swam in place between my legs as he kissed me more, both our lips moving gradually from softness to heat and fury on both our parts until I felt something down below become participatory.

“Hey,” I panted out as he moved his lips from mine and to my neck. “It’s uh … it’s um …” I could barely catch my breath. “It’s working.”

The rest was easy. He’d never lost his erection; and from there we quickly went back to what we’d started, and—so caught up in the growing heat—ended almost just as quickly at the exact same time (another one of those things that’s never happened for me during a hookup).

When he came, his ejaculate shot so far that one might have believed he’d been packing a paintball gun down there. I’d later tell Hayden this and show him the spot on the collar of my black shirt where his cum had landed in the shape of a lipstick mark left on someone’s cheek. To this Hayden would say, “Omigod, it looks like his dick reached up and kissed you.”

And though my insecurities had mostly evaporated, my natural instinct after we’d finished was to bolt. Throughout my late teens and early twenties, I’d never slept with a man I wasn’t dating that wanted to cuddle or be intimate afterward. In fact, even the men I had dated didn’t want that. But as I was rolling away to collect my shorts and shoes and glasses, that arm that had remained wrapped around me through the entire second half of our performance strong-armed me back in and laid my head on his shoulder. And from there, he intertwined his legs with mine, kissed me more, and found my hand to nestle his fingers into the spaces between mine.

Then, just like that, all of the insecurity really was gone. I was lying there with a complete stranger I felt like I’d known my entire life. And despite the … um … hiccups in the beginning, it was still some of the very best sex I’d ever had in my life.

“I really am sorry about before,” I felt the need to say again.

He squeezed my hand. “Don’t be,” he told me, now playing with my fingers. “I mean, clearly everything worked out.”

He had a point. We didn’t embrace too much longer. He had to get ready for work and I needed to get back there myself. Still, as insane as it sounds, lying there, even through all the messiness at the very beginning, I was beginning to feel something flutter inside of me I’d not felt in a long while.

Butterflies.

At that point, it wasn’t even about the fact that his body appeared to be molded out of clay fresh from the kiln. He could have been the world’s ugliest man, and to have been so kind to me in a moment of extreme weakness, so tender and caring and without applying pressure, I happily would have stayed with him until he finally tired of me.

But maybe that was just me. I mean, sure, it was all more intimate than any other hook-up I’d ever had. Still, could it just have been me romanticizing something that would be over and never spoken of again?

I didn’t believe it then.

I don’t now.

But it didn’t change the fact that I was still in the process of getting over one boy. I wasn’t going to allow myself to fall too quickly into another messy situation with another—even if this one might actually like me for something more than sex. So, I sat up and he did the same to kiss me goodbye. Then I made my way to the door to exit quietly. Although, I was on such a high of natural ecstasy and was so enamored by his kindness that I got all the way out the door before I realized I’d left both my shoes and my cell phone.

So much for going quietly.


Later, I texted him again to apologize another time. I’m not sure why I kept apologizing, but I didn’t want that to be a lasting impression of me that he had.

It was only then that I realized that I’d gone through all of that and still had no idea what this man’s name was. But it didn’t matter. I knew I’d learn it someday. Because right then and there, as I laid down in bed at home and drifted off to sleep in which I’d dream about how amazing that one short hour had been, I felt something wash over me I’d never felt before in my entire life. Not with any of my exes. Not with Taylor Kyle. Not even with Ezra.

And it might sound absolutely, certifiably insane, but as that wave enveloped me, I just knew that I was going to marry that man someday.

Screenshot_20171202-040728-e1512210721890-300x265 Diary of a Limpy Dick, Pt. II


Return to part I.

Shot Me in the Heart

Less Than Butterflies Gay Dating Houston Grindr

Less Than Butterflies Column

Here it is as best as I can explain it:

Love is something that happens when someone becomes so overwhelmed by the good in someone else that they can’t get enough of it. They crave it in their life at almost all times. At first, it creates a sensation of being high. It’s euphoric. It’s magical. After that, it’s something different. Like smoking several cigarettes in the car. Or biting your nails when you’re deep in thought. It’s habitual. Love, like all things, changes based on necessity and familiarity. That’s not to say that the emotion has changed. The care felt for another doesn’t go away. Sure, it takes a little more effort to make the heart swell or for the butterflies to take flight. But it is – all the same – now a habit.

That’s because being in such deep infatuation – like biting your nails or smoking cigarettes or drinking in the early afternoon – is an addiction. It’s a compulsion. A preoccupancy. And like all addictions, once the snag is hit – the part that causes great pain – it becomes difficult not to love or feel great fondness. That’s because it is habitual, just like taking a pain pill every six hours or drinking eight cups of coffee every day. At a certain point, you forget what you did before you were initially so shot in the heart by Baby Cupid’s arrow.

I was not in love – although I did feel a great fondness – but I had hit my snag.

Like so many other things, it started over a $10 bottle of wine at Barnaby’s.

“So,” my friend, Hayden, began as he took a sip of his wine. “You met someone?”

My eyes darted up from the menu.

“He met someone,” Stephen answered for me.

“I have not met anyone. I mean … I did meet someone. But we aren’t dating,” I corrected.

“Do you like him?” Hayden asked.

Stephen nearly spit out his wine. “More than he likes these $10 bottles of wine.”

I choked on the cabernet and spit some of it back into my glass. “Fuck you!” I told him before looking back to Hayden. It was just after two o’clock and Stephen and I were fresh out of a Pride function. Hayden was there to drink with me after lunch, but that hadn’t prevented us from starting at lunch.

“What’s his name?”

“It doesn’t matter what his name is,” I replied, shooting my nose back down toward the menu I really had no intention of ordering from. In only its first moments, the conversation had already caused me to lose my appetite.

“His name is Ezra,” Stephen answered, again.

I slapped my menu down. “Could you please stop speaking for me?”

“Have you asked him out?” Hayden asked me.

“It doesn’t matter, because he’s just a friend and we aren’t going to date,” I tell the both. “Now, could we talk about something else?”

“Why don’t you want to date him?” Hayden inquired.

“He does,” Stephen chimed back in.

“Enough!”

“Why are you being so weird about this?” Hayden went on, pouring himself more wine and then ordering another bottle.

“I’m not being weird about anything. Ezra is just a friend. We hang out like friends. We talk like friends. We are literally not going to be anything more than friends, regardless of whether or not I want that, because he does not want it. And I’m being a grown-up and continuing to be his friend because he has very few other friends in the city and I like being his friend because we have very similar interests. Now, if neither of you would mind, I am going to the restroom.”

Anyone who has ever sat on the patio at the original Barnaby’s in Montrose may be able to tell you that one of the supporting beams that stands near the door alleged to be holding up the patio ceiling is actually of no use whatsoever. It’s screwed into the ceiling, but the bottom actually is raised about two inches off of the ground. It was a bit like my friends in that moment – appearing supportive, but providing no support at all.

As I stood up and downed the remainder of the wine in my glass, I whipped around to face the door and accidentally ran face-first into that very beam.

There it was. The corporeal manifestation of my snag.  


Hayden was the type of friend who truly wanted what was best for you, and was happy to do anything to help you get it. If it were sex you were desperately in need of, he’d happily take you to a bar, get you shit-face drunk, and poach out potential partners for the evening. If you needed to unwind and get everything off your chest, he would be there to listen, and then to take you out to a bar, get you shit-face drunk, and finally poach out potential partners. In reality, Hayden was nothing like that levitating beam at Barnaby’s. He’d do anything for anyone he cared about.

I returned to the table and poured more wine. “I’m having a party next weekend,” I said after a few moments of silence. “Bring booze,” I instructed.

“Who’s all coming?” Hayden asked.

“I can’t,” Stephen said. “Leo and I are going to see my parents.”

“Will Ezra be there?”

“What is your obsession with this thing with Ezra and me? Which, by the way, is not even a thing. You’re just insatiably obsessed with it.”

“Oh, honey,” he went on it. “It’s gonna be a thing.”

“What-the-fuck-ever.”

“I’ll help you,” Hayden said.

“I don’t need help!” I nearly screamed. It was fortunate that no one else was on the patio, otherwise I may have turned a few heads. So, I took a deep breath and downed the entire glass of wine before very quietly leaning in to say, “I just got out of a relationship with a man this summer, and I’m not looking for another one right now. And I most certainly am not in a place to set up expectations from a man that does not want to be with me and go through the same pitiful spiral of rejection I’ve gone through a dozen other times with a dozen other men.”

“Ezra is not other men,” Hayden insisted.

“That well may be,” I snapped. “But if he doesn’t have feelings for me, then I am perfectly content with remaining friends. I may be a jaded, hopeless romantic who’s been screwed over more times than I can count by men, but that does not make me a fool.”

Stephen’s eyes shot to and fro between Hayden and me throughout the entire exchange. I knew Hayden meant well. I knew he wanted good things for me. This, however, was something I’d come to learn was not going to change. I had accepted that.

“Well,” Hayden went on, seeking the last word. “You know how it goes. You say you’re fine with it. You get in a little too deep. You don’t say what you’re feeling. You go crazy. You self-medicate with alcohol.”

I huffed out a shot of hot air from my nose, completely over the conversation.  But instead of getting upset or irritated, I settled back into my chair properly, grabbed the open bottle of cabernet, and poured myself another glass. Then, as I lit a cigarette, I fumed the smoke over our heads and told him, “I’ll have you know that I drink regardless of how I’m feeling.”


By 8 o’clock the night of the party, I was royally fucked up. It was the kind of drunk you could really only get if you were having a party in your own home where you didn’t have to drive or try to navigate your Lyft app. I wasn’t quite sloppy drunk, but I knew I wasn’t far from it. There were about fifteen of us gathered at the house, though at varying times, and each of us had had more than our fair share to drink amongst other recreational proclivities. Someone had brought weed, which had never really been my thing. But the fact that I had so many people around me all at once had heightened my anxiety, and I hoped it would take the edge off.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t considered the fact that I might, at some point, begin to cross-fade between being drunk and being high.

At a certain point, the entire group was pretty heavy in conversation of which I had little-to-no interest. All I remember is listening to Ezra make a point next to me as we all stood around the island in my kitchen and my phone suddenly dinging in my hand. I turned down to look at it, seeing a text from Hayden, who stood just across the room.

Oh, girl. You’ve got it bad.

I whipped my head back up to look at Hayden so quickly that I feared the affliction of whiplash. I moseyed around the island, put my arms around his waist, rested my chin on his shoulder, and whispered into his ear, “I will kill you.” He laughed it off, not even humoring me.

“You should have seen the way you were staring at him,” he told me with another chuckle. “And you can, because I took pictures,” he went on as he held his phone up to show me.

“I’m stoned out of my mind. If a Southern Baptist minister were talking to me I’d be looking at him like that,” I told him as he scrolled through the photos on his phone. “And stop being such a creep.”

I turned around and dashed up the stairs of my house to the second floor, opened the door to my bedroom, and locked myself inside. I needed a moment.

Having just moved, nothing in my room was assembled or put away, so I fell to the floor onto the mattress I’d be sleeping on that night. I watched as the ceiling fan slowly spun around over my head, mesmerized in all my highness. It wasn’t long before one of the ceiling fan blades transfigured into the image of Ezra, running around in circles. Another one shifted into the shape of my ex-boyfriend, Parker, whom I’d only been out of a relationship with for a few months. A third blade morphed into a man named Taylor I’d once been quite enamored by, and the fourth and fifth turned into myself and a bow-and-arrow with which I chased the three men around in circles, shooting little red arrows at them like Baby Cupid.

Parker and I had little in common other than the fact that we were both staunch liberals who had amazing sex. Taylor, on the other hand, I’d only met a few times and developed a weird crush on because of our short yet impressionable interaction. Ezra was a little bit different than both of them.

If I listened closely enough, I could almost hear them screaming for me to leave them alone.

I think what I’d found so devastatingly attractive about Ezra was how much unalike we were. I mean, certainly, he and I had more in common than almost any of the people in my life interest-wise. But that didn’t mean everything about us or our likes and dislikes was entirely congruent. For instance, Ezra could be found eating Panda Express at 7 o’clock in the morning at an airport lounge if he’d missed a flight. I, on the other hand, found Panda Express to remind my palate of hot dog water. Ezra was nerdier than I, though I found that to be endearing. I was much more emotionally driven than Ezra, who at times could come off as devoid of any emotion at all, despite the fact that I knew there to be some in him. We were bred of different genera, and no one who knew us well enough would say otherwise.

But it was that about him – coupled with the fact that he was constantly unimpressed by me – that I found most compelling. He didn’t applaud my every triumph nor did he boast of me to others. And although the attraction to those qualities could simply be traced to having a childhood exclusive of a father, it made sense to me.

Ezra was, to the say the least, a pastiche of incongruities. A mosaic of non-matching tiles. He had a way of surprising me with the words he said and the things he did. Like showing up unexpectedly when I performed onstage, or taking up for me when I was backed into a corner. It was the culmination of things that you don’t notice about a person when you first meet them, but that come with time and friendship. And true, it did sadden me that he didn’t have feelings for me. But I wasn’t going to be devastated by it, either.

Rejection is one thing. It’s hard, but manageable.

The humiliation of letting someone see how they can affect you – that’s a dragon much more difficult to slay.

The sound of the door opening distracted me, and I turned to see my friend Iris standing in the doorway looking down at me.

“You good?” she asked me, just as our other friend, Miranda, popped up behind her at the door.

“Never better,” I replied, looking back toward the ceiling fan to watch myself shooting at those boys. Only now we were all gone. The ceiling fan was just a ceiling fan, and I had been better than I was in that moment.

Back downstairs, the number of people was slowly decreasing. We drank a little more, smoked a little more, but soon the only people left were Hayden (who was mostly sober, but leaving soon to go to the bar), Ezra (who was just as cross-faded as I was), and myself. Hayden was washing the dishes, of which Ezra was extremely complimentary.

“He’s doing your dishes for you. You’re going to owe him big time,” he told me at one point.

I could only roll my eyes and say, “If only you had any idea how many of his messes I’ve had to clean up.”

“Can’t you just put some kind of spell on these dishes to make them clean themselves?” Hayden asked me as he stuck a wine glass into the dishwasher.

“I don’t cast spells on dishes. I only cast them on boys,” I mumbled, drinking more.

“As long as you aren’t casting them on me,” Ezra muttered.

In my life, I’ve probably only been left speechless a handful of times. I’ve got one of the quickest wits of anyone that I know, and my flair for histrionics only amplifies this when I need it most. But sitting there at the island, looking at Ezra with his sleepy eyes and his foot bobbing up and down, I couldn’t quite summon my ingenuity. And maybe that’s because Ezra had done it again. He’d found something to say that had taken me by such surprise that I wasn’t sure how to react. Sure, I knew he didn’t like me. What was shocking was that this normally kind creature had the sharpness of tongue to bring up the subject with such little sensitivity.

I looked away, finally muttering, “Don’t be such a narcissist,” before walking away.

Soon Hayden dismissed himself, but Ezra was still too far gone to be driving anywhere. Instead, he ate, and we found something to watch on TV while we rested on separate ends of the couch. I think I may have tried talking to him about nothing in particular, and a few times, I think he even mumbled something back. But when I looked over at him, he’d fallen asleep. So, I leaned over a little onto the cushion behind me, still a safe distance away, and did the same.

As my eyes fluttered open and then closed over-and-over for the next few minutes, I kept them glued to him. There he was, the maker of the snag just resting on the couch next to me without any idea of the complication in my mind. He was complicated, which – as much as I may have hated to say it – only intrigued me more. Still, I had been right when I told Hayden that nothing would ever be between Ezra and me but a good friendship. And even if I’d not doubted it for a second, he had made that vocally clear tonight.

So, I fell asleep, still high enough to dream of chasing a boy with a bow and arrow. Only, this time as I shot the arrow, it hit the boy directly in the back, then he tripped over a root in the ground and fell on his face. And when I finally caught up to him and stood there to try and help him up, it became quite clear that the boy I was chasing was neither Taylor, nor Parker, nor Ezra.

It was me.

It was me having been struck in the heart, having hit my snag, and finally crying about something I’d told myself I’d be okay with because I hadn’t been in love.

Just great fondness.