II: Eli
Content warning: Explicit descriptions of sex; molestation; Dissociative Identity Disorder; panic attacks.
—
One.
On August 18, 2018, I met the person who would change my life forever.
His name was Eli, and when I saw his big ‘ole eyes, full of moon, on Grindr, I knew that I had to message him.
“You're really cute.”
“Thanks. How are you?”
I smiled.
—
I was heading to the Brooklyn Museum with Jerred, someone else I'd met off Grindr, and hooked up with, and then became friends with. I had brought a bright orange vape pen with me, full of weed oil.
“Do you smell something burning?” I asked him.
“No, why?”
“Oh god, the inside of my coat pocket is hot! Fuck!”
“What's in there?”
“The vape.”
I fished inside and pulled it out.
“Ugh.”
Jerred looked away, pretending that nothing had happened.
—
After I turned the pen off, the train emerged from underground, so I pulled up my exchange with Eli again.
“I'm good, just going to the Brooklyn Museum with a friend. You looking?” I wrote.
“Yes.”
“Got pics?”
Eli sent me six photos, as well as a video of him fucking his boyfriend, which I thought was weird. I sent him my nudes, in return.
“Nice.”
“Thanks. You looking?”
“Yes, but before we go any further, I'm poz.”
My heart sank. I had never known anyone who was HIV-positive, much less had sex with them. I put my phone away, so that I could process.
Two.
On the D train back home, I asked Jerred what he thought.
“Lots of guys are poz. I don’t think it’s a big deal.”
I waited until we got to the station, hugged Jerred good night, and then responded to Eli — three hours after his last message.
“That’s ok. In the spirit of full disclosure, I had an HPV outbreak. I wish I would have known about the vaccine when I was younger.”
“Someone had asked me to participate in a trial for PrEP when it first came out, but I turned them down.”
I stared at the screen for 30 seconds, feeling idiotic, then put my phone away.
—
Walking up the steps of the 145th St. Station, I emerged into the rain, and the familiar and constant noise of New York. Spotify started playing “Ain’t No Way” by Aretha Franklin.
I felt stupid for what I had said to Eli, but also elated — he was a beautiful guy, and he still wanted to talk.
“So, when do I get to meet you?” I wrote, smiling again.
“How about you come see me at work tomorrow? I’ll be at Birch & Stephens, in the Oculus mall.”
“Wouldn’t miss it ☺️”
Three.
I have a vaguely superstitious habit, when I’m about to meet a guy for a hookup — I use little to no deodorant or cologne, so that he can remember my actual scent. Today was no different, and for some reason I suspected that he’d appreciate it, even more than past men had.
I got to Oculus about an hour early, and my heart was racing as I wandered around, second after slow second.
“El Scorcho” by Weezer came on Spotify, which gave me pause, since it talks of heady, manic infatuation. It felt extremely apropos, which scared and excited me at the same time.
After a couple more minutes, I couldn’t wait any longer, and walked toward Birch & Stephens.
As I approached the store, I saw Eli — he was short, and a little overweight, with big, beautiful, soulful eyes. He looked like a hipster version of Kanye West, with oversized, wire-frame glasses; a septum piercing; a chain necklace, with a simple triangular symbol on it; and a plain, black T-shirt.
A customer approached him —
“Which of these soaps do you recommend?”
“I like the lavender, it’s more calming,” he said, and locked eyes with me. The room seemed to brighten, and I could feel the chill of the air conditioning.
“Hi.”
“Hey, you made it.”
“Yup.”
“Pick one.” Eli motioned to the bar soaps.
“The orange one.”
“Ok.”
Eli turned on the faucet of the sink, and waited until it was warm.
“Is it ok if I take your hand?”
“Yes.”
He placed it under the faucet. I was scared, but tried hard to relax, as he caressed my hand, using the orange soap. I looked up at him, but he was intent on what he was doing.
“There we go.”
I smiled, as he released my hand, and gave me a towel.
“So, how’s your day going?” I asked.
Eli gave me a sassy look. I laughed, and exhaled for what felt like the first time since I entered the store. “Put Your Records On” came on the loudspeaker.
“I love this song,” he said.
“Who’s it by? Natasha Bedingfield?”
“Close. Corinne Bailey Rae.”
I blushed. Eli was really cute. I felt like the entire visit was just me waiting until we could kiss.
A customer walked in, and I pretended to browse.
“Hi,” he said to them. The customer didn’t respond, and Eli pursed his lips, and continued to arrange some $30 body wash. He took a small sampler of lotion that was sitting next to the display, and put it next to its peers, straightening out their rows. The customer soon left.
“You seem to be really good at what you do.”
Eli shrugged. “I just do what I think I should.”
—
I sat down on a bench next to the sink, and tried to center myself. I was hyperventilating.
“When do you get off?”
“10 tonight.”
“Oof. Wanna come over after?”
“Ok.”
We both smiled.
“Alllll right. I’m gonna head out” I said.
“Ok.”
“Text me when you’re done.”
I left the store, my lungs still swelling, but this time with joy. I felt like I was riding an escalator to nirvana.
A few minutes after, Eli texted me a gif:
“I wanted to kiss you so badly,” he wrote.
“Then why didn’t you? 😛 And OMG, my best friend and I always quote that to each other! COME BACK — THERE’S A BOAT!!!”
He didn’t respond.
—
After an hour on the express train, I got back home. I had checked my phone every 15 minutes, hoping to hear from Eli, but never did.
I lay on my bed, awash in images from the afternoon, but also hyperventilating, again. I was excited, but felt like my lungs were being crushed. Two hours passed, and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten.
Four.
Today was the day! Possibly. Eli said he might be able to spend the night.
While dreaming about it, I rushed to a restaurant near 125th Street, to get brunch with my friends, Juan and Fred. Juan’s parents had just bought them a one-bedroom condo in Bed-Stuy, for $1 million.
The couple opened their relationship, after Fred had started transitioning. Juan also wanted the opportunity to bottom more, and needed to adjust to their new dynamic. Fred wanted the chance to explore, as well.
I judged them, but didn’t really have room to talk, since I had been in an open relationship with my first boyfriend, toward the end. Also, I had hooked up with Fred’s ex, right after they had broken up, three years ago, which made things awkward, when I would see Fred.
I opened the door, and saw that they were the only customers there. I felt self-conscious, not having shaved or showered for four days.
“Hi guys!”
“What’s new?” Juan asked, smiling, as I sat down.
“I met someone! He might come over tonight.”
Fred grimaced.
“Yeah. Grindr.” I laughed. “He’s really cute though, and seems special.”
“How so?” Juan asked.
The server came by —
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just an iced coffee, thanks,” I said, while studying the menu. My head was rushing.
“Gimme me a sec, Juan,” Fred said, also scanning for something appetizing.
I was at a loss for what to order — this was one of the many white-owned restaurants that had popped up in Harlem, offering a gentrified take on soul food. I put the menu away, hoping to figure out what I wanted by the time the server came back.
“I don’t know — there’s something about him. He has a really unique sense of style, and I feel like we’re in sync, in a way. For example, I had a feeling that he owned a Herschel backpack, and lo and behold…”
“Oh jeez,” Juan said.
“I know, I know… what’s new with you guys, though?”
I lowered my iced coffee to the table delicately, and straightened my back. I was feeling self-conscious again, partly because Fred seemed to be judging me, and because I feared that he resented me, as well.
“Well, we’re settling into the new place. I almost feel guilty, moving there — like we’re part of the problem now,” Juan said.
“I feel you. After someone shouted ‘Gentrifier!’ at me, while I was talking to my mom on the phone, I’ve always felt kinda bad.”
“What can you do. We like our new place, though. And Fred is applying for his PhD.”
“No way! Kudos!”
Fred looked down at the table and laughed shrilly —
“It’s no big deal.”
“It is, though!”
The server approached again, and turned her eyes on me, smiling —
“What’ll it be?”
Five.
After getting home, I slept, until my phone vibrated next to me. I held it close to my face, since I didn’t have my glasses on.
“What’s up?”
I looked at the name on the text, and smiled.
“There you are.”
No response.
“Wanna come over at 11?”
“Sure.”
I burst off the bed and started cleaning, feeling light, and warm.
—
Eli arrived at 11:30, in sweats, and a black wifebeater.
“Hey, you,” I said, opening the door. Eli smiled and walked in.
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
He looked around, and then collapsed onto the couch, and sighed.
“Long day?”
“Yeah. You have a nice place.”
“Thank you!” I walked over and sat next to him.
“I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“Me too.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Eli smiled and nodded. I kissed him, and started to lose track of where I was.
“Wanna go to your room?”
“Yes.”
We lay in bed, in silence, for a few minutes, and I put my arm around Eli’s shoulders, and started to massage his head.
“I’m sorry — is this OK?”
I felt self-conscious about touching Eli’s hair without asking, since he was Black.
“Of course! If you keep doing it, I’ll fall asleep.”
I smiled, and breathed deeply, before slowly moving on top of Eli, and kissing him again. I concentrated on matching the movements of his tongue, and started to lose my bearings, again.
Eli started to take off his shirt, and I followed, looking into his big, doleful eyes. I lay my head against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, which gave me goosebumps. Then, I started taking off my pants and underwear.
Six.
I started by riding him. It hurt, because he was big, and because I grinded him quickly and immediately.
“Slow down.”
Suddenly, I came into my body. I could hear the laughter of my neighbors outside, the sirens on the street, the whir of my air conditioner on the window. I felt the still, peaceful air surrounding my body. My muscles relaxed.
I looked into his eyes again, lingering. He stared back, and smiled.
I started again, slowly, and for the first time, after 30 years on the planet, and two relationships, one of them spanning seven years — I was enjoying sex.
I stopped and sighed, smiling, my eyes closed. My chest fell with his, and my mind went silent. I didn’t have to try.
After dismounting, I laid on my back, and Eli went in, slowly. Missionary always hurts more than riding, because of the angle, and because the bottom — in this case, me — can’t control anything about it.
Soon, he picked up the pace, gracefully inverting his body with every stroke. As a dancer, he seemed to be in his element.
I tensed up at one point, after he went too deep. He stopped, looked at me, then slowly withdrew — but did it again, right after.
“I’m gonna push you a bit.”
I nodded, hesitantly. He did it a couple more times, and I started dissociating again, bracing myself each time. He backed out a bit, then picked up the pace, putting his mouth on top of mine.
I kissed him, but he didn’t reciprocate, so eventually, I just let his lips rest there.
“Oh god.”
He sped up — I gripped him tightly, and he started to shudder, then collapsed. We lay there for what felt like 15 minutes, sweat dripping off his skin, onto mine. Then, he worked his way over next to me, as I finished, as well.
Seven.
I’ve never been too superstitious, but the date that I met Eli always stuck with me — 8/18/18 — which is a palindrome, and very similar to my birthday (5/18/88). It means two things, to me — unity (repeating “1’s”), and infinity (repeating “8’s”).
There were just too many coincidences, when it came to him — how I knew he’d have AirPods, in addition to the Herschel backpack; how we both printed the first letter of each word, then wrote the rest in cursive; the way stroking his hair reminded me of the final scene in “Moonlight,” where Kevin cradles Chiron’s head in his arms.
Eli taught me to enjoy sex, by being present. This soon extended to my entire way of being — I reconnected with my mom; laughed loudly, and often; and understood why I’m here — to live.
In my mind’s eye, walking through Jackie Robinson Park, on my way home, I could see a dance, amidst the Milky Way — god, and me.
Through Eli, I understood — life is a back-and-forth, a negotiation, a process. There’s no answer — just an eternity of working it out.
Eight.
The day after we had sex, I felt calm, but also powerful, with a small swagger. Eli walked with me to the subway, and I stopped to kiss him goodbye, but he kept going.
“Hey!” I shouted.
Eli looked back, walked up to me, kissed me abruptly, and then left. I felt a chill in the pit of my stomach, but told myself that maybe he had other things on his mind.
—
Waiting for the train, I saw a meme that made me laugh obnoxiously loud, and texted it to him:
Eight hours later: “🤣🤣🤣”
My “shit is weird” meter went off, but again, I brushed it off — last night was great, and he was probably busy with work.
Nine.
Eli and I hooked up again, the week after. I made him roasted chicken for dinner, while he used my MacBook to upload headshots to use for dance troupe applications.
“This chicken is so dry,” I said, laughing.
“No, it’s good!”
“You don’t have to eat it. It’s not gonna hurt my feelings.”
He finished his plate. I sat in silence, closing my eyes.
“You ok?”
“I’m anxious.”
“I have an idea.”
Eli brought up YouTube on my computer, and searched for videos about Dissociative Identity Disorder. In one of them, a psychiatrist was interviewing a patient, when suddenly, the patient’s eyes glazed over, and she started asking the psychiatrist where she was, in a slow, singsong voice.
“Why do you watch these?”
“They’re fascinating.”
The familiar, cold feeling in my stomach returned, and after we finished the video, Eli went silent.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Ok.”
Eli went to the kitchen, and poured himself some water, before coming back:
“I was molested when I was 8. My cousin did it, and it went on for years after that.”
“Oh, my god.”
“Yeah.”
We sat in silence for a bit. Not knowing what else to do, I asked him if he’d like to go to bed.
“Sure.”
—
I turned off the lights, and slid under the covers, feeling his body heat. We lay silent for a while, but I could tell that he was still awake. Eventually, Eli started stroking my leg.
I went to reach down his underwear, but hesitated, feeling cold inside, again. After hearing about his molestation, I worried that if I touched him in the wrong spot, I’d trigger him.
Eli eventually took my arm and guided it down anyway.
“Can we not use a condom this time? It’s harder for me to get off, with one on,” he said.
I hesitated. Though Eli was undetectable, and I was on PrEP, it still felt risky.
“Either way is ok. Just wanted to ask.”
I pursed my lips, and sat in silence for a bit, before nodding.
Eli finished inside, clinging to my body. We rested for a couple minutes, our chests rising and falling, covered in sweat. It was the closest I’ve ever felt to another person.
“Wanna take a shower?”
Eli giggled, then nodded.
We got in, and I washed him slowly, before switching spots, so that he could rinse. He started to tap dance, after the soap was gone.
I laughed — “You seem happy.”
—
When we got back in bed, Eli stuck his finger up my ass, took it out, then held it to his nose.
“I love the way you smell.”
I laughed, loudly.
Ten.
In the morning, Eli woke me by massaging my shoulders.
“I feel like no man has ever touched you.”
I knew what he meant — my ex, John, had avoided touching me for years, which made me feel starved, and alone. I relished receiving attention, which was still a new thing for me.
—
A week passed, and despite feeling deeply close to Eli, he continued to text me back eight hours or more after I texted, even though he wore an Apple Watch, and checked it constantly.
“What are we, Eli?” I wrote to him, while getting coffee with a friend.
“What do you mean?”
I didn’t answer.
“I think you should know that I’m not really looking for a relationship right now, since I just broke up with my boyfriend. I still wanna see you, though.”
It was back — that mixture of hyperventilation, zoning out, and feeling like I was having a heart attack. I put my phone away, and tried to breathe.
Panic attacks had become normal to me, at this point, though I still didn’t know that that was what I was experiencing. I coped by texting literally everyone I knew, about Eli — detailing, graphically, everything we did together.
Thankfully, my job wasn’t too stressful, so I was able to manage, but eventually, I gave him an ultimatum —
“Hey, I really like you, but to be honest — and I hate admitting this — I get anxiety attacks whenever I don’t hear from you. I think we should stop seeing each other.”
He took his time in replying.
“I understand. I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together, and I hope you’re able to work on that.”
I felt my stomach drop slightly, but soon, the weight that I felt from panic attacks lifted.
That night, I ordered food, curled up in a blanket, and watched Moonlight.
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