Sinking, Swimming...

In what was probably a bad decision, I texted James mid-afternoon with a sappy, emotional message.

"I know this is totally inappropriate, but I've really missed you the past 24 hours."

There I was, three weeks ago, in my parents living room. Surrounded with Christmas decorations, holiday music on the radio and the prefabricated Noel scent that my mom sprays into each room every year. And all I could think about was James, and what he'd said at our last coffee meeting.

"I really had wished we'd be together at Christmas," he'd said. I agreed; for a religious holiday, Christmas certainly has all the hallmarks of a romantic event. Low lights, fire places, snowflakes, chocolate and love. So as I was surrounded with most of these things, I found myself really missing the one that I don't have.

He wrote back a little while later and said hi. And then, late in the evening, he called. When I saw his name on the caller ID, I debated if I should even answer. This was strange; I miss him terribly, but I really didn't want to talk to him.

At first, conversation was rocky. I was fairly quiet, because I didn't know what else to say other than to avoid blurting out awkward statements like, "While decorating today I was debating in my mind if I'm actually in love with you or not," and, "I'm considering getting back together with you because I only now realized you might be the one for me."

So we talked about nothing. Time crept by, and I toyed with the idea of telling him he should go, for fear of missing his friends at the bar.

Conversation shifted to his life post exams, which he'd just finished. He said he'd been out every night for the past week. "Fun, at least you're blowing off some after-school steam," I said, for once not intentionally going for the sexual pun.

"Uh, you could say I've been doing lots of that," he said slyly.

"Oh," I said, fumbling slightly. In that moment, the last thing I'd wanted to hear about was his fabulous sex life.

The subject changed again, but moments later we were back on it, and his admission, "I've been with someone every night for the last week."

My heart just sort of cracked in a way, for different reasons. As he explained, it became apparent that he'd been picking up, or picked up, at every bar he'd visited. His phone was overflowing with numbers of boys wanting him to call. Sex was abundant, he was getting attention everywhere. Guys that had been flirting with him before were swooping in for the main attraction and now that he was once again single, he was open to suggestions.

"Right now it's more of a get-er-done thing," he said, half-laughing. "I'm not really getting much satisfaction, just in one way."

He told me about the boy he'd gone home with on Thursday, the Abercrombie-like model who teased him that such a nice boy shouldn't get involved with a bad one like him. About the college soccer player who wanted action after his game. The "beautiful bleach-blond, blue eyed guy who I met a long time ago but never did anything with. I waved at him and he waved back, and we talked online afterwards."

"But he forgot who I was, had no idea it was me waving at him," James said. "He still gave me his number though."

It was at this point that I seriously considered calling in the 'too much information' card that I'd proposed before, since all this info about how seemingly easy it is for him to attract attention - any kind of attention - was becoming a little too much for the moment. But I knew I never would...my curiosity is dangerous, and I'm an emotional cutter.

I let him talk, but didn't have a lot to say. When he'd exhausted his tales of tricks, I skimmed into a couple of my own, though mine have been more haphazard and disasterous than sexy and blonde.

"Aww," was all he had to say in sympathy.

In many ways, I can't be critical of his promiscuity. I've been (attempting to) burn up the sheets ever since we parted ways, especially in the last couple weeks. But it still bothered me that he was out there, living his life, having a damn good time doing it. He was swimming in a sea of boys every night. I was sinking in the wading pool.

Jealousy plays a part in it; it's not really warm and fuzzy to hear about all the guys your ex is sleeping with, how sexy they all are and how much great action he's getting. But it's not just that, I'm jealous of the attention he's getting. I guess I never realized just how much people like him, how many people wanted to fuck the boy I was with. Cheers to me for being the guy who got to for so long, though he's obviously making up for lost time now.

But the jealousy doesn't end at the fact he's out fucking half the gay population of Toronto, nor at the fact that he's being lusted after, inundated with phone numbers and e-mail addresses. Part of me is just jealous that he gets to have the fun, the glamour of gay. He's out partying, flirting and fucking while I'm barely able to scare up a date for coffee with someone who isn't certifiably insane.

It all sounds 'poor me' in a way, but it all cuts right to the core of my gay angst that's been in hiding for so long. I wouldn't mind, for once, being the guy out on the town, having numbers thrown at me and taking the cute blonde home.

It's clear that he's not being overly satisfied with the whole situation, as he told me. I know there's more to him than that, and ultimately he wants more of a connection, more than just sex. But it's also clear that he's having a hell of a lot of fun with it, before it gets old. It's satisfying something, maybe even just plain curiosity...it's not substitution for a relationship yet he's taking whatever comes his way, even if it's just a night of sloppy passion.

"It's almost over!" he said to me, emphatically. "I'll be home for Christmas soon, and then no more boys."

"Oh, please," I said, trying to sound like I was kidding. "You and I both know you've got a list of guys lined up for when you get home."

"Well..." he said, hesitating. "But there's nowhere to go! You know that very well!"

A few moments of awkward silence passed between us. "Woah, that brings back memories," he said.

"Yeah," I breathed.

The conversation wrapped up with him telling me he needed to get dressed before heading out. We said our goodbyes, and he told me to keep in touch.

Later, my inbox flashed on my phone.

"I miss you too, Steve," he texted at midnight, an hour after the phone call. "Have a good night."

At least one of us did.