Screwed (Excerpt from 'Dilate")

Summer of '96

I had met Steve at a party. I was volunteering to serve hors d'ouvres for a friend of mine at an independent film premiere engagement. I offered Steve the vegetables I had on my tray. He took a celery stick, dipped it in the onion dip and struck up a conversation with me. Before I left the party, I made sure to get his number. By then, he was drunk and couldn't keep his eyes open, yet, spoke clearly.

"You better call me", he said.

"Of course I will", I replied.

It was at this moment Marissa Tomei was trying to get through the crowd. I must have accidentally backed into her with my backpack, as she yelled "Excuse me!" and pushed me into Steve. I had encountered her earlier, and she wasn't friendly then either.

As for Steve, one might have said I was desperate. He was attractive in his own way, but not that I really could say. He was much taller than me, and had very bad posture, with his shoulders slightly hunched over, and a pot belly that protruded from his shirt. I wasn't very particular when it came to men. I had my share of just about everything.

The next day, I called him on a payphone to see if he wanted to meet me at Champs, a club I usually spent my weekends at to release the stress from the week before.

"I can't", he said, responding to my invitation. "I have a friend who's in town that I have to entertain."

Disappointed, I said my goodbyes and told him that I would call him tomorrow.

I went into the club, ordered my Rolling Rock, and sat down waiting for the music and the alcohol to pump into my system. The minute I started feeling it, I was up and dancing. I was the first one on the dance floor, which caused others to relieve me of my solo performance. I moved up on a platform, closer to the speaker. Minutes later, I noticed someone walking and staring up at me.
It was Steve.

I jumped off the platform and hugged him, so happy to see he gave up his plans to come and see me. He introduced me to his friend, Nick, and excused himself to go to the bathroom.

"You know, Steve really likes you,' said Nick. "He's been talking about you all night."

"But we just met last night," I replied.

"He's a great guy."

When Steve came back from the bathroom, he suggested that we go to the Boiler Room, which was a bar in the East Village. I wasn't fond of the suggested bar, as I had met a bad situation there. When I told this to Steve, he responded with "That's alright. I'll protect you. If we see the guy there, I'll kick his ass."

How could I say no?

We entered the Boiler Room as U2 was coming out of the speakers – not necessarily my choice of good music. We found a place in the back, and sat down. I looked around at the East Village gay crowd I never associated with. I felt like an outcast, and proud to be one. A pipe was passed to me, and I toked it. Something I never refused – Free weed!

I noticed that it was getting late, and told Steve that I had to get up early for work the next morning.

"Why don't we go to my place for a little while?" he suggested.

"For a little while," I replied.

When we got to Steve's apartment, he begged me to spend the night. I told him that I didn't have my work uniform, which consisted of a white dress shirt, black pants and black shoes. He said he had all of those things and would lend them to me, so I chose to stay.

"How old are you?" he asked me.

"Why do you want to know?" I replied.

He shrugged. "I'm twenty-seven."

"How old do you think I am?"

"I don't know. Twenty-three – twenty four?"

"Age is not important."

I had felt this because of past relationships that had used my age against me. I had been told many times that I was young and naïve. I did not want to deal with ageism any longer, so I chose not to tell him that I was twenty.

He wanted to have sex. I felt compelled to give him my speech.

"O.K. Here's the thing – I've been screwed over by so many guys since I've been here in New York, and I'm tired of it. Just once I would like to meet someone who could wait awhile before having sex."

"But I'm not one of those guys", he said. "I really like you. I want to wake up naked next to you. I want to be with you. And I have no intention of screwing you over."

"But you don't know me."

He kissed me, and I kissed him back, which led to our moment of physical pleasure, as we engaged in oral sex.

"There is one thing, though", he said, afterwards, as I lay in his arms. "I'm going through a break up."

This upset me. But he reassured me that he wanted to be with me, and not his ex.


I was late for work the next morning. He ironed the shirt while I showered. I put the pants on. He let me borrow a belt, in which I had to poke an extra hole in. The shoes – two sizes too big.

Two days later, I was again volunteering for the Gay and Lesbian film festival, updating the mailing list on the computer. Steve called me. It was his birthday, and he wanted to celebrate it with me.

"Well, what do you want to do?" I asked.

"I just want to chill out at my place."

I got off at two, and walked to his apartment.

We had sex, and then smoked a joint.

The phone rang. Steve answered it. It was his Freddie, his ex.

They argued for a bit, and when Steve got off the phone he explained to me that Freddie had been expecting to be with him on his birthday, and because Steve didn't call him, he went out to buy some cocaine, and got arrested in the process. The phone call was not to get Steve to bail him out of jail. It was to make him feel guilty because all he did was blame Steve for not being there.

For the next half hour, we talked about it.

"How dare he?" I criticized. "Putting all of the responsibility on you! How old is he?"

"He's thirty-two."

"Is he obsessive?"

"Yeah, and very insecure. That's why I'm here with you."

The next morning, we both got ready for work. He offered me a toke from his pipe. This was when I began to notice he was a pothead, which made me realize that I knew nothing about this person…and I was questioning whether or not I wanted to.

Steve didn't call me for four days, which was upsetting to me because we had made plans for a date two nights earlier. I had tried calling him, but he wasn't in, which, of course, fed into my obsessive insecurities. I wrote to pass the time, and to ease my mind, which didn't help much.

"I was with Freddie", he told me, when I finally got a hold of him.

"So are you two back together?" I asked, obviously upset.

"Kind of."

"And you'd rather be with him? When were you gonna call and tell me this, you fucking asshole!"

I hung up on him before he could say anything. I've always been one to get the last word out, and this would be mine…for the time being.


I was completely offended that he had left me hanging. I didn't know what to do with myself, or with the situation, but I knew that I could not possibly leave it alone. So, for the next few hours, I gathered up all my thoughts, and wrote them down on a piece of paper. I came to an idiotic conclusion that I at least wanted to remain on some sort of friendship level with him, I mean, after all, despite the hurt, I was still blinded by an infatuation that isn't ever easy to just get over, even if it was just a superficial infatuation. I called him back, reading him everything that I wrote, putting him in his place. In this conversation, I explained to him that I was hurt, and he apologized for hurting me, but said that he wanted to continue a friendship.


Three days later, I met him and went back to his apartment to pick up a couple of things I had left there.

"I'll be back", he said. "I'm going to take a shower."

He left the room. I sat down and questioned what the hell I was doing there. I know now that I was just holding out for hope. I went into my bag, and pulled out a poem I had written the night before.

He came back into the room, soaking wet, wearing nothing but a towel. In all his unattractiveness, I still thought about how I could never lay in his arms again, or even touch him. This depressed me. I handed him the poem and told him to read it. This is what he read:


I wanted you to glance at my mind
now that you have passed through my physical form
to look at my soul in a different point of view -
to enter my mind -
my thoughts
without my voice getting in the way.
Follow the ink stains – the pathway to my perception.
Does this whole situation change your attraction for me?
Have I lost the beauty your eyes once possessed for me?
Picture this:
Your greatest desire,
fitting in the palm of your hand –
perching itself in front of your eyes –
throwing comfort in your vision.
And you see all the beauty –
the glory-
the fulfillment that the majority of actual living has to offer you. Whatever this desire is, it is your longing;
your goal;
your satisfaction of breathing in all the air that fills your body.
It is the happiness that your eyes had been closed to – seen only behind the lids. And now – here it is, with a certain visibility.
But, then, all of a sudden, this thing of a monster
(I'd say it was a claw or something)
rips it all out of your palm,
covering it with darkness…
and this thing laughs in your face,
forcing you to sink lower and lower into the ground,
and you can no longer hold the weight this laughter is throwing upon you. Do you
Follow?
'cause I'm falling –
Grabbing at the pieces
as I'm falling fast
falling
further in
further into your eyes
pulling
grasping
throwing myself into you
Your depth
your sincerity:
Mirroring the image of myself;
My happiness;
My dreams murdered
Only to come alive
stronger
better
and this is where I'm proud to lose myself
In your eyes
falling
and further in
further into the days
I'm falling
falling
away from your vision
away from your grip
your strength
only because a distraction
put itself into your path
and let you go
dropping my bitter soul
onto the rocks
that claim my bitter presence
But not to worry
I'm not far from your grasp
because if you ever reach again,
this time I'll make sure I won't let go
…And the funny thing is, everytime I believe – everytime my hopes rise – I get shot. And I fall into this deep hole. Every now and then a hand begins to pull me out, but, then, it drops me back in, and I fall deeper…
The deeper in, the shorter the arms.
It takes words from other people to pull the wool away from my eyes
But keep yours where it is.
You're better off that way.
And if I were to say FUCK YOU,
would you understand the true meaning behind it?
Or would you think I was a bitter and complex soul?
Nonetheless, I don't need to justify anymore of my anger.
I now know the answer.
I just had to get my heart back.
But I don't want it.
Why do you think I gave it to you in the first place, fucker?!
I understand, though.
It was burning a hole in your hand.
Well, at least your ex is carrying the bandages
that I couldn't afford.

When he was done reading, Steve looked up from the paper, and said, "Freddie is not a monster."

I looked at him in complete disbelief, almost as if I was shooting daggers at him through my eyes.

"That's not what I was talking about!" I exclaimed. "It was a fucking metaphor!"

He then told me that he didn't understand what I was trying to say. This upset me even more, as I realized I wasted these words on someone who would never get me.

"You lied to me! You said you wanted to be with me!"

"You don't even know me. Besides, I was with Freddie for three months. I've only known you for a week…"

His voice trailed off as I started cursing him in my head. I vowed I would never speak to him again.


Four years later, I ran into Steve in a bar. He was drunk, of course.

"Sean!" he was happy to see me. "Wow! I've been thinking about you all these years. Here's my number," he handed me his card. "Give me a call."

Of course, I was courteous, but distant at the same time.

I ripped up the card and threw it away.