The Wave House
One: 9:35am
A text from Trevor. He’s working things out with his ex after, after all. But he’d like to be friends. A strange request, considering we went on what, four dates across two and a half months? This cadence of late night drinks followed by drunk sex didn’t feel like it would have given him enough material to say yeah, that guy, he’s my new best friend. But then again, my response could have been read as equally strange. No, we cannot be friends. I have feelings for you.
He understood. He’d leave me alone. I told him I appreciated the honesty, even though I didn’t think either one of us were being really honest with each other.
I let out a sigh and booked the Wave House.
Two: 10:45PM
A FaceTime from Tim.
Bitch, where the fuck are you? He bellowed over the muffled sounds of Kim Petras.
Shit. I had totally forgotten that Tim was hosting, what he described as, a “hefty pregame” before heading out to the Eagle with some friends from college who were visiting from out of town. Out of town, in this particular circle of people almost always meant Los Angeles, and if not Los Angeles, then San Francisco, always referred to by their initials and nothing more. LA. SF. OK, I’m going to KMS, I’d think so loudly I feared they’d fear me.
Despite Tim being one of my closest friends in college, and still spending a considerable amount of time together, we rarely hung out in his apartment, so when I peered into the vertical rectangle of his FaceTime call, it took me several seconds to register it as his apartment. The reason for this was, of course, that Tim wanted to be seen. Even on a Tuesday night, it was important to be seen.
Plus he hated his apartment. The hallways were drab, he reported, and the location was too far North to be considered Chelsea Proper even though he reported himself a resident of Chelsea on his Hinge profile and at pregames. It was embarrassing to identify as someone who lived so close to Penn Station and the Disneyland-esque neighborhood of Hudson Yard, he would say.
It was the same conversation every time we met up, ten blocks south at some overpriced New American spot that neither one of us could confidentially afford. Being seen “up there” didn’t portray the image he was trying to cultivate; something that was as important to him as the 12-to-15 hour work days he poured into his job as a Nurse Practitioner, a career that often received an Aww! That’s great! from the financial-legal-tech bros we usually found ourselves with.
As the friends and friends-of-friends poured into the pregame, he recounted his usual rant until he almost forgot that I was staring at him from the FaceTime app. The pallid hallway light, the “hike” from the train, the battle to make his way through tourists from Dubai on their way to the Vessel, the fact that he would to eventually move further south, into the heart of Chelsea, but that the market was tough (he was broke) and rent-stabilization was hard to give up (the apartment wasn’t rent-stabilized, I checked).
As his attention turned back to me and the mysteriousness of my location finally registered with him, I toggled my phone onto airplane mode while in the middle of a sentence. Sitting in the dark of the Wave House, I turned my service back on and texted him.
Call dropped. Sorry I can’t make it tonight! Not feeling great :/
Three: About three months ago.
My first date with Trevor was on an uncharacteristically warm day in late February. I had picked up my bike from the repair shop, a flat tire fixed, and rode over to Herbert Von King. I hadn’t been feeling well for much of the last few months and thought to myself, maybe sunshine is the cure.
When I arrived at the Park, I laid out a small blanket for us to sit on. We sat there until the sun began to fade and a chill fell over the park, the couples with their dogs retreating into their shared homes, leaving us sitting stiffly adjacent to one enough before I broke the silence with a carefully rehearsed what’s the move?
Trevor guided my bike to our next destination, Sally’s. It was the latest tiki-themed bar in a neighborhood already saturated with that sort of thing. I told Trevor that we had to go. Their rice bowls are amazing.
He stood almost a foot taller than me, so my bike looked toylike up against his frame. The walk wasn’t far from the Park to Sallys was not far, but I liked the idea of people seeing us together. The intimacy of him pushing my bike. How it implied that he knew that I just hated pushing my bike at this time of night, when I was tired and hungry and kept flashing looks at him that said if I don’t eat soon I’m going to lose it.
When we arrived at Sally’s he found a suitable tree, locked my bike up, I offered some suitable dinner suggestions, and we had three suitable cocktails.
Part of me thought of ending the date here. Having made our way through the highlights of our lives, a couple deep dives into specific moments of our recent history, and enough flirtation that ensured me that we’d probably see each other again. But what sign would that send, I thought. Another couple drinks and who knows what will happen.
We ended up at the Coyote Club, which felt like someone’s Dad’s bar in their finished basement. I looked at him across from me in his barstool, his limbs bending into my personal space, and told him I was having a really nice time. He concurred, with a sort of bland affect whose intention I couldn’t quite make out. I decided to take it as a genuine response, after all, why else would he still be here with me? Four: About three months and one day later.
Waking up on the couch of the Wave House. A half bottle of natural wine perched on the table, leaning on an empty one. Surrounded by the remnants of takeout from the Middle Eastern restaurant down the street that Grandma loved.
Despite my splitting headache, I got to my feet and marched to the sliding glass door. I swung it open and stepped out into the humid morning. Mid-May in Central New Jersey. It always made me think of that last month of the school year. Wearing shorts, sweat gluing my ass to my underwear, how cold the water from the water fountain felt as I gobbled it up in between classes, the fountain of youth breathing into me the promise and mystery of summer vacation, just on the horizon. Man, was life worth living.
After standing at the edge of the Wave House for a few seconds, I dropped to the ground and did 15 push ups. I’d been trying to do this whole 100 push-ups per day thing I read about on Reddit for a month now and hadn’t made it past 30. Today would be the day. I wasn’t gonna let some bitch named Trevor make me come unraveled.
After another 15 push ups, I sat on the grass and stared up at the sky. My stomach rumbled, shifting my focus to the mess I made inside the Wave House. I got to my feet, turned about face, almost sprinting to the couch to clean up the pigsty that I slept next to.
I deposited the remnants of my ouzi and the natural wine into the appropriate bins of the Wave House waste disposal system and realized that, well, at least I managed to plug my phone in last night. I tapped the screen, half expecting to have another flurry of text messages and missed FaceTime calls from Tim. Nothing. Only a few Grindr notifications from a guy 5 miles down the road that I told I was going to drive over to after I finished that first bottle of natural wine.
You coming, or what?
I found the Grindr app and deleted it. I will not let some bitch named Trevor make me come unraveled.
Five: About 45 minutes later
I have retired to the couch where I have been trying to do my morning pages. Julia Cameron probably lives in a house like this, full of sunlight, creativity flowing, except no stains on the carpet from the yogurt sauce that I now realize I spilled last night and will have to handle before checking out as to not impact my Airbnb rating.
I know there’s no expectation that what you produce in a morning page is good but I quite literally could not think of anything other than writing about how I actually feel like I’m Totally Fine Now That I’m Away from The City. Just as I was about to launch into an exploration of the way the grass smelled outside an hour ago, someone rapped on the door of the Wave House.
Suddenly, I felt like an intruder. A million thoughts ran through my head, most notably holy shit what if I’m in the wrong house. I’m going to get arrested for trespassing just like Countess LuAnn did in Real Housewives of New York. I can’t afford to get arrested right now.
Hello? I screamed from the comfort of the couch.
Silence.
HELLO? I screamed louder, slowly lowering myself to the floor and army crawling my way to the door so that no one could see me in the floor to ceiling windows.
Bitch, what the fuck are you doing? A familiar voice bellowed, standing with their face pressed up against the world’s most conspicuous set of windows, directly next to the front door.
It was Tim. My heart sank. I sprinted towards the door.
Six: About five minutes later
So, instead of, like, calling me, hanging out with our friends, I don’t know, fucking someone else, any of the normal things, you booked an Airbnb in Lambertville, New Jersey and turned your location off and ghosted me… Tim recapped sitting cross legged across from me on a wicker chaise lounge in the backyard of the Wave House.
Yes, exactly, I stated calmly, trying not to engage too deeply with Tim’s projection of my behaviors.
Interesting. Tim responded, diligently engaging in my uncharacteristic measuredness as he considered his response. Well, Andrew was there last night. He was asking about you. Said he thinks you’ve been looking really cute in your IG stories lately.
Tim, you know I’m not into him like that, I responded, I don’t even know why I used to make out with him because I never had any intention to take it any further. Plus he’s like, a total circuit gay now.
And you’re not? Tim cut me off.
No, I’m not. I responded.
You keep saying that and yet, here we are, in a… Tim paused to look around, honestly gorgeous but probably too expensive for you to afford Airbnb in the middle of nowhere New Jersey. How did you even know about this place?
My grandma used to live here, I flatly replied, I’ve told you that like a million times.
In this house? Tim gasped.
Not this house, this town.
Oh, got it. Well pack your shit. I’m getting you out of here. You at least bought travel insurance, right? We’ll get your money back. Whatever shit you ate last night that you spilled all over that pillow over there gave you food poisoning.
Great, another spill I hadn’t accounted for. And no, I didn’t purchase travel insurance, either.
Seven. Three Hours Later.
Traffic going through the Holland Tunnel was at a standstill. A horrible accident, most likely, although they must have cleaned it up before we got to see the wreckage. I meant to check the 5 o’clock news but the day got away from us.
As soon as we arrived at Pieces, I started to feel the effect of last night’s bottle and change of natural wine manifest in a sinus headache and a strangely strong urge to get fucked. Tim and I released our cross body bags onto the barstools and ordered a beer and shot combo.
So who is it this time, Tim pressured, Like, were you dating someone famous or some bullshit?
We weren’t even dating, I replied, No I know, I feel insane. How many dates would you say?
I don’t know, I haven’t counted, I lied, Four-ish?
Ish?
There were a lot of late night hook-ups. Not like, yeah, you know. Okay so four-ish late night hookups and we’re decamping to the woods. I know it sounds crazy but I just needed to get away. Clear my mind. I don’t know, work on something creative. I can’t think about anything but boys and how I feel so unlikeable in my fucking apartment.
Tim considered what was sure to become a pity spiral and gave me that loving yet stern look that said we’re going to take a shot and then you’re going to stop this. Two more tequila shots and we were on the move. Realizing that we both hadn’t eaten anything yet today, a bottomless brunch at some Mexican spot around the corner whisked us off our barstools.
We can always go back to Pieces after this, Tim confirmed, breathing a sigh of relief upon me. I didn’t want to get all sad drunk over some overpriced tacos and then go back to Ralph Ave and smoke weed on my couch tonight. I didn’t want to do that ever, in fact, but the last couple of months it was all I could do. Real Housewives of New Jersey playing in the background while I scroll on my phone and wonder what has become of me. I couldn’t face that today. Back to Pieces we would go.
After sitting down at our table in a mostly empty, garishly white dining room, our waiter gruffly laid out the ground rules for bottomless brunch. As many Bloody Marias and/or Mimosas that we can consume within an hour and a half. After that, we’ll be charged the normal rate. It’s up to us to keep track of time. Off to the races.
As the next hour went by, Tim and I found ourselves laughing hysterically at the last 27-ish hours of my life.
No you don’t get it though, I explained to Tim, you would have the same reaction I did if you saw his dick.
You’re so nasty, Tim replied, I promise you I wouldn’t. There are big beautiful dicks all over the city that you should really try to discover instead of, like, latching onto the first one that you look into the eyes.
Eventually the conversation drifted to the night before. Tim recounted who came to the pregame, who continued to the Eagle, who came back for the afters, how he went to sleep alone, peacefully alone, emerging from the bumps of K that ended the night.
No, I just think it’s weird, Tim explained, Like he said he’s not drinking right now but he’s like, snorting all my coke? I feel like it’s usually the other way around.
Yeah, I mean I don’t get that at all, I said with a slight slur, it’s like that tweet where someone’s like yeah, I eat McDonalds. You guys literally do cocaine.
I’ve never touched the stuff. It all scares me too much, the slippery slope I know I’d fall down if I let myself get my hands on something that demanded such continuous use. At least with alcohol, eventually you have to stop yourself. I know exactly how drunk I like to get, how I can get there, approximately how I’ll feel when I wake up. I know what to stay away from (hard alcohol) and if I stick to beer, eventually I’ll get too full to make a fool of myself. I listened to Tim drone on about more inconsequential ongoings of last night, nothing at all that hasn’t happened before, while I realized I was actually drinking hard alcohol right now. I was drunker than usual, realizing the logic of our day was starting to fall apart. I could end this right now, get on the A train back to Bed-Stuy, smoke a J, watch some porn, get up in the morning, go to the gym, talk to a new psychiatrist, get a raise, become a vegetarian, call my Dad more, transfer money to savings, buy a pull up bar, one of those ones that go over your door, that all the hot guys in college had, the ones who have good jobs in finance now, the ones who never questioned themselves, who never had to learn not to hate looking at their sad, pathetic face in the mirror, the ones I wanted to be so badly, the ones I wanted to be with so badly. I could do all of this right now, but you know, fuck it, I’m with my best friend Tim. Let’s have ourselves a fucking day.
Eight. A regrettable three hours later.
Tim and I burst back into the welcoming darkness of Pieces, shielding us from the unrelenting sun of a Sunday where people were touring town, buying groceries, going to Pilates.
For the fifth time since we began our trudge back to the bar did we look each other in the face and scream the total of our bill. Four hundred dollars. We laughed hysterically. That’s for future us to figure out, we said.
Sunday’s drag shows had started and we found ourselves in the back corner of the bar where some of Tim’s work friends had gathered. Pints of the Stonewall IPA from Brooklyn Brewery had reached our hands as one guy told me that he knew I was going to be an IPA gay.
What’s that mean, I asked, fluttering my eyelashes even though I didn’t find him to be particularly cute.
You know what I mean, he flirted back.
I’m imagining what his actual response was. Perhaps something that reflected how I wanted these people to see me. I wasn’t like other gays. I like cool music, I wear loose fitting jeans, I don’t usually hang out in the city unless Tim catches me in a mindset where I want to leave my dungeon. I don’t particularly care about not gaining weight and even though I’m a bottom, I refuse to starve myself in service of a man. I have never been to Fire Island, even though no one has ever asked me to go. Except for that one time I met up with two big time scene-y gays from undergrad who told me that I could join them in Fire Island that weekend if I found my own transportation and place to stay. An invitation to exist in the same place as them, I recounted to Tim the next morning. Or maybe he said something goadingly insulting, explaining how nasty IPA smells when you get up close to someone drinking it. Sour fucking milk.
I’d find out months later that we made out quite a bit that afternoon. Whether or not his response was complimentary or provocative, it didn’t matter. I was in drunk makeout slut territory and I could not be stopped.
That’s where the film starts to expire. The rest of the evening will be pieced together by my bank statements, which I read with held breath from beneath my comforter in my apartment the following morning.
Nine. 7:30AM
A $60 cash withdrawal at Pieces, presumably to tip the queens. From there, $17 at the smoke shop, likely explained by the nicotine vape that I woke up clutching. Another $65 at Stonewall Inn, followed by $2.75 at the West 4th subway station. Two selfies of me, eyes glazed like a Krispy Kreme donut on the A train. No texts or calls to Trevor thank God.
My heart was racing. I stood up from the bed and realized that I was wearing a pair of leggings for some reason. A series of irrational thoughts began to fill my brain; did someone find me on the street, vomit all over my pants and bring me back here, change me into the first thing they found? Did I get robbed? Or worse, did I rob someone? Did I kill someone? Are the cops looking for me right now? Oh Jesus Christ, where’s my fucking bag? I sat on the floor next to my bed, my blood rushing so fast that I thought it might start coming out of my ears.
I checked my phone, a text from Tim:
Not us blacking out lmaoooo.
We exchanged a few texts, me trying to play down my panic and be that sort of cool gay who finds blacking out to be a thrill. I was grateful that I kept the charge at Stonewall to myself when I learned that Tim and friends left me at Pieces, went back to their homes, and showed up for work today. God only knows what or who I did there. A quick examination of my asshole confirmed no soreness, so hopefully I didn’t cross the line from makeout slut to black-out-fuck-in-the-bathroom slut. No idea where my bag is tho, I replied to Tim.
Not that, he replied before going on Do Not Disturb.
A few hours passed before I finally left the apartment and found myself sweating at the McDonalds self-service kiosk. Ten piece nugget meal with a diet coke and a McChicken. That will do the trick. I already called out of work. Next I might have to call a rehab. Or at least my Mom. Let her know that things are totally out of control.
Back on the floor of my apartment I ate my shameful feast and Googled Pieces. They won’t open for a few hours, but hopefully someone was there to confirm the existence of my bag. I typed the number out, put it on speaker, and threw my phone onto the bed as if it was about to explode. A quick exchange with an irritated old queen who probably was going to make sure the police were waiting for me let me know I could come pick it up at 4PM.
I turned back to my computer and opened Google Maps. From the West Village, I could be back at the Wave House in three hours.