One of these days I’ll learn to have a normal one night stand.
The next day over lunch I’ll be able to tell friends “she was pretty but I’m not into her because obviously” or “he had a great body but I’m just not interested” and that will be that, no additional story. My hypothetical lovers will have average apartments and normal interests, and there will be nothing particularly interesting about them worth sharing.
But until then, I’ll be waking up in mansions with Mormons.
I was out with some friends, exploring bars after having a few too many drinks at one of their apartments. We started making conversation with another group of strangers in the way that happens when you fill a room with intoxicated adults.
The one with freckles and strawberry blonde hair caught my eye.
It didn’t take us long to realize where this was going, but we did the mandatory flirting and drink buying that comes with these conquests, because poisoning ourselves stupid before clumsily fondling each others’ privates is what separates humans from the animals. He kept talking about going on a date on Monday, which was a cute gesture in a culture where people think texting you a picture of their dick is the equivalent of a valentine.
As the bar closed, him, his friends and I piled into a cab. He was around my age (if he wasn’t than he has a deceptively youthful appearance) so I assumed we would be going to some average apartment in Tempe or at most a condo in Scottsdale.
The cab took us to North Scottsdale. For those of you unfamiliar with Phoenix, North Scottsdale is one of the wealthiest areas in the country, cash cascading from research clinics, real estate, and the corporate headquarters of several incredibly affluent companies.
I was still surprised when we pulled up to a mini-mansion.
The four of us fell out of the cab (“falling” was our method of moving at this point). There was something dizzying about the layout of the house, the flow of the rooms, the circular entryway, the way dens and offices and living rooms were tucked away at odd angles. It was the kind of deceptive architecture used during the housing boom when mini-mansions were popping up across the valley like a Biblical plague.
We decided to have a few more drinks at the swim up bar in the backyard, because, wait this motherfucker has a swim up bar? I’m in love.
After a few more drinks the two of us excused ourselves to his bedroom.
As we were making out, he paused and suddenly announced “I’m a Mormon.”
Oh sweet I love dirty talk.
We continued kissing as if nothing was said, but I couldn’t stop thinking about those “And I’m a Mormon” commercials.
I’m gay, I’m hot, I’m making out with you in my giant house… and I’m a Mormon.
The next morning I found him outside, sitting with his laptop on one of those modern outdoor sectional couches that you imagine celebrities filming sex tapes on. The water from the pool’s waterfall drowned out the noise of distant traffic. He was shirtless, and his body was still incredible, and it was a relief knowing that it wasn’t just an illusion of the drink. Just over the fence I could see a parking lot. That’s what Arizona is: elaborate, over-the-top homes packed tightly together next to parking lots. I thought of the way my street just sort of ends with our condo community and the vacant lots around it that stretch towards the airport.
In America we build fences and gates to separate ourselves, defining ourselves by class and status and religion, and it isn’t until we’re lonely that we cross that line, open the gate, let in someone from a different creed or lifestyle. There’s something special about breaking the rules and ignoring the caste system we like to pretend doesn’t exist, embracing our humanity, holding each other, even if it’s only for one night.
He gave me a ride back to my car, and we talked about Phoenix and the night before and maybe hanging out again in the future.
I’d always assumed I would take home a Muslim boy to make my Grandma uncomfortable.
But I might be able to work with this.