By Jem Ashton
I stole Lady Gaga’s Artpop from the FYE across the street from my highschool. It was a gift for my highschool boyfriend, who credited Lady Gaga with saving his life - a classic gay boy story of the time. I’ll refer to him by his first initial, M. M once tackled me in the parking lot of his highschool when he was trying to get into my pants. He was aggressively horny - he sexually assaulted me, really - but that wasn’t what led me to dump him. I dumped him after he gave me a promise ring. It was clear that what I thought was a silly highschool relationship looked like something else from his perspective - not a match. I kept the ring, but I never wear it. It’s too big. Perfect for his own chubby fingers, but a bad match for my bony hands.
The FYE I stole from is now the gym I go to. After breaking up with my most recent boyfriend - a relationship that lasted nearly seven years - I moved back to the suburban town where I spent my latter teenage years. It’s as suburban as I remember it being. The grocery store is filled with the elderly, the middle-aged who wear Cookie Monster sweatpants, and children who are unattended. The strip malls are filled with chains, whether national or regional. There’s a thick layer of patriotism spread over the neighborhoods. I’ve stolen from the gym now, too. Just one towel so far. Every time I go, I consider taking another one. They’re a good size - modest enough for the sauna while still being small enough to require a good portion of one thigh to be visible when you’re seated with any degree of spread. It gives me the opportunity to be a tease - something I insist I’m not but love to be at any given opportunity. Countless times, I’ve been signalled or directly asked by men in the sauna to show off my dick and I’ve gladly complied. Gladly, because it means I’m wanted. Gladly, because it puts me in a position to reject somebody, which means I have power. And I like having power. Thank you for giving me power, here you go.
One week this summer, I was propositioned each time I went to the gym. The first was on a Sunday. The man sitting next to me whispered to me déjame mirarte. Por favor. I know just enough Spanish to understand. I let him look. The next day, the same man was there. I showed him again and he used his phone to show me a picture of his boner. On Wednesday, a man followed me from a bench into the sauna after we made prolonged eye contact with each other during our workouts - a ripped, hairy, bald man. We then left the sauna together and jerked each other off in his car. His phone was connected to his car’s bluetooth and I learned his name was Greg. Greg’s iPhone. The day after that, there was a tall man who followed me in. We groped each other a little before some other men joined us in the sauna, which forced us into couthness. I later learned this tall man is the current boyfriend of a man who I once went on a date with. They’re a cute couple. For my last workout of the week, I didn’t intend to visit the sauna, but I was persuaded by an older man. At first, I rejected his advances by saying I didn’t bring a towel, which wasn’t true. Then, he offered me his extra towel. We sat together in the sauna. Eventually, a friend of his came in. They both jerked off while looking at me. I didn’t. I still have the towel. It’s green and large - intended to be a beach towel probably.
Since that week, I’ve been propositioned less frequently. I now go to the gym at times when it’s less busy. Overall, the gym is less busy than it was early in the summer. Maybe it’s because people gave up on getting their summer body, resigning themselves to their suburban truths. Maybe they’re busy living it up on lavish vacations. There are dozens of excuses I can come up with for them - both denigrating and kind.
At the gym today, I sat in the sauna and I was wishing the perverts were back. Being horny after a workout is an animalistic pleasure - a simple, physical state of being - and it’s easy to satisfy. I’m craving that simplicity, the uncomplicated act of helping a man you’ll never see again get off. Everything else in my life feels like an insurmountable problem. At every turn, I have to ask myself if I can make it work. Grad school. Relationships - WHICH relationships? Money. Managing my time. Becoming SOMETHING. Compared to all that, making some guy cum feels so easy. If I ask myself if I can make that work, I know the answer is yes. There’s nothing to worry about. There’s no financial risk. I have no emotional hang ups. It only takes a few minutes. Like petty theft, I often think. Just a low-risk, convenient, moderately satisfying action that is always available. If the choice is between being a kleptomaniac or a nymphomaniac, which would you rather have me be?
I appreciate the material benefit of theft. I appreciate the more innocent delights of sexuality. However, the right answer, of course, is neither. The right answer is to confront life’s complications, as inconvenient as they might be, rather than riding them out until life makes choices for me while I distract myself with the simple pleasures. To me, these confrontations often feel as though they’re pushing me towards psychosis. While I’m fairly sure it’s not psychosis, just the WHACK of stress that comes with life-hood, I can’t count out the possibility that it could be psychosis (it’s common enough in my family). The mature thing for me to do is to engage in those complicated feelings and then get a grip on my feelings while I push through, whether those feelings are psychotic or not.
I’ve recently been on a borrowing kick. It’s like stealing, but I promise myself I’ll bring the things back. Back to the ex who I was with for close to seven years. The life we had together was who I’ve been for as long as the relationship lasted and I feel like I’ve been struggling to give birth to my new identity - one that’s mine alone. The things I borrow are things we shared. Things that are his, but were also mine for seven years, but are now just his again. His CDs, which I’ve borrowed for road trips with potential friends, lovers, exes. His hiking boots, which we always shared because we wear the same size. I felt bad about borrowing those and have since purchased my own - just mine - hiking boots. His microplane, which my family gifted to him, so it certainly is his, but I needed to zest a lemon. Shortly after this borrowing, a friend asked what they could buy me for my birthday and I asked for a microplane. The microplane void in my kitchen has been filled now. I won’t need to borrow his again. I’m glad to say I have so far returned everything I’ve borrowed from him. The myriad voids in my life have been slowly erased by my own versions of his things.
As I build a fuller version of my life by replacing what’s been lost with things that are my own, my borrowing and theft become less necessary. Same goes for my frivolous sexual encounters. While I was with my long-term same-sex sexual/romantic partner of nearly seven years, being a tease for the perverts at the gym was an escape from my dissatisfaction. It was an escape from my inability to confront necessary amendments or a dissolution. I was once again using the simple pleasures available around every corner to distract myself from the more complicated issues in my life - from reality. Now that sex is just sex instead of a distraction from displeasure, I’m seeking it out less. It feels less necessary. Being in a long-term relationship expanded my life. While that expansion felt good, it also created more gaps. I didn’t have enough within myself to fill those voids on my own. Single again, my life has shrunk and returned to a size that’s manageable for my little nut of a brain. If a pervert at the gym asks to see my dick, it’s there for them, but I’m not going out of my way to increase the odds of that occurring. If I find myself in a rut because I don’t have the right tools in my kitchen, I can solve that problem myself.