I hated it. The relentless uniformity of heartbreak, the cycle which began at age fourteen, the anguish of it, irremediable. This time his name was Cesar and he’s in love with a cunt named Lourdes. I hated that I still hadn’t learned: straight men were the nemesis; when their kindness was brutal, their bodies sinewy, their indulgence disastrous. I despised that sometimes I wished I was straight, or invariably prayed for a vagina. I hated the downtown cruising areas, I knew where they were - all of them - dark alleys and empty lots, abandoned tenements and tracks; seedy corners where I treated my infirmities with meaningless gasps and moans and glistening ejaculate, the heartbreak cure. I hated my lust, even as I attempted to hold out for as long as I could, it never lost, its release exceeded the remedy of alcohol, that the bliss abruptly dissipated the moment after the pants were redone. I hated I did all the work, none of the dark faces ever reciprocating the favor, the loathsome reality was I kept returning anyway. Because it was delicious to feel wanted, to forget that I wasn’t, however briefly. I hated my shame, the bellicose culture which conditioned it, the Church that coddled its vicious gluttony. A misplaced rebellion against a faceless recipient. I was a bottle of self-loathing. The need to hide, the fear of consequences, the crippling muck I couldn’t brave to thaw.