The rain is falling on my city.
Thick black sheets of cold shimmer down
from the reddish night sky to the shining pavement below.
I wonder who would be out this night.
I wonder who is at the bars.
I envision the parking lots,
full of nice cars with little
stickers on the back that mean,
“i’m one too–and i’m available.”
And inside, the bars will be packed.
Hot. Sweaty. Pulsating.
Lights and beats and rhythms.
Discreet sex acts in the bathrooms.
Phone numbers on napkins and promises
made into emptied beer glasses.

But i’m not at the bars.
And neither is he.
Neither is Curtis.
While the club kids gyrate
and the daddies eye the chickens
and the tops seek the bottoms
and the drag queens flirt with the bears
and the singles drink their paychecks
Curtis sits in his room.

Men’s Workout magazines
are hidden beneath Christian Youth rags
and a Playboy
is under the mattress to throw dad off and
notes from people he’s told
are piled conspicuously in the bottom desk drawer.
Beautiful sketches of
ungodly acts
are filed between cheesecake anime chicks
and countless comic-book concept hypes,
and a picture he drew
of a man he loved
is folded into a tiny square
stuffed into a space
under his stereo.
His mother’s wounds are healing
and his father’s not awake any more
and he’s in his bedroom
with the door closed and the lights out.

I’m not in the bars.
I’m in my car.
I’m parked in my driveway
watching the rain slick down the glass
and cars pass by and stop and talk
and drive on
and the first boy i ever touched
when we were in middle school
is down the street in his room
trying to fuck a girlfriend.
He’s drunk, which is the only way he can ever get it up,
and she thinks she’s ugly
which is not true
because he is thinking of me instead of her.
And they are so in love.
They say so constantly.

But i am not in love.
I am in my own car,
in my own world,
out for three years
and i’ll tell anyone
except my parents
who must know anyway
but i am not afraid
much
and it’s so easy being open
when you’ve never been beaten
for loving someone
or believing in something
or being somewhere
like a particular bar.
And i don’t know what it’s like.
I can’t know what it’s like.
I have it so god damned easy.
All i have to lament
is celibacy.
And i haven’t held my hand out.
I could have held my hand out,
but all i do is wear a bracelet,
drive with a sticker,
go to a bar.
This is what we call pride.
Freedom.
Out.

But i am not free.
Even in the bars,
even when i am not alone.

And somewhere,
Curtis is crying.