Get Out! GAY Magazine – Issue 375 – July 11, 2018

BY IAN-MICHAEL BERGERON
@ianmichaelinwonderland
When I was living off of
181st Street a few years
ago (thank God for the
Express A train), I found
myself on Squirt during a
restless night.
After messaging all of the
boys with sharp jawlines
and sharper bios (to no
response), I got a message
from a blurry torso asking,
“Can’t sleep?” I couldn’t,
so I decided to respond.
Niceties lasted about a
minute
before he
asked if I
wanted to
“come over
and suck
(his) cock,”
which, I
mean, I
wasn’t doing
anything
else, so...
I put on
a pair of
sweatpants
and
marched
up to 190th
Street.
“I’m
downstairs,”
I messaged
him. He told me to be
quiet so I wouldn’t wake
his roommates, and buzzed
me inside.
He met me at the door
and led me down a dark,
narrow hallway into his
bedroom. After I did the
deed, I asked if I could
use the bathroom. He
paused, looking around
the bedroom as if a more
convenient option might
present itself. Reluctantly,
he led me back into the
dark hallway and into a
doorway.
When I turned the light
on, I immediately knew
something was wrong. The
floral shower curtain looked
like something my greatgrandmother
had in her
home; it was particularly
clean for a bathroom
shared by 20-something
roommates; and, finally,
there was a framed photo
on the wall of Blow Job
Guy, three siblings and his
parents.
Secret Lovers
I was in their family home.
Suddenly, it all made
sense. The torso photo,
not messaging me until
after everyone was asleep,
keeping all the lights out,
not wanting me to use the
bathroom. Not only was
he still living at home with
his family, he was still in the
closet.
It reminded me of my
boyfriend when I was
barely 18. We worked at
A&F together in Iowa,
and would spend our
days watching YouTube
videos on his laptop. One
day, during a particularly
captivating cat video, a car
pulled into his driveway:
His dad was off work early.
I didn’t realize he was
totally in the closet. We
waited for an hour, in
silence, to see if I’d have a
moment to escape. When
it didn’t come, he opened
his first-floor window and
made me crawl out of it
to get to my car and drive
home.
When I
told my
dad what
happened,
he
looked so
concerned
for me.
“I’m
sorry that
happened
to you.
I’m sorry
he made
you feel
ashamed,
or like you
had to
hide.”
It was a
sweet moment between
us, but honestly I didn’t
feel ashamed. I felt bad for
him, just like I felt bad for
Blow Job Boy. Even in New
York City, there are people
in the closet, afraid to be
their true self.
After gargling with his
dad’s mouthwash, I let
him walk me to the door.
I have no idea what he’s
doing now, but whatever it
is, I hope he’s happy, and
I hope he doesn’t need to
sneak boys in after dark.
PHOTO BY STEVE BRENNAN