THE BOYFRIENDS (CONTINUED)

Boyfriend Double Zero / The Space Cadet

I had seen a UFO. I had snorted half of the bag of anonymous drugs I had found at the party the night before and

3 …

2 …

1 …

CONTACT!

The night had blended into intangible traces in a format I couldn’t have foreseen with my puny imagination alone. Also, upon thinking about the term “outer space” … hmmmm, it just felt like a double negative or something? I then saw the UFO and shit REALLY hit the fan. I kept hoping a spaceperson would hop out, but, like a fortune cookie (from outer space) spitting out a divine message, the paper spilling out of the craft read, “This is a spaceperson-less automated craft; i.e., we don’t fuck with you niggas.”

Boyfriend #21 / The Gardener

Perhaps the worst was behind him. The one hundred men he had left behind were still behind him. Those godless bitches were the WORST, seriously. He was getting older, and all the houses on his side of the block were going up for sale. His house had bad plumbing but good vibes. A shining castle. It was the most in danger. Either way, like the person he was he tended to his garden, if only in spirit. He would stare from the sundeck, overly caffeinated and ridden by spirits, and say shit like, “I wish that would grow more” or “I wish that would grow less.” (Attempts at control were frequent.) His own personal plumbing was still fucking EXCELLENT. He could rub one out and still shoot clean over his head on a good day just like when he was a teenager. But, of course, like any realest/toughest bitch, he betted all on losing it one day, i.e., the house he was renting and also the super plumbing in his dick, but he chanted to himself on those mornings he would psychically garden: “I must not think bad thoughts … I must not think bad thoughts.”

Boyfriend *69 / The Telepath

He had been praying for something more angular. A stiffer collar on his polo, or perhaps to psychically know who was calling before the phone was even ringing, but like all Earth dwellers he knew all too well the limitations of gravity. Gravity … ugh, he was so fucking over her. But he settled for the small things in life, like how caller ID was as close to telepathy as he was ever going to get. “BUMMER.”

Boyfriend #92 / The Psychiatrist

I explained to him that I had always ended up washing my hands longer than I wanted to. I would always get hypnotized by the motion of my hands and the sound of the water running, and my mind would always double back to where I went wrong in life. It would stop somewhere in a black hole and my anxiety wouldn’t pull out of it. He said it was all related to me noticing my triggers more (he was a psychiatrist who studied neuropsychological shit). I didn’t know how to explain to him that I did not often want to talk to that part of my brain. I didn’t say it because it sounded reckless, but I was afraid that if I kept that light on in my brain all I would notice is that I’m mostly triggered all or most of the time. I’m so serious. The train triggers me, the walk to the train, the unwanted eye contact, the way my body behaves when I notice that I’m being noticed. I figure when someone like me is hyper in tune with their trigger light, it’s tantamount to a gazelle in the Serengeti—the feeling that something is always coming to eat you. I’m sure I could separate the part of my brain where awareness equals constant panic, but naw, I knew myself. I also casually mentioned my drinking problem and he explained to me that maybe I just had excellent neurological uptake and I thought how that was so much sweeter than him saying, “You’re a selfish man who can’t change.”