Hello!
I’d mentioned in the last issue that things would be slightly different during September. That theme continues on in Issue 4 through the words of Rohan Dahiya, an artist and author of The Bitter Pill Social Club.
I’m personally extremely interested in the idea of South Asian queer culture and how differently each person chooses to navigate it. In the two part essay that spans this entire issue, Rohan attempts to tread the line between love and heartbreak, particularly through his exploration of online dating.
Before we move on to Part 1, I’d like to say thank you once again to everyone who takes time out of their day to read mush, more than anything, for your feedback which I’m trying my hardest to incorporate into future issues as time goes on. There’s a lot of room to grow as well as some potentially exciting stuff coming up ahead which I can’t wait to share with you.
One last thing, mush strives to publish narratives that are meant to be sat with and absorbed over time. So slow down and take as much time as you need, we’re not going anywhere, we promise.
x
Veer Misra (@v.eird)
Part 1: The Ballad of the Wind-Up Bullfrog
This is fine. It’s fine. We’re fine. You tell yourself. The wine is puckering up your lips so you lick them with a wine dry tongue. You turn down the brightness of your screen just a little. You’re embarrassed but you’re drunk so it’s fine. That’s one two three four apps slowly downloading now. It’s fine. You refill your glass not yet thinking of the task that lies ahead – the 500 word bio that for most people usually reads as a checklist but for you feels like a list of red flags. I’m fine, you remind yourself. You don’t yet know how small the online dating world is. You don’t have an understanding of its shifty nature. You’ve just bought your ticket and passed the gates to the show.
Online dating is a circus. It is a chaotic carnival of expectations, hormone-driven overtures, and, inevitably, heartbreaks. One navigates the grounds as an explorer, curious about the opportunities that are promised in gilded words. You walk in past the ticket counter and begin taking in the experience.
A tabletop carousel of succulents is the first to catch your eye. The man behind the counter waves a stick and beckons at you. “Step right up, and take a gander with a cactus in hand you need not pander.” he beams at you. “Doesn’t need much watering or attention. Will occasionally flower and bring you a guy that will give you undivided attention for precisely two and a half weeks, then ghost you.”
“But the point is there will always be more where he came from,” this man reassures, “one after the other like the wheel of fortune is constantly turning, so does this.”
“What’s the point of it then?” You ask.
“People come, people go.” He says simply.
There’s meaning behind his eyes but you don’t stay long enough to ask for subtext. The man he calls out to you, he promises thirst traps and expiring photos that can either be confessions of love or a dick pic. “You’ll be back”, are his last words.
In your haste to move away from the plant seller, you bump into the ornate popcorn cart. The man looks meaningfully at your perspiring brow and makes a comment on how oily your skin is. “You should try a skincare routine, this isn’t a cute look.”
“Can I just get some popcorn please?” you remark.
He shrugs. “Fine, it’s your waistline.”
One taste and you throw the bag. A man in a nondescript jacket turns to look at you and you turn away in embarrassment. Making a turn ahead you see a towering structure with light bulbs all around it. Standing before you is a mustachioed man, wearing a monocle and what appears to be fetishwear under a penguin coat.
“Welcome to the cabinet of curiosities, may I see your ticket?”
You show him your ticket and he lets out a gleeful squeal. “We’ve been expecting you.”
As he opens the edifice, you realise it’s built as an actual cabinet, shelves high above your head with trinkets of all kinds. Viennese music boxes, blue pottery jars, ushabtis with beautiful faces each under their own spotlight – but this isn’t where he’s pointing. The man reaches up and hands you a ceramic toy.
“Why is it a frog?” you ask.
“He’s very well trained in Harry Potter puns.” The man winks.
You try and look closer.
“Go on give it a whirl.” And so you turn the key and set it down. The frog takes a beat then comes to life.
“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.”
“And you have other varieties?” You ask the man.
“Different toys, different vibes. ‘The wand chooses the wizard’ type situation. Browse at your leisure, please.”
The frog remains in your hand constantly jittering because he can’t decide whether he wants your attention or not. He’ll occasionally poke your palm or make a quip. “What’s your favourite drink?” “Oh my god, please don’t tell me you’re a beer kind of guy.”
“No I’m not-”
“No it’s just that you’re in a plaid shirt and you don’t give off very queer vibes so I was just checking you know I don’t want to end up with another of those confused boys…”
“It’s not beer”
“Great. Okay, great. Brownie points for that then, so... how about an LIIT?”
“Uh- yeah, sure.” You shrug, barely keeping up with his words.
“Okay, great. Two LIITs”, the frog, quivering with nervous energy. “What a perfect start to the date–
Not that.. I mean.. I didn’t come here expecting it to be a date. That is… unless, I mean, if you thought-but I don’t know”
“No I didn’t really come here with that in mind.” You take a deep sip of the cocktail the mustache man hands you.
“But it has a date vibe no?”
“Yeah I guess it does.” You try and match his enthusiasm.
And so you decide a bullfrog trinket may not be so bad. You pay up and walk around the carnival.
Now, you see, the bullfrog is someone you will definitely come across and probably date at least once in your life. In some shape or form. He will turn up as a music box or a plastic Chinese delivery bowl. But that a bullfrog will change the way you see the world is certain.
The bullfrog is not a bad man but there is nothing good about him. First things first, everyone knows who the bullfrog is. Some have seen him at the local coffee shop, some have read his work, most of them have had microsecond flings with him. Over the course of months and maybe years, he has positioned himself into the social lives of many different people so as to have them talk about his dating adventures. He is the antithesis, the “cool guy”, the one who knows he’s the cool guy and pretends to not care. He’s the one who will time his smile and blush at your compliments with perfected ease.
There is nothing this trinket of a man cannot seemingly do. Whether it’s deciding where to meet or what to drink (a strong cocktail bodes well for no one) he practices giving decided opinions. Manners maketh man… Incisive in the streets decisive in the sheets… Emotional unavailability in men is my kink…
You see the bullfrog works like a toy, a wind-up toy, burping up these witty quips at the drop of a hat. Worse still, without reason.
The first date goes well, goes really well actually because you’re both drunk and you can kind of ignore that he has a receding hairline. You won’t fault him for taking photos of himself angled just right so no one on social media would know. He’s fine, he’s funny – he lets slip that he’s worked on being funny. He’s even worked on crafting a uniquely twisted smile. Charming. Even the self-depracating jokes are well timed so while you’re sitting back as the server brings you a fresh drink you may reach out and touch the bullfrog’s arm.
“No of course you’re not shallow”, you find yourself saying.
Drinks turn into bar snacks and more drinks, the bar around you fills up to a crescendo because it’s the weekend but the crowd also provides a nice cover. Not to mention the loud music gives the bullfrog a chance to lean in, executing the time honoured ritual of accidentally brushing his lips to your ear. Later you share a cab ride back home kissing wildly with a particularly reckless abandon – let him stare, the bullfrog declares about the uncomfortable Uber driver. He kisses in a way that leaves you short of breath, you’re honestly a little taken aback by how good of a kisser the bullfrog is. The thing is this is a side effect of his crippling inability to let anyone into his life.
A kiss on the lips is not the same as baring your self. The bullfrog is someone who keeps people at arm’s length for fear of being hurt, but you’re yet to discover all of this.
The second date is at lunch, so you know you won’t be as silly as last time. He spends the early minutes admiring the life of an artist – this is cue for you to tell him his work is also interesting. It is never interesting.
He’s thankful grateful for a second date didn’t expect it because there’s about twelve inches of difference between standing between the two of you, but the thing is he never really asked you out, it was sort of just decided upon when he showed up at the cafe you were at. The bullfrog may not acknowledge it but lurking on social media is his forte. It’s his hunting ground if you will.
He lets slip that he’s told his friends about you and they discuss what a total catch you are. This is by no accident. The bullfrog enjoys your reaction because among the many rehearsed behaviours of this wind-up toy is the crucial tactic of being a shameless flirt. Here is a man who can casually bring into conversation a bevvy of lines to the tune of “men would go to war over you” or “how is someone like you still single – oh well, I’m sure this was meant to be, that’s why”.
Cue smile.
Although he’s hiding the low tide of his hair, other things are presenting to the forefront. He isn’t fazed by the time of day or the fact that you just want a coffee, he orders a sangria – and really who would say no to cheap sangria. The next thing you know, you’re drunk and eating each other’s face and… you know how it goes. Only now that you’re standing up you realise that when you need to bend your knees almost parallel to the floor of the bathroom stall, you can kind of tell that the difference in your height is a lot. A lot.
Take a moment, close your eyes and breathe away the mental image of you kissing a child. This is fine, we’re fine. He’s a grown man, in some sense.
And he’s good with his words, the bullfrog he knows how to be charming – this time presenting choice quotes from Game of Thrones and you have it on the tip of your tongue but you hold back on comparing him to Tyrion Lannister. “I’m sure you have no trouble getting people to bend the knee” “Thank god we’re not related you might turn me into Jamie Lannister” “Can I call you dragon slayer because there’s a big-
Okay, that last one is just in your head.
You’re back at your table now, adjusting your hair now and the collar of your shirt, still flush from the making out rush in the bathroom because that is what dating culture is rooted in. Finding corners of the parking lot, bathroom stalls, away from the party in an empty hall.
The wind-up bullfrog looks distant like he’s spacing out.
“Are you ok?” you ask. He opens his mouth as if to deliver that classic line of this is too much too soon but he shakes his head.
“I’m just running low could you wind me up again?” So you pick up this olive tinted trinket of a man and give his cog a whirl and he comes to life again.
Up next for his performance, this singing bullfrog pulls out a true showstopper. 36 Questions to Fall in Love by Arthur Aron. For all the belching wit and his sexual quips, this is the point in the denouement where our fuckboy’s overtures reach the final crescendo.
The 36 Questions are designed to explore intimacy between two strangers – whether knowing these things about someone creates a connection between two people. For the uninitiated, this is the perfect tool to break the ice on a date; success rates of getting laid are very high.
And things are going well, they’re really going well because the air is heavy with his charming smile and the rising chemistry. You could just tear his shirt off right there. But now we return to the fact that the bullfrog is great at kissing – it’s because that’s all he can do. Minutes later when you’re reaching down to touch him he jerks away. This happens again after the third date. This happens when you’re at a house party together in a room of your own. You wonder.
The wind-up bullfrog doesn’t want you touching him because then he has nowhere left to hide, it is the most intimate and vulnerable way he can know you and he isn't ready for it.
He’ll never be ready for it.
You begin to realise that the reason why he’s telling his friends about you is because you’re a trophy. The reason this man is gushing to everyone he can about making out with you is because you are a conquest, that he can now show off.
It’s not because he is falling for you. There isn’t scope for integrating you into his life as a partner, because the bullfrog lives in shadows. He is smoke and mirrors. Posting a photo of the two of you isn’t a declaration of romantic interest – it is a signal to the digital world that, “Look! Look whom I can kiss and flirt with. If any man wants to try and get me to settle down, this is the standard they need to match up to!”
You try and dismiss these 3am sort of thoughts but it’s only a matter of days before you see him post date night stories of a different cocktail in a different bar with a different person. That’s when you realise the shifting nature of this wind-up toy; trinket men like these are great at presenting themselves in a charming light. But they take great care to hollow out anything real about themselves. Nothing remains unfiltered.
It’s that moment when you realise that you’ve been trying to like the wrong kind of drink, maybe sangrias just aren’t your thing.
You realise you’ve been catfished, not by the way he looks but by his personality.
You snap out of it. The smell of popcorn and sugar-coated bitterness pulls you back to the carnival and you toss the toy in a trashcan.
Take a walk around. Ride the ferris wheel. Have some meaningless sexual escapades. Hate yourself for words like escapades. Hate yourself and the world for five minutes, then pick yourself up and buy a bag of popcorn.
You walk through an open tent, a large opium den with imitation kilims and thick clouds of sweet smoke. Here you’ll find contortionists who bend over backwards, doubling over themselves as you swipe and match with them on a multitude of digital dating platforms. You'll engage in parallel conversations that seem similar yet uninspired in equal measure.
-hi how are you -hi how are you -so what’s happening -hi how are you -so what have you been up to -where have you been lost -hi how are you -oh hey -wassup -nm u tell -nm u tell -nm u tell
‘Hooking up’ or ‘casual sex’ is quite similar to the overall experience of a carnival. There’s the familiar undercurrent of transactional intimacy akin to the economics of entry tickets and ring tosses. Prizes are just as hard to win in the revolving door that is casual sex, as they are when you try and shoot the ducks. It’s possibly the worst thing to do when all you want is to fill the time, to try and have a conversation online.
When it comes to casual sex, people have all the honesty of stale donuts. But that is not to say that it can’t be a wondrous joyride, full of adventure and intrigue. You could have close encounters with someone really great in bed and then when you text them for a third time you see from their whatsapp display that they’re married.
You go in for a kiss and feel all the intimacy of a mechanical claw trying to pick up a stuffed toy. Or worse turn their lips stiff and kind of just press up against yours.
There’s all the familiar sights and sounds, something sweet and something decidedly sour in equal measure.
“Wait” you try and catch your breath “have you showered?”
MascONLY-eggplant-emoji panting behind you, “No baby didn’t have time.”
“Um why?”
“I wanted to meet you raw… you said you were looking for a real man.”
You never look at cheese popcorn the same way again.
But don’t cringe just yet, it isn’t all bad. Truly. You could meet someone who wants to go out for a drink and have an actual conversation before hooking up. It is always good to remain optimistic about these things. Realistically speaking, if there’s any hope for a chat it’s only after one or the other’s blown their load.
There is always the opportunity to create a unique backstory for yourself, you may not get away with fake names (thank you TrueCaller) but you can give yourself a great origin story.
Flashbacks of the catfishing wind-up toy come to you and you realise that it’s not a good idea to do that.
Should you be more guarded about yourself though? Yes, fucking yes.
Temptation presents itself in the form of a big hall of two-way mirrors. You look at the sign, the Exhibitionist Gallery, and you respectfully move away. You cross a man in denim, avoiding his dark brows and how they look at you. Or, well, perhaps you can pass by the gallery on your way back.
The closer you get to this next stall, you’re overwhelmed by a notion of optimism. You’re moving on, you’re ready; the smell of honey fills the air. The person behind the counter smiles at you. They have a warm inviting smile that echoes the sense of honey in the air. A wall behind them featuring every shape and size of sunglasses – some chic and retro, some right out of an LSD trip.
“We have something for everyone” they say, “and if you’re dissatisfied with our services, we also have business and platonic connections, but for you, for today, I’m feeling like you should give things a shot.”
You nod, because why the hell not?
“Browse at your leisure”, they gesture.
You walk up to a rotating display stand. “Sensory sunglasses? What are these for?”
“Oh those, well they’re designed to decipher the subtext of what people write. Works best on ‘personal bios’ but I’d say they have a fair success rate on ‘excuses’ as well.” They shrug.
You look on.
“Oh we have a brand new Meyers Briggs range in club-master frames, RayBan eat your heart out! Trademark pending of course.”
INTJ ENFP GTFO
“Hmm, I might come back later for those. I’m not sure if I buy into that whole spiel.”
They seem miffed but offer a conceding shrug.
“What about these?” you ask, pointing at a pair of oval reading glasses.
“Ah the only-slightly out of fashion frames, they help you decode what someone means when they say they’re demisexual… or these, now are half off because no one bothers with this stuff any more.” They hold up a pair under the label: sapiosexual. They shudder once. “You don’t want to know the story behind those.”
“Oh but I do,” because hell there isn't much of interest to do out in the carnival, you can hang around here.
“You’re a curious one aren’t you? We have more in the back if you’d like to step in, step in come on try one on see how it feels.” They hold up a pair from the pogonophile shelf.
“This seems like a bit much”, you’d much rather back off and try your hand at a game of ring toss instead. Something feels shady about going into their backdoor this way.
They start pulling more options. “No hookups? Slave play? Cuckolding? We really have glasses for every kind of person.”
“You know I’ll really come back later, thanks though!”
In your rush to get away from the person you bump into someone. You turn around and apologise. It’s the man in the denim jacket.
You’re arrested by his tall frame, the way he holds you. “Are you okay?” a bemused smile. His eyes are shimmering and you can’t make sense of the things it does to you on the inside.
“Yes” you’re blushing.
You’re blushing? You’re disgusted with yourself. You can’t stop smiling.
This man he has a flower in his hand. He follows your eyes, he takes the flower and drops it into the pocket of your shirt.
“You’re beautiful”, he says so simply that it takes you many heartbeats to make sense of it.
“Are you for real?” You feel yourself turning into cotton candy.
“I had my eyes on you, but it’s hard to catch your attention”, he remarks. The popcorn stand, the Exhibitionist Gallery, it’s him. “You wanna get a drink?”
“Yes!” You nod, you’re grinning, you’re glowing from the inside because this is almost too good to be true. “It’s a date”, he declares. The fact that you haven’t had to find him in a pot of soil or wrapped in a blanket of smoke, you walk side by side and his effortless cool just washes over you.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
He smiles, he stops and gives you a full body hug because that’s just how he does things. “You can call me The Artist.”
Part 2: Keep These Two Crystal Tears
Time passes languorously – with the same quality of laying in a meadow or by a stream and watching water run through your fingers and birds singing in a tree. Time passes in a beautiful way.
The Artist takes you by the hand to a party. He puts his arm around your shoulders because in the dark you can pass it off as something fraternal and you won’t be called a f*ggot or a c*nt or just stabbed to death.
You think to yourself this is it, this is the moment of intimacy that I will crave and look for in other people for the rest of my life and there’s a part of me, you know, there’s a part of me that knows the impossibility of it because this place my country it’s not the kind of place where the rules of intimacy apply equally to everyone.
You think about being tied to a fence and having a car of raging men drive into you. You think of being stabbed and chopped up into little pieces. About the time when a cab driver tried to stop you from getting out of the car.
You think of all the unreported crimes against your people while you’re standing next to the Artist who is smiling and when he looks at you, you feel a smile on your face too.
You get drinks, not as strong as a cocktail this time, and soon his words begin to feel like they’re perfumed, in a way, just for you. The Artist touches his heart when you offer him the drink because that is just how he honours you. You bump glasses and he tells you the most wondrous stories.
He tells you of sneaking into cinema halls at a young age and watching semi pornographic films – this shaped his view of sex and intimacy and the human body, his own body, in such a unique way that it changed him as a person. He has never been with the crowd because the taboo of sex had never settled into his brain. You think, is this the first time I’m going to kiss someone who has never had issues with their body?
There’s something about the way he looks into your eyes when you speak that you find yourself revealing things without filter.
“I once met this guy online who once we shifted conversation to a phone call was so disappointed that I didn’t have a deep voice that he just completely blocked me out.” Well fuck, your brain chimes. Why would you share this with him on a date?
“I’m sorry I don’t know why that’s the first thing that came to my mind.”
“Don’t be sorry we should be able to talk about our past without fear of judgement” the Artist shrugs, “even things that seem insignificant like this. It’s not though. It happened and that’s that. You have a beautiful voice and that’s the truth.”
You stare because there must be another shoe to drop.
“So it becomes irrelevant what some other guy thinks because it’s his burden to deal with.”
“Burden?”
“The constant search for a man with a deep voice”, the artist shrugs “sounds like he has issues of his own that have nothing to do with you, baba.
When I was fifteen I moved out of my house for a year because I wanted to experience the world. I do have to thank my dad for being as understanding as he was otherwise I wouldn’t be who I am today. I mean I also have my mother to thank for that but the love I have for her is what I’m always reflecting in my art.”
There’s a brief power cut and the lights black out. He reaches forward and kisses you smack dab in the middle of this crowded place. Your heart is booming so loud it could be heard in space.
The lights flicker back on and the Artist continues as if he didn’t just set you on fire.
“The more you live, the more you learn. Some people are not nice simply because they don’t understand niceness. They’ve never seen it… but there’s beauty in that too.”
You wonder if he is simply in the habit of seeing the beauty in everything, or if there’s something extra special about you.
No one notices when he takes your hand and you shine with the fierceness of a lighthouse. Even when you’re kissing in the dark where the wall blots out the moon and there’s the vague smell of a urinal, you’re glowing.
You kiss like animals in the car and this time you’re the one who doesn’t care about being watched because the Artist holds your face with such a deep tenderness that you feel like you’re the only two people alive in this whole world.
He takes you somewhere close by; a friend’s house with quick introductions and the guy greets you with such warmth you feel like you’re in the company of an old friend.
He’s straight, lurking on Tinder, and readily bringing out more gin and more cigarettes and ice because it’s a balmy night and you’re drinking and smoking and listening to their stories as they get progressively theatrical as if for your benefit alone, because the Artist looks at you when you laugh at the way you laugh and shares more of his life to see the fascination in your eyes and he sits on your lap then pulls you onto his and your heads are filling up with flowers as your lips collide.
And then he has to fly home.
And so you catch a cab and take your drunk ass home and he goes off to the airport. He almost misses his flight because of all the gin. You text him till the moment he boards and he calls you once briefly before taking off. You feel both amazing and deflated at the same time.
The Artist rings you; he’s coming to town and wants to see you and of course you want to see him, he’s tall and gorgeous and he’s an actual artist not one of those dime-a-dozen part timers that brood in dingy bar corners, wrapped in self importance and ganja smoke. He’s an artist, in every waking moment of his life. And every day when he writes to you he wraps his words in flowers. He tells you he has a show coming up and he won’t have it any other way but to have you there by his side.
Which is how you find yourself sweating under the harsh lights of a changing room, on a call with your friend, sharing pictures of every pair of pants you’re trying on because you want to look sexy but not trashy. This is how you find yourself walking down the most unassuming street in an unfamiliar part of town, which you’d never thought could have existed because it’s an art show and you’re in a decidedly un-artistic space - Step aside and let an actual bull-cart pass by - This is mostly clear by the sheer absence of upturned noses and Chanel perfume. There is however plenty of tasteful silk and oxidized silver jewelry, of course there is, and as cinematic as could be, you walk in and there in the corner is the Artist speaking to some people about his pieces in the show. You’re introduced to the curator, to other artists, to so many new faces that you realise you like the smallness of your social circle. Funny how this isn’t turning out to be as rosy as you’d thought. You take a drink from the makeshift bar serving decidedly cheap liquor to emphasise the low-brow high-art contrast of this evening. You block your nose and drink it down. He’s at the center of attention and you resolve yourself to cheer from the sidelines with a smile. Small talk and introductions ensue as he makes his way through the gallery with important people.
And then the next morning you realise that the annoying turd burger you were trying to make polite conversation with is one of if not the most celebrated indie music artists in the fucking country. You’d know if you liked his music, you’d care if you actually gave enough of a shit about what the spaced-out jukebox thought of you. But you don’t, because this morning you woke up next to the Artist in your bed who has flowers in his mouth for you – and sure it’s a private kind of paradise but it’s yours for the moment. Then you realise his ex was at the party and he didn’t tell you then but now you know and now it makes sense why the guy was dressing to impress.
But you were dressing to impress too.
You stroll to the little photobooth where he kisses you, you play the game where you’re shooting at balloons on a wall but there’s almost never a prize to be won. You look to the Artist and realise you’ve beaten the algorithm, you don’t need the world of online dating. Is the time drawing close where you can tear up your ticket?
You pop in to the bathroom to check for any vagrants between your teeth (the true demons of popcorn) and any unsightly sweat patches. When you come back the Artist has taken to the wind. You look for hours, for days, you text him and there’s nothing in return. You breathe, you’re an adult and will deal with this in an adult way. You write to him, ‘call me so I know you’re safe’. He doesn’t call. Your 3am thoughts return with a vengeance.
Anger rears its head. You barely know each other, there’s a clear voice in your head reminding you of that. You are not the Muse to the Artist. You circle back to the makeshift bar and buy two drinks, under the lights of the ferris wheel you drink them both.
You head over to the big red tent, walking in as the ringmaster announces the show. The Vaudeville, the stage show that’s been waiting for you and he gives out a gloved white hand and suddenly you’re in the role of the doe-eyed central character. This is the real show, the trap app. Tinder used to be fun but now it’s for covert hookups with straight/closeted men/married uncles/etc./etc./etc.
What’s behind door number one? A gym trainer on the down-low looking to shoot up in a 4 bedroom shared apartment. May or may not ask if you want a threesome with his roommate who still has sweat circles on his t-shirt.
Resentment tastes of bitter Old Monk on your tongue.
What’s behind door number two? Single, fit, and ready for some meaningful interactions. Photos only from the neck down and perfect articulation in the bio. Wait, actually has a bio. You look up. Swipe right. Talk for a few days, as he gets progressively creepier. You reach the point where you regret telling him where you work because one day he shows up and asks if you wanna get coffee. Next week he’s fed up of you not replying to his texts and tells you that you’re a toxic person.
You glare at your phone, nothing from the Artist.
And finally, drumroll please, door number three. If you’ve made it this far then you know you’re in for a treat because it can’t be just weirdo after weirdo. The door opens and it’s the Artist walking out.
You puke on the showman’s red coat and run out of the tent. The Artist he calls you and you’re not sure if he’s himself or the version that’s on the downward trail of a dopamine slope. He’s had a full week of celebrating, a wedding or something, he hasn’t slept for two days because of all the joy and cocaine.
You find yourself in a blue hotel room with his head on your chest, snoring like thunder because his nasal passages are a mess. You look at him and don’t say anything. This is the point where dawn comes and you find sense in the morning dew.
He speaks to you in words and you hear from him in symphonies. But, you see, the symphonies have only been in your head. You have your frequencies mixed up. The Artist has a way with words like flowers, and somehow you have the sense that he may run into these situationships too often.
The flowers have begun to wilt around you. You’re there in the middle of this carnival show, still outside the Tinder tent when a man walks up to the two of you. You have a whole piece prepared for the Artist but you don’t get to say it. You don’t get to ask the other guy to back off.
“Ready to go home, baba?” he says to the Artist.
A pair of keys in the pocket of his jeans, you stare at the keychain jangling over the edge. Flowers encased in resin so they’d live forever. It all makes sense, doesn’t it?
Overlapping images of them sharing a life like fireworks blowing up in the sky. You wonder if the friend who gave you gin and hospitality knew that you were a flavor-of-the-month while the Artist was going home to someone else.
You zip up your feelings. Drawn tight to your chest, you keep them safe and walk away with your dignity broken but not unfixable. A ringing in your right ear that takes away any sounds of clinking glasses, or flirty smiles, or awkward first dates from around you. You drown out the echo of a bullfrog somewhere pulling out 36 Questions of Love.
You aren’t yet sure what’s worse, the open relationship or the casual handling of your heart. You don’t give yourself time to figure it out. You climb into the dirty white SUV of a stranger and his roommate. You drive around in cars with boys. You go out and find ways to heal your self. To fuck the pain away. To wash over the embarrassment. You learn to dance to music that you don’t like. A part of you thinks wonders waits for an explanation, to hear the Artist running up behind you to offer some kind of anything. You know it will never come. You burn your ticket to the freakshow for a few months, maybe even a year. You go out with friends even when you want to break down. You hate Friday nights and then you wait for them. You dance through the tears and learn to keep your eyes to the stars.
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I wasn't ready for this whole carnival rollercoaster ride my heart is beating too fast. Absolutely in awe.
okay, i am kinda obsessed with this piece. like literally, this is my 7th or 8th time reading this..... awesome stuff.
with loads of love,
another indian queer boy stuck in the circus of dating apps