Vignette: Troy

He is warped by experience.

He is gasping for air. He loves it. He is a rush, seventeen again, he is sexy, he is brilliant. He dances and gropes the boys around him, lost souls. He chokes on the smell of their musk, mixed aftershave, alcohol, and sweat. He is drunk. He is tall, but not too tall, and fair skinned, not pale, and he does not wear makeup. He is gorgeous without makeup, he thinks. And it will be gone after a night like this, smeared away. He is lonely.

His best friends are straight women who party like him. His best friends are all sleeping though. He is on his own tonight. He went to a gay bar tonight. He wants to feel better tonight. He is not unique. He is exhausted. He smiles at the guys he has been dancing with and weaves to the bar, off the slick dance floor. He runs into a kid who calls him a few obscenities but doesn't care about the brat. He needs water. He wants a hard shot.

He drinks. He hates himself for it. He knows a girl whose father was a drunk. He knows how sad that made her. He will never have a little girl to disappoint. He will never have any children to disappoint. He stares at the wooden bar in the brick building and smiles. He stares at the boy next to him, he stares at the boy's hands. Chipped blue nails, not dirty. He thinks the boy might be clean, if only the thought didn't fleet. The boy can't be clean. If he was clean...he would be home. But the boy is beautiful, if not clean. He is not good enough to touch the boy.

He runs out, retrieves his coat. He is a messy blur of a human. He is your sad friend who cuts. He is your sad friend who smokes. He is your sad friend who drinks. He is a whore and he is ashamed.

He catches a cab. He is sneered at, like he is an animal. He tells the driver where to go. He goes. He weeps like a child in front of my apartment. He sleeps on the couch.

He is warped by innocence.