Goldhaüs

Hot tub. Cold rain. Curry, Drunken Noodles, Pad Thai.

Josh is busy giggling in his bright orange trunks, Jeff talking about the universe in his black spandex shorts. JP's in camo boardshorts playing emotional maestro and I'm listening to it all over the pitter patter of the sky falling down in grey trunks that cup my butt like a glove. One-hour visitor Scott is sitting by the side of the jacuzzi evaluating the future of his boy life, cargo shorts soaked to the bone, steam hugging him like the chlorinated ghost of sex future. We're all doing our best to keep the rain and poison clouds out of our swing thai, but six brunch drinks a piece on top of a day of martinis and plastic cups of beer have managed to turn our otherwise statuesque bodies of muscles into laughing piles of 90% naked drunk meat.

At this point, food half water half spice, we've managed to stay unclothed for the better part of the day. The stars are twinkling through the cloud-littered sky, huge water drops bouncing off our pecs like trampolines, and there isn't a topic in the world that we haven't chattered on about at length. Our audience of pool-side straight people have long since become bored of our insight on genocide and evolution, cum shots and love, feeling close, drifting apart, talking truthfully about your fears and smelling armpits like exotic incense. Our hands are all wrinkly, faces tired of smiling, and we wish Scott well on his way home as the four of us decide simultaneously what the best use of our small amount of time left under the night sky should be: ICE WATER WRESTLINNNNN.
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So picture me.  Running.  In the wee hours of the morning.

I'm wearing big brown boots, knee-high socks covered in clovers, a green button up shirt and, for no reason other than to be obnoxious, suspenders.  All day I get clever straight people saying "green lederhosen, he must be irish/german" which is funny in that it's neither clever nor true nor what I was going for.  In fact, until about last year, I didn't even know I was Irish.  Right now, however, no one is really saying anything aside from "why is this white boy dressed as a leprechaun sprinting through the back alleys?"
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I often say there isn't anything worse than wind. Not being tortured, not having your family killed in front of you, not even watching a yard full of kittens being raped to death by bears. WIND. Wind is the fucking worst.

Every time it's windy I get angry. My eyes start watering from shit being blasted into them, my hair becomes a messy homeless bird's nest, and without fail it brings shit weather along with it. Here's your entree of pain in the ass wind, hope you like shitty ice blizzard dessert.
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One Year. Six Months.

Just laying there. Naked on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, back arched over the edge, exhausted and dripping with sweat.

Or holding onto his body with both arms, my neon underwear pressed up against his pajama pants.

Sitting on the couch, holding hands, tv glow burning into our retinas. Enormous blankets preventing us from moving and accidentally doing something productive.

Sometimes sitting on opposite ends of the room spilling out our guts with alcohol soaked breath. Sometimes there's tears. Sometimes it feels like things are at the end. But only for a second. Only until one of us realizes that the other isn't going anywhere. That the strongest swords are made in the hottest fires. That the greatest wonders killed their fair share of humans. Ammunition spent, gunpowder blown, we're back into eachother's orbit.
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