Dear Brain Twin,
You will never read this.
I’m writing this letter because it is a way for me to get these thoughts and feelings out of my head without ruining our friendship.
I like you.
No, I more than like you.
I’ve more than liked you since the second time we hung out. You were so kind and so smart, and I didn’t even realize I more than liked you until you were walking me outside to my car and it hit me that you made me smile for the past two hours and I wanted more time like that with you in my life.
I asked my friend if you had a girlfriend. She found out that you did, and thus dashed my hope for anything more than friendship with you, but I accepted it because you are one of the best men I have ever known.
We exchanged poems, and talked about queer healthcare, and challenged and uplifted each other this past year.
There is a reason why I call you Brain Twin; we think a lot alike. It is why I know I can’t do anything to jeopardize your happiness.
I know you are happy. I can see it in the way you smile on Instagram with your girlfriend beside you.
I thought about saying these things to you in what may be the last time I ever see you, ostensibly a double-stuffed Oreo delivery.
But even if it is the last time we speak, I would feel worse if these were the last words you heard from me.
Instead, I’ll probably just joke about crashing on your couch sometime next year for aways. I’ll probably look nice and smile a grin that hurts.
But I’ll stand six feet away, and I won’t be that girl who ruins a friendship because I let my selfish emotions overcome the genuine affection I have for you as a person, the good man that you are.
So instead I write this letter, and say the things I can’t say to you:
“I’ve liked you
for almost as long as I’ve known you,
and I don’t know if the feeling is mutual,
but if you’re ever not in a relationship,
I’d want to give this a try
because when I think of you
I can’t help but smile
til my face hurts.”
Bye Brain Twin, and good luck with your future.
I know it will be a bright one.
Dear Brain Twin,
Three and a half.
I found three and a half grey pubic hairs.
I am offended.
I had previously seen one grey pubic hair before. Ever time it emerged, I plucked it and tried to forget its existence.
Recently, I had not been trimming my pubic hair. People do random things to amuse themselves while in our current isolation. Mine was letting my pubic hair grow longer than it has been since high school. With the length came the discovery of a second hair. The one I knew about was on the right. But then I saw one on the left.
And then a second one on the right, only farther down, therefore normally out of my view.
And then, to my dismay, I looked on the left again, saw a hair and thought, “Is that grey? Or is a trick of my eyes?”
I shit you not, folks: it was half grey. As if, when it began growing, the melanocytes were taking a nap. But then, in the middle of growing, they woke and said, “Shit, we’re supposed to be working” and thus affixed melanin to the bottom half of the hair.
Yes, the grey portion was the top half.
I am the first person to admit my pussy has had an excellent run. Fists. Dicks. Other things too have made their way into me, and it has been glorious. Unfortunately, I cannot say that as of late. Besides my dildo, my pussy has been lonely in 2020 and for a good portion of 2019 as well.
But damn body, three and a half grey pubic hairs!?
It seems excessive, almost judgmental. I am still young. I haven’t even pushed out procreation yet.
Can’t the salt-and-pepper wait until I at least have spawn!?
Truth be told, this is probably life having a little fun at my expense. Pictures of my father late in his life show he had salt-and-pepper coloring: grey at the temples and full through his mustache.
Mother nature, I guess, just decided to locate my slow loss of melanin a little farther south.
I am so grateful to not have a roommate right now.
Yes, I miss human contact almost every moment of every day of this current health emergency, but both the individuals that I have lived with in my two previous years of medical school would have driven me up the fucking wall by now.
As of today, I’ve (mostly) been in my cozy one-bedroom apartment for seventeen days. Yes, I am counting.
Though I have no one physically in my space, my current irritation comes from an upstairs neighbor who has decided social distancing and self-isolation means they will exercise twice a day doing something that causes dull banging noises to emanate from my ceiling. I understand, but I also hate them.
To keep myself from not going mad, I have reverted back to my soothing hobbies. I started crocheting a scarf, but then remembered that crocheting is quick and efficient, so I’ve switched to knitting, which is much MUCH slower, but calming. I purchased one of those discount memberships to Starz, so I’m semi caught up on Outlander. Actually, it was a costume piece on the show that is the inspiration for the large scarf/shawl I’m working on. I’ve binged many a Netflix offering. (Holy shit, Tiger King.)
I’ve been re-reading the Kushiel series. I bought the six books secondhand at the beginning of the semester on a lark (and because they were so cheap; $5 apiece for each book). I’m quite happy past me was so hopeful. Present me is appreciative of the distraction. I’ve laid out blankets and pillows on the floor, curled up, and enjoyed diving into that world again.
I cook almost every meal, wasting time and giving me another distraction. Grocery shopping ten days ago was an excellent decision.
I absolutely love my Keurig Mini. My daily warm beverage habit includes one cup of coffee each “morning”, then two cups of tea sometime during the rest of my day. And I’ve been hydrating because I’m trying to hold off turning on the air conditioner. My insanely low electric bills have been joyous and I don’t want to lose that just yet.
Speaking of “morning”, I’ve kept to no set schedule except I am up when the Sun is up and I go to sleep as some point after the Sun has set. My alarms now are to remind me to journal once a day, (handwritten so don’t expect any daily updates here), and for timing of how long I must boil my pasta.
In academic updates, my Surgery Clinical Shelf Exam was this past Friday. It’s this big test that is given nationally to every third-year medical student (just not at the same time). My Surgery rotation was twelve weeks long, all building up to this, yet another, high stakes exam. Studying for it during my first two weeks of social distancing gave me a goal, a purpose. After I completed the exam, which I did, surprisingly, feel pretty good about, instead of a release there was an overwhelming sense of dejection. I couldn’t stand around and talk with my classmates, asking them how they felt. We couldn’t bitch about how difficult the rotation had been, couldn’t hug each other. I didn’t see any of my classmates after the test. However, we were screened for our temperature before we started our exam. This was mildly comforting.
I was taking two extra classes, on top of my clinical rotation, before the pandemic started. One is completely online, and the other was in a classroom. Our in-class experience has since transitioned to online, though it will end in about three weeks. I am grateful for these distractions.
I need distractions. I am not one to sit idle for more than a day or two. It doesn’t suit me. I need things to do, projects to complete, a goal to work towards. Yes, I am that person on a vacation that appreciates scheduled fun, even if it is only one thing each day to grasp onto.
So, because I am me, I signed up for a one day online educational event and I applied for an all weekend one as well. The cynical part of me keeps reminding myself to list these things on my CV for when I have to apply for residency. The soothing part of me points out that having things to do helps me stay grounded, stay sane.
I try to talk to at least one person every other day over the phone or via Zoom. I’ve talked to my Mom the most (obs), but also best friend in Vermont, and work best friend back home. Twitter messenger has kept me close with my Petty family. And my classmates, who are still in the apartment building, text almost daily.
From my work best friend, I learned some production gig workers have committed suicide. Anxiety and depression are assholes.
This experience keeps us all so far apart, and puts undue pressure on our sanity, but for us to endure this we must find ways of staying connected.
Yes, I am touch starved, but I was that before all of this started. I miss hugs hello and hugs goodbye from my friends back home. I miss random back rubs from Community Boyfriend. And random knee rubs or hair scritches from all my friends.
Yes, I am constantly horny, but jacking off every day would only make me sore and lonelier. Sticking with a no more than twice per week ration of orgasm sessions. So far, it’s keeping the painful desire at bay.
At the end of this, I will likely have been (mostly) in my apartment for almost eight weeks. But, at the end of this, I still want to be here.
So we sacrifice, and stay connected however we can, reminding ourselves that we do this to help others and help ourselves. Because no one wants to get sick. And no one wants to die, either from this virus or by other means.
GO WASH YOUR HANDS, please.
~ a Daveed Diggs drabble ~
I returned home from yet another twelve hours shift, feet aching, and ended up nearly collapsing at his feet on the floor as he sat on our couch.
“Rough day,” Daveed asked.
“Two deliveries, plus an emergency C-section. Very. Busy.”
I leaned my head against his knees, eyes closed, and wiggled my way into between his legs.
A gentle tug, and then I felt my curls falling across my shoulders and he removed my hair clip.
“How can something so small hold so much hair?” he mused.
His fingers sunk into my strands, then kneaded my scalp. I sighed.
“My wife, the super doctor.”
His hand traveled down, working out the tense muscles in my neck.
“And my husband, always knowing what I need.”
I leaned my head back, and patiently waited, knowing I would soon feel the soft touch of his lips. With that familiar caress also came the raking of his fingernails across my chest. I gasped into his mouth.
His kiss traveled across my cheek, landing at my ear where he nibbled playfully. I giggled.
He scooped me up off the floor in those powerful arms of his. My face nestled into his neck, taking in his scent. He carried me to our bedroom where he helped me unwind from a long day’s work.
Tonight, he was the only medicine that I needed.
What a difference a month makes.
I’ve been (mostly) by myself in my apartment since I got back from an away rotation out-of-state at a large medical center. The only time I’ve been around people in this past week was on three specific occasions.
Once, a friend brought me candy. She went for a quick run to the local dollar store and was kind enough to bring me back some Skittles & Starbursts. We stood outside my apartment, six feet apart, talking about how crazy things had become. She was missing her boyfriend who was with family out-of-state. She said I didn’t need to pay her for the candy; she was just happy for some social interaction. I was happy to see her, too.
This past Friday I left my apartment at 5:40am to go to the grocery store. It opened at 6am, and I figured it would be best to get in early and get out as quickly as I could. I made a point to smile to the people working there and tried to stay 6 feet away from everyone I encountered. It was surreal to see just how bare the paper aisle was. And to see so little meat available. And all the milk (except organic) was pretty much gone. But I got almost all that I needed. And I saw a classmate there, which was randomly nice.
This past Friday was also Match Day. The normal celebration was cancelled. Most everyone took to the internet to make up for the separation. Two of my good friends live in my apartment building, so we got together in the lounge downstairs to watch people’s Facebook videos announcing where their residency will be. Brain Twin got into his number one choice. I was, and am, proud of him. Many other fourth year friends also matched well. We were happy to see them so joyous, bittersweet though the occasion was.
I’ve spent the majority of this week studying or watching TV, both activities well suited to get my mind off the state of everything.
There is a drive through test site on my campus. Current students and alumni have been asked to volunteer to help run it. I think I will volunteer, after my exam in a week. Yes, we are still having exams, because we are still medical students, future doctors, and this will probably be a part of everyone’s personal statement next year. A pandemic will do that.
I saw BrainTwin in the library randomly.
My Surgery rotation midterm was today. I passed it. It was ugly, but I passed it. I wanted to get some more studying in afterwards, so I headed to the library. I ended up in the middle of a crowd of happy fourth years, smiling and taking photos. The M4s submitted their rank lists today. In one month, it’s their Match Day.
BrainTwin saw me and intercepted me before I slipped through the joyful gathering. He hugged me, a huge smile on his face. We chatted. I asked about his number one. I’m sure he’ll get it.
I’m so happy for him. And proud of him. And grateful that he’s been there for me in my times of struggle.
But I know this means he’s almost gone. His life gets to continue away from here. Away from me.
I know we’re just friends. His girlfriend is gorgeous and will probably be there during Match Day.
But I care about him. And I’m going to miss him. Shit, it’s almost time for me to say goodbye to him.
I told him straight up that I will be there on Match Day and I will hug him in congratulations.
BrainTwin, will I ever find anyone else like you?
I ran home. I ran home as fast as I could because being in medical school hundreds of miles away is so fucking hard. And for my efforts, I was rewarded.
The unexpected long weekend home coincided with an event my friends ran, and a lovely time I did have.
One of my new kink friends named my experience LoungeCon since I spent pretty much all my time just chilling in the lounge area with whoever appeared. From my relaxed take on the weekend, I ended up conditioning a friend’s leather jacket, had another friend pull on my hair, and was able to give two other folks peaceful rope scenes.
I met new folks and grew a new crush (of course), but got no contact info which was probably a good idea. Raptor is like catnip: he’s a quietly attractive low key white guy with an easy smile, is poly, and already in a relationship. At the time, when he had to cancel our cuddle date, I was sad. Now, though, rational brain has kicked in, pointing out that it’s better for me to not so easily fall into such an old habit. Maybe I’ll see him again someday, but probably not.
Still, there was glitter eyeshadow, huge laughs, so many hugs. And there were plans for seeing friends in the future. Surrounded by loving and caring people was just what I needed.
I arrived at the event Friday night, then ran away to the city Sunday night. I slept in a hotel room with the best friend about 30 miles north of the event. We chatted, cuddled, and commiserated. We checked in, and then did nothing, so yeah it was perfect. I dropped him off at his girlfriend’s apartment in the morning, then masturbated alone in the hotel room before starting the rest of my long Presidents’ Day Monday.
Next was a quick visit to see my Mom at work. I sipped coffee and nibbled on a biscotti as she and her work friends gabbed about their job. I smiled, happy to just hear her laugh.
After “breakfast” with Mom, I swing by to see my younger brother. We ate Chipotle as he spilled the tea on family members I barely see. We’re okay. Other folks… Well let’s just say I know who not to ever lend money to now, so I guess that’s good.
I ended Monday with Dreds. Dreds is an old work friend that has stayed my friend even after I left for school. She lets me crash at her place in her huge very luxurious bed whenever I’m in town. And, honestly, I kinda have a crush on her. She’s so confident, so kind, but also strong and on her shit. I always respected her when we worked together, and, to be honest, whenever I had a gig with her I was always happy. I guess we were friends before and I just didn’t realize it til I had to go.
Anyways, so she’s mad chill. We watched Netflix in her ginormous bed, divulged the messiness of our respective lives, and joked about getting a house together when I’m a Doctor. Yeah, I have a crush on Dreds. That night, we went to go see Harley Quinn: Birds of Prey. We also watched To All The Boys I Loved Before. Simple great night.
I fell asleep late, woke up stupid early, and then drove back to school to make it to my 5:30pm class Tuesday evening.
In class, I was exhausted, and kinda loopy out of it. We had a role play scene for a training and I participated and I kinda freaked people out cause I’m a much better actor then I ever let people know. Tears and everything. One of my classmate friends was my partner and I think I freaked him out a little and I apologized after but he said it was good cause he may have a patient who has that kind of reaction and he appreciated having to help a person going through an emotional crisis. (Right, forgot to mention the training was on suicide prevention.)
So yeah, Friday to Tuesday. So much to do. And did. But, of all the people I contacted to try to see, the only person that didn’t come through, didn’t respond, was completely silent was Gent.
Friday was Valentine’s Day. I avoided all the emotional bullshit that comes with being single on that day. Turns out it is an excellent travel day, even on a Friday. There was no traffic. I spent my ten hour ride listening to podcasts and the occasional hit music station. I made excellent time and enjoyed my trip.
On the way back, I also realized that leaving at 4:30am makes for a great travel experience. Avoidance of all rush hours. I drive my dark hours up front, so I end up traveling in the light for most of the trip. It worked out well.
And it’s not until now, a week later, that I’ve allowed myself to unpack the nagging curiosity about his silence.
Did he forget?
Did he not care?
Did he propose?
Did something come up?
So much of our interactions feel like I’m either at his beck-and-call or just not thought of at all. It’s frustrating, yet what right do I have in this situation? Beyond the basic curtesy of friendship, which even then friends get back to you, let you know what’s up. I just…
Absence makes me annoyed, angry, aggrieved, bothered, concerned, dealing with shit I shouldn’t have swirling in my head.
Gonna close that box and put it back away. Because good things are happening in my life right now. And the machinations of one fine ass black man should not change the way I act, feel about, or treat myself.
~ a Gent moment ~
“I’m really good at it.”
“Kissing. That’s why I was asking back there why you don’t. Might have something to do with the tongue ring. Or the oral fixation. Or really both. But it’s a shame you’ll never get to experience it.”
“Totally. Such a shame.”
I missed this flirting, this tete-a-tete we have. Our banter. I volley, you return, and we go stroke for stroke for however long you allow the rally to last.
I am an amazing kisser. Many have confirmed this. People underestimate the value of variety, playfulness, and control of your tongue. Not only do I have a tongue ring, but I can also clover my tongue. Genetics. And, well, talent.
I wanted you to kiss me. I wanted you to sink your fingers into my hair, grip my locks, and pull my face towards your lips, us melting into a passionate kiss. Intense. Gasping for air. Tongues at once battling and dancing. Lightly biting my lip.
My fantasy is us fucking and kissing. Moaning into your mouth while I’m cuming. But that’s my fantasy, not yours.
Unconsciously, mostly, I tend to accentuate my mouth when I am around you. Today it was the milkshake straw. And the fork. Playing with my tongue ring. And biting my bottom lip.
You said I should get rid of my tongue ring. It tells the whole world that I’ve sucked cock, which is a true statement but not the best look for a budding professional. But I love it. I love playing with it. I love forgetting it’s there and then remembering all over again those moments that it helped create. I’ll probably get a clear spacer; fair compromise.
You jacked off twice before seeing me so we wouldn’t fuck today. Twice. Forever in control.
Still, it’s lovely to be wanted, desired, even if nothing came of it today except conversation. And thoughts of one long passionate kiss.
~ a rant ~
I hate being so fucking capable, so dependable, so able to do it on my own. I don’t want to have to fucking do it in my own all the time. I want help. I want someone by my side to make the shit easier. Or, at the very least, feel easier.
Last weekend I cleared out my storage unit, drove the contents to my apartment 700 miles away, unpacked the trailer, returned the trailer, threw away a bunch of shit, and then drove the 700 miles back. All in one weekend.
Yes, it needed to be down for the sake of my bank account. Yes, this will be helpful in the long term. But being so fucking capable is physically and emotionally exhausting. I feel wrenched up, twisted out, and thrown asunder for the work of my capability.
Incapable people aren’t asked to do the hard thing. They’ll fuck it up. Capable people do all the things, are put in charge, responsibility foisted upon them. (One of my old jobs did this masterfully to me.) The capable are made to do the work, damn how hard the work or what the sacrifice may be.
I’m just so tired of being capable. When do I get to say, “Not my job.” or “Nope, not me.” ?When do I just get to be?
Does it ever get any easier?
“I want to make you cum,” he whispered into my ear.
In my sleepy daze, I replied, ”Then why aren’t you inside me?”
His hands went to my hips, pushed my pajama pants down and into the mess of the covers. His hands, again at my hips, lifted up my sweatshirt and tank top, exposing my nipples, turning them hard from the cool morning air. He pulled the fabric up over my arms, converting my warm limbs to goose flesh. I was now awake.
At once, his arm encircled my hip, brought my body against his. I felt his chest on my back, and his hard and ready cock slid between my thighs. I gasped, just a little.
He stroked his cock, back and forth, back and forth, along the edges of my lips. Soon, his cock was wet from my wanting.
His hand on my belly sunk its nails into my skin, the only sign of his hesitation, his anticipation.
“Why aren’t you inside me?”, I asked again.
He nibbled on my ear and answered, “Because I have time.”
A growling hum escaped me. This was going to be good.