Minutes on Asphalt (DRAFT)

By Jem Ashton

In the second month of a new relationship while on a weekend road trip to a small town in the desert - one that’s more of a byproduct of tourism than an earnestly charming podunk - my then-new boyfriend dragged me to the one bar in town where fags might not get stared down. That weekend, fags were actively welcomed, actually. The local queers put a bare-armed effort into staging a full-fledged Pride Festival that drew queers in from all over the region. It also lured in some queers who intended to “just pass through town” but couldn’t resist the timeless charm of pop music barely audible through amped up bass and rowdy, drunk homosexuals. 

One was a rugged man with gray hair, tanned skin, and a beard that reached his sternal notch - bare, only hidden by the same chest hair that would guide your eye down to a vertex held together by a shirtbutton below his chest. He said we - me and my then-new boyfriend - fit the vibe for his company, which was looking for models. We should consider modeling, he said. He didn’t say what his company was and we didn’t ask, but we enjoyed his company enough to make him our friend for the evening. We kept talking and he stood behind me during the long wait for drinks at the crowded bar. He was passing through town with his husband, who was somewhere else in the crowd, and they caught wind of the party. They liked road-tripping on their motorcycles, they liked meeting new people. He liked our look - or maybe or looks, as distinct and separate as they are. 

He brushed his rough, asphalt hand along my wiry forearm and I shifted my weight back to lean fractionally closer to the affectionate man standing behind me at the bar. With the gentle movement of our bodies - shifting to drink or make way for the flowing crowd - his belt pressed into me. His body pressed against mine. My fraction of a step became whole and I pressed myself against him, signaling I welcomed his belt, his body. Signaling I welcomed his body pressing into me. 

He asked for my number, saying he wanted my number to keep in touch about the modeling suggestion, but I caught a glimpse of a more familiar invitation in his eye. His cheeks were rosy with lust and beer. His eyes were heavy like ripe fruit, plump and ready with visions of seeding fertile earth. 

I gave him a fake, because I wasn’t sure I wasn’t crossing the boundaries of my then-new relationship. Would my boyfriend mind my minute flirtation with this stranger? I both cared and didn’t. My fake phone number felt like the middle ground. 

I was saying “yes.” 

I was saying “no.” 

I was getting what I wanted and I was giving it up.

Because I took the lazy way out of a tricky situation, that was the end of the road.

A Great Flood

By Jem Ashton 

My knuckles are rubbed thin by my persistent, aggressive, maybe unnecessary handwashing. 

In the cold weather, the thinned skin cracks and my knuckles bleed. Sometimes, I don't notice for awhile, only realizing my injury when I finally have reason to look at my hands and see the frozen blood dew - dark red and sticky - on my knuckle peaks. As soon as I can, I wash my hands again. I rub the blood away along with more skin. 

In the following days, I'm more careful. I treat my hands gently. I talk myself out of believing every surface is so nasty that I need to rub away my skin after touching anything. I remind myself I need a healthy dermal layer to protect myself from germs. I moisturize, do what I can to retain the oil my skin needs to survive. Scabs form, my skin heals. 

My hands look good, as if I never washed my skin away.

Suitable

By Late Night Writings

Letter One: Looks
I never liked you for your mind, your personality, or talents, but you're pretty hot, so I figured "hey, I may as well settle for this." I do like you, don't worry about that. I just like you for reasons that I don't particularly care about. Your looks aren't all that you have, either. You're so tolerable and I don't mind spending time with you. I could see myself not minding spending the rest of my life with you. Your flaws are very easy to look away from and you are really hot. Besides, I couldn't get Jude Law no matter what I tried, but at least you have similar cheekbones.

Letter Two: Personality
You have a wonderful personality and I can't find a reason to like you beyond that. You are such a nice person and I love that about you. You're not the cutest or the smartest, but you are genuinely the most kind of all my suitors. Why shouldn't I choose to be with someone like you? You would never hurt me or lie to me. It's just a flat roller coaster with a nice scenery. Although the scenery is a bit lacking here and there. The point is that you won't complicate things and that's worth having.

Letter Three: Smarts
At times, I can't even believe how smart you are. I've never found anyone else who I can go on and on with about the most profound topics. I deeply enjoy the conversations we share. I'm impressed - very impressed - so please stop trying to impress me. You've already got me hooked! You are so smart, yes, I know. You must know something about dating, beyond theories and trivia. You must have some actual how-to after reading so much Jane Austen. It's time to tie me down! Get to it!

Conceptual Piece One

By Late Night Writings

Like each day before, I sat there with my eyes scanning the contents of the toilet bowl, intent on catching a hopeful glint of shining gold. As a once wealthy man, I had grown accustomed to shit spotted - as if decorated and designed by the finest craftsmen - with jewels and precious metals. I came from a family so rich that in just one meal, we would eat a poor man’s income of a year. Our meals weren’t fuller or bigger, but they were finer and dressed in coin. It was my own family who decided to throw me down the hatch. It was in my family’s own prison that I came to cherish the wealth I now miss. I spent a month in that cell and it had not once crossed my mind to scavenge the wealth expelled from my body. That shit-stained silver, gold, gems, and every bit I could have held onto would have done a lot of good for me now. With each day, my innards became less valuable, which led what came out of them to run dry of wealth along with. I’ve been out of that hole for three months now and I still hope for the smallest crumb of gold to pass along through. Even one as small as a fine pebble would help me get by for a long while. Though it looks that my shit is now only as brown as earth’s dirt and there’s no buried treasure to be found under its muddy surface.