Portrait of an Addict as a Young Man

Where

Men’s Room at the White Plains Metro-North station (rushed hands, crossing from zipper to zipper at the urinal, and then, quickly, into the stall, a rushed mouth on me until it is suddenly, for the first time with a man, over).

Ron’s dorm, three blocks away from my first apartment in New York, twice.

On the phone, in the dark. Nell away. All those voices, all that want.

Apartment high above downtown, after a long night of drinking and dancing and pot, with a writer who is represented by my boss, and his boyfriend. Blurry bodies and a hasty retreat before they wake. The snow falling for the first time that winter.

Steam room at the gym on 57th Street. Middle-aged men. Scared, serious, wedding rings foggy and dull on their fingers.

Bathroom on a Metro-North train. A beautiful young man, older than I am but no more than twenty-five, who had been sitting across the aisle and who motions for me to follow as he walks to the end of the car. Kissing. Just kissing and kind hands palming my face and temples. It will all be okay, he whispers as he slides the door open and disappears into another car. How did he know I didn’t think it would be?