his guy Tony is nuzzling my neck. His lips are grazing across me, stimulating my nerve endings or whatever. In response, my dick is getting hard. His hands are wet for some reason, overly sweaty like he’s nervous. He doesn’t seem nervous. And they may be sweaty, but they know where they're going. ...my pants buttons pop open quietly. He keeps hitting the steering wheel with his elbow, so I scoot more center on the seat, avoiding the gearshift. My legs spread slightly at the suggestion of his touch. He's breathing heavily, kissing my face. My dick is filling out in his hand, and I can feel my heartbeat there."

CUT TO: INT. NIGHT. The computer screen throws light at me. I'm hunched over, tapping keys. My eyes are incredibly focused, tracking the progress of this sentence and others simultaneously forming in my head. The things I'm writing are lies, I just pretend they're true. More on that later. The ephedrine helps me filter out reality; problem is, it mostly filters out me. I wish I could just write the perfect guy – yknow, write his insides – words that trail out in sticky scrawls and linger before drying into crumbly scales:

"He's in the seat next to me. I keep leaning towards him, inching minutely until my shoulder touches his. When we make contact it’s so warm the feeling spreads through me like a brush fire. My senses are suddenly alert, listening for sounds he might make. ...I watch him out of the corner of my eye, hoping I’ll catch him doing the same. ...my leg grazes his, testing the waters. ...I'm unable to make any evaluation. When the play ends, we clap. I turn to him and ask him how he liked the show. It’s small talk that’s detached from the real me sinking into his dark eyes, clinging to the seconds they remain focused on me. When we get to his house later, I stop the car. He unfastens his seatbelt and looks out his window. An involuntary sadness pushes through me like a wave, stirring up debris. ...fresh wreckage sinks to the bottom. When he turns to me the feeling disappears, replaced by something like electricity. I want to kiss him but can't tell if he's thinking the same. ...I try telepathy. He smiles, says he had a nice time. During the subsequent pause I try to figure out what happens next. In this moment my mind races forwards and backwards, simultaneously projecting a happy ending and smashing those dreams to bits. My lips mash against his suddenly – not as gently as planned – then retreat. Then his are on mine, swallowing me. All the air in the car disappears, my head feels light. When our faces pull apart, his eyes lock on mine like magnets. He smiles and watches me as he opens his door and climbs out. The door slams shut."

CUT TO: INT. NIGHT. I've spotted someone who fits the description. It's not a fetish, it's an unconscious thing: it’s "Tony" (i.e., my ideal). I’m at a club, a queer club. He's with friends, laughing, obviously fucked-up. I feel like I'm in a pinpoint spot, like my attraction's totally conspicuous even though it's pretty dark over here where I’m lurking in a corner near the bar. The music’s pounding, and occasionally a light moves across his face. FLASH. During these syncopations, I attempt to decode his expression. Is he looking over here? FLASH. MY POV: He's definitely looking over here, isn’t he? FLASH. Yeah, no mistake – he’s spotted me. FLASH. It's a game we play for a couple of songs. ...his friends don't really notice, they're way too fucked up. FLASH. His eyes are dark – they don’t land in mine but skirt around them, taxiing. From over here across the room I feel his breath on my cheek, hot air that sweeps up the arc of bone to my ear. I pick up discrete language there, all of it fabricated. FLASH. He's not looking this way. FLASH. CRANE SHOT (SLOW ASCENT): He’s walking away with his friends. FLASH. His back. FLASH. His absence. CUT.

FLASH. The record the DJ's spinning hangs in the air a moment, then crashes like a wave. When it retreats, it leaves a mess of uncovered emotions detached from their resting place, now vibrating sediment in my veins. This synthetic psychedelic I bought off the internet is burning out. MY POV: I watch the spot where he last stood, flashing back, half-expecting him to rematerialize from his traces. I just want to talk to him. ...no strings. He gives me that feeling, like I want him to hold me. ...just small talk, casual conversation. Am I just some big fag to him? I hate that I can't even talk to him. ...no big deal. If I talk to him and find out he's straight I'll never be able to look at him again. ...I decide against it. Every guy I've ever wanted, really wanted, has turned out to be straight. Why would he be the exception? (sigh) I zone out and watch the lights synchronizing with the bass, diamond scratch-scratch-scratching across vinyl. FLASH.

"I licked his eyelids when he fell asleep. Around his mouth are my crumbs, dried kisses carelessly left behind. Flash back to the scene in the library: his intensity through the bookshelves. We passed invisible love notes with our gestures: slow blinks, territorial snarls, sharp intakes of breath.

His hands wrapped themselves around the books on my table. I watched them lift my discarded volumes to his cart. His eyes never strayed. ...mine faltered, though, landing in my lap. His lips twitched something, and my face responded involuntarily. My ears shut down. I don’t remember our exchange.

The cart sang as he steered it away, loaded with books. His neck pulled his face, which caught me looking. His hips made me follow like hypnotism, mostly hidden in baggy jeans.

The door gave way under my flat palm. He was standing at the sink, pretending to wash his hands. His eyes studied me in the mirror, then his lean frame turned ninety degrees – the front of his pants flat and safe. His hands unfurled under mine against the stall door, his tongue warm and fat in my mouth. He shut his violent eyes, and our shirts rubbed together, catching at the buttons.

Now he lies sprawled on my bed. I'm trying on his clothes, which are too small but smell amazing. His hands twitch intermittently. I lay my cheek inside one of them: it’s a perfect fit."

FADE TO: INT. DAY. There’s a restless hush in the air. Weary librarians leaf through heavily-thumbed reference books, alternately shushing the room. It’s a largely afterschool crowd, peopled with high school students anxiously sourcing overdue research papers. A few terminals away, to my right, this indescribably cute kid browses the internet. He’s fifteen? ...sixteen maybe? MY POV: I gawked his way a few minutes ago, but he caught me looking, answering back with an expression I couldn’t define. Now my attentions are more clandestine: stolen glances wedged at the corner of my eye, fake coughs, steps back to gaze at the clock on the wall above his head.

I’m "looking for various things on the online library catalog," i.e., following up on my latest prose piece. CLOSE ON: A piece of paper next to the keyboard lists my subjects alphabetically, scrawled in my pitiful hand: "COOPER, HEIM, REMOTE VIEWING, SHAMANISM, WOJNAROWICZ." PAN BACK: As I’m scrolling down the computer screen I decide on him, my new infatuation six feet away. MY POV: I chance a look his way, and he looks back. He smiles generically, oblivious. He’s so adorable in that Hispanic sophomore way: smooth, warm, indubitably boyish. He’s perfect. He doesn’t have to talk. He doesn’t even have to be there, I can write him in. My eyes glaze over, and text begins to scroll up like backstory, superimposed on his soft pink grin:

"Tony’s face is in my hands. I’m looking down at it, entranced. Over his left eyebrow is a small dent the size of a grape. ...some blood crusts around it. I run my fingers over the dent, the back of his head dead weight against my lap. They slip down inside the concavity. I’m closer to him than ever before.

I beeped him tonight, an old beeper number found among the scraps of bills on my desk. I wasn’t sure if it was still active, but I punched it in anyway. When he rapped on my door I stood silently peering through the peephole for at least a minute, watching him shift his weight from sole to sole, nervously waiting for me to answer.

On my couch his eyes zigzag across my walls and land timidly in mine for seconds at a time. I employ reassuring smiles and offer him a drink. ...he accepts. The third drink in, his liquor joins the party. His hot hands are looking for a comfortable place to rest – my knee obliges.

Halfway into the kiss I pull out a joint and wave it tauntingly under his nose. His eyes land on this new bullseye then flit up into mine and stay there awhile, ...grateful? Some good weed and the fifth drink in, my face is slick with sweat and his spit. His head lolls back on the couch as I reposition him supine like a sick mannequin.

The snaps of his shirt are easy, like a doll’s. His eyes alternate between open and closed, aware and distant. He doesn’t care what my hands do. I swallow half his cum and share the rest with him. My tongue swirls it around the cavity of his mouth like a wet fan blade.

I listen to his drunken fifteen-year-old words for exactly thirty seconds before I get up and go to the kitchen. His eyes are X'S when I return with the hammer. It only takes one try – his body jolts a little and his eyes fling open at me accusingly. He opens his mouth to say something immature and boring, but his brain decides against it. He slumps back into cuteness.

My hands have discovered his niches. My fingers are dirty with him. On his chest I have written our life story in various unsafe fluids. We share a moment, a space in eternity like a married couple. Nick at Nite is on the TV. I tug him into a seated position and point his head at the screen, careful to avoid his soft spot. I should hit him again, but I don’t. His eyes flutter impatiently under translucent lids. Lovingly, I listen: his heart beats so slowly, so slowly. Soon mine follows suit, warm and floating in me. ...awake."

CUT TO: INT. NIGHT. I’m in my room. It’s late. There’s a static under my skin: a buzzing sound, like feedback vibrating across me. It’s propelling me forward, morphing me into some kind of signal that advances by the strength and importance of its message. It’s the GHB analogue I bought off the internet pushing through me, pulling me under. I close my eyes as it takes over, dragging me deep into unconsciousness.

DREAM SEQUENCE: I’m floating in a circular pattern a foot above my bed. Around me the walls twist into one another, succeeding angles reassuringly regular and enfolding. A crackle of memory sears through my brain: ...images of Tony seated on the couch. FLASHBACK: ...the intersection of his two legs. FLASHBACK: ...the blur of my vision in a slow-motion cross to the kitchen. FLASHBACK: ...his head tilting to catch this movement. FLASHBACK: ...his sticky eyes, my heart twisting and swirling inside my chest.

FADE TO: LATER, SAME NIGHT. Awake, at my computer, it comes out of me in spasms, long ropy trails of pure emotion:

"He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me."

CUT TO: EXT. DAY. My truck lurches forward as I train it through its gears. HELICOPTER SHOT: We’re careening through the city streets at sixty miles an hour. FRONT-MOUNTED CAR CAM: Next to me is Tony. He grins at me fondly as we hurl through intersections, sailing past stop signs and red lights with abandon.

Tony points his drunk expression in my direction. His face has subtitles: "Did I mention my name’s Tony?" In the liquid black of his pupils I can see my reflection staring back at me, somehow complete: "I live just down the block," his lips curve perfectly, mouthing: "Wanna come inside?"

I ease up on the gas. CLOSE ON: Shift to fourth. CUT TO: MY POV: This synth GHB’s kicking my ass. I shouldn’t be driving, too many fucking morons on the road. Good thing I can drive in my sleep. Ha-ha. My mind’s racing, picturing things that aren’t there: ...words. ...phrases. ...fantasies. ...Tony. I stare at the empty passenger’s seat, totally captivated. I imagine the way His ass would press into the cushion, imprinting it with His flesh. Then I imagine His ass, still wrapped in those fucking loose jeans. My mind starts to build Him from scratch - but always according to design. Tony. Tony, tony tony tony… I can’t concentrate on anything else. I shouldn’t be driving. I can’t concentrate on anything but Tony.

FRONT-MOUNTED CAR CAM: "Floor it." That’s Tony’s angelic voice, SUBTITLING: "How fast does this piece of shit go, anyway?" CLOSE ON: My foot plunges the pedal, CLOSE ON: his fucking smile spits out in letters 12 points high: "Yeah, man. Open her up…" PAN BACK: He’s nuzzling my neck. His lips are grazing across me, stimulating my nerve endings or whatever. "Can’t you go any faster?!" CLOSE ON: In response, my dick is getting hard. His hands are wet for some reason, overly sweaty like he’s nervous. "Faster, man!" MY POV: He doesn’t seem nervous. And they may be sweaty but they know where they're going. ...my pants buttons pop open quietly. "FASTER! Break the fucking sound barrier, do it for me!" CLOSE ON: He keeps hitting the steering wheel with his elbow, CLOSE ON: so I scoot more center on the seat, CLOSER: avoiding the gearshift. CLOSE ON: My legs spread slightly at the suggestion of his touch. "Faster! Do it for me…." TIGHT SHOT: He's breathing heavily, kissing my face. CLOSE ON: My dick is filling out in his hand, and I can feel my—

CUT TO BLACK.

"When I awaken, my sheets are twisted like the aftermath of a tornado. The debris field is extensive: broken bones, blood, betrayal. Tony’s gone. My heart feels insubstantial and cold like pumice. His absence is a mutiny. I’m so confused... I replay the tape inside my head over and over, but my editing feels impulsive. ...amateur. The storyboards don’t match up, and I’m too tired to shoot any additional footage. What was the meaning of our scene in the library bathroom, the outtakes of us together on my couch, our action sequence on the Montrose streets in Houston?"

FADE TO: INT. NIGHT. The computer screen throws light at me. I'm hunched over, tapping keys. My eyes are incredibly focused, tracking the progress of this sentence and others simultaneously forming in my head. The things I'm writing are lies. ...but somehow true underneath. The painkillers are wearing off – my tongue nudges up against the stitches on the inside of my cheek. It's no fantasy, I'm fucked-up. No more car. No more license. No more Tony. CLOSE ON: My hands, still typing. MY POV: I watch as my fingers move on their own, addicted to it, hooked on the narrative unraveling inside my head. I play Russian Roulette with each keystroke. Bang. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. CLOSE ON: My face. I'm so fucked-up, so incredibly fucked-up. I feel like I should cry, but I can't bring myself to write something so utterly cliché. TIGHT SHOT: My eyes: blank, sketchy. In the cathode black of my monitor I see my reflection staring back at me, incomplete.

SLOW FADE TO BLACK.