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Thomas Kearnes - Biography
I Think of Him f**king You and I Want to DieThe board of the community theatre wants to cancel our production of “The Laramie Project,” so we’re lined up on the pavement across the boulevard from the lobby, EAST TEXAS GAYS signs and LARAMIE OR BUST posters held high. Just minutes after I arrive, shake hands with the media-wh*re head of our gay group, Paula calls my name and motions me to follow her back into the parking lot. Timothy promised me online he’d attend this sh*thole rally. I’m worried this big bother with the angel bullsh*t will keep me from spotting him when he arrives. In the lot, Paula hauls out a crude harness comprised of connected plastic pipes. Sprouting from the harness are two straight lengths of pipe angled high and wide. As I suit up, the crowd twenty yards away begins to sing “Amazing Grace.” No f**king lie. After I slip into the gear, Paula and a pert little lesbian slide brilliant white bolts of fabric over the outstretched piping. Hanging from these pipes, the sheets resemble wings.Find a spot, Paula instructs me. Before I can ask where I should go, she saddles up some other bastard from the cast. My scrawny shoulders already aching from the pipe harness, I settle on the outskirts of the sprawling mass of people collected on the sidewalk. Still no sign of Timothy. I wonder what he’ll think of me in this f**king get-up. The protestors cut me a wide berth. Every time I so much as twitch a shoulder, a whole wing sweeps the few feet of free air beside me. I keep apologizing to any poor bastard protestor who can’t watch his step. My shoulders now throbbing, I finally hoist up one side of the harness with my fist and hold it aloft. Some Mexican chick zips out in front of me and clicks my picture. sh*t, now I’ll be on Facebook.After a few minutes of trying to stand still, I blurt a warning to those gathered near me, and I slowly march back to the parking lot. Still there, Paula and the lesbian fit the last angel costume on some slim-chested kid I’ve never met. She asks me if I need anything. Yeah, I say, my shoulders are killing me. She promises to find someone else and I remind her to make sure the guy has broad enough shoulders. Because I do not. While I wait for her to return, I finally see Timothy drive that clunky old Cherokee into the lot. I used to suck his c*ck from the passenger seat as he drove us around town. He’s still f**king hot, a few days’ whiskers on his face, an impish smile, a quick and high voice that sounds so merry even when he’s talking dirty sh*t. He parks not far from where that angel sh*t got started, and that’s when I notice a boy I’ve never met in the passenger seat. I know right then that I hate his bony ass. He’s no older than Timothy, and Timothy himself is still in junior college. Still obscured by my sad, sad mondo-wings, I shout out his name until he spins around and finds me. The new guy hasn’t left Timothy’s side. They stand close, too close to be just friends. The new guy keeps gazing at Timothy, as if waiting for f**king God to speak. I knew this would happen, from the moment Timothy stopped f**king around with me after his choir practice. I goddamn knew he’d find someone his own age. I’ve been chasing dick since I was fourteen. Some days, I just can’t run anymore. Timothy says hello, asks me what I’m wearing. I give him the short answer. And finally, Paula returns with a stocky guy with hair all spiked and white-blonde. He and Paula assist me out of the contraption. In the time it takes me to shed that nonsense, Timothy and the new guy settle on the lawn, not far from the sidewalk. The new guy leans over as Timothy whispers in his ear. The intimacy between them that makes me sick, makes me recall the times Timothy stopped by my apartment and teased me into the bedroom, our clothes shucked off as we fell atop the mattress.The crowd, there’s at least one hundred of the bastards now, starts another chant: Laramie or Bust! It’s a direct quote from one of the faggots in the cast. He’s young like Timothy, like the new guy. I’m too goddamn old to feel this way. I wander away from Paula’s angel depot, drift toward the chanting crowd. As I pass them, Timothy and his little pal are still deep in chat. f**k these a**h*les with their signs and their songs, I just wanna watch Timothy blow this new kid against a brick wall while I webcam the whole f**king thing. I’d watch that sh*t again and again, I’d carry a homemade sign demanding my right to torture myself with footage of gorgeous Timothy getting f**ked by a man who isn’t me.Silent, I watch the protestors whip themselves into a deeper frenzy. I’m f**king embarrassed for them. It’s just a goddamn play. Who really cares? Just then, I hear Timothy call my name. He asks me, with that killer high voice, if I’m in the cast. You bet your ass, I tell him. I’m the goddamn star. We stare at each other. There’s nothing to f**king say. It’s goddamn over, whatever it was, and I know it. So the crowd shouts hallelujah and we shout hallelujah, and then they start over with that “Amazing Grace” bullsh*t. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m singing. God saved a wretch like me and all that. My God, he’s beautiful. I keep singing and soon Timothy and his new friend join in. The three of us are singing—we’re singing our f**king hearts out.Thomas Kearnes is a 34-year-old author and essayist from East Texas. He is an atheist and an Eagle Scout. His fiction has appeared in PANK, Storyglossia, Eclectica, Word Riot, Night Train, 3 AM Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, JMWW Journal, The Pedestal, Bound Off and other publications. He has also published widely in gay venues. He has no interest in writing a novel. You can find him on Facebook.
