I wake up with a searing pain in the lower half of my body - the result that last night’s guy left - he was being rather forceful and it’s been a long time since I bottomed. He also showed fondness for bondage, which explains the red marks around my wrists. I occasionally hook up with random guys I find in bars. I don’t go for types, don’t even care about making small talks. I just have to make sure they are not psychopaths that will try to kill me when we finish having ‘fun’, other than that, any decent looking guy will do fine. I’m done being picky, standards are for relationships, long-term commitments, not one-night-stands.

Blinking as I look at the empty place next to me, it is empty, cold even. He must have left as soon as we finished. I purse my lips, that dude didn’t seem to be the type to be embarrassed easily, I mean, he practically shoved it down my throat the minute we came to my apartment. Then again, I might have misjudged him, I knew him for like five minutes before we stumbled outside the bar to take the cab. It was quite a surprise I even got the chance to extend my hand and said, ‘Blaine’. You know, basic human knowledge of hooking up with guys, a name for them to call during sex. But he might forget it, just like I did. I didn’t even utter a single coherent word last night. Of course there would be cursing but I didn’t yell his name. I bit my lower lips as hard as I could.

The jobs I’m doing need my voice. From Wednesday to Friday, I’m a barista at a coffee shop, my shifts take place during the morning. On Friday nights and weekends, I’m a waiter for an Italian restaurant that takes a fifteen-walking-minute from my apartment. I keep my schedule open most of the time. I’m what they call ‘freelancer’ or ‘last minute replacement’. It started when a friend of mine needed help at her part-time job, she had to audition for a play, I was free and well, rather short on money. After that she got the part and I got her job. It paid well and the boss was nice. My other friends came to me and asked for help after that, we agreed on the paying and I just took enough for myself. People tell people and honestly, I would almost do anything to pay the rent. I need to work hard just to keep living in New York. I still have my fair share of money after I left Ohio for New York but that doesn’t mean I can sit around at home all day and just play guitar and write songs. Although that idea is rather appealing.

I crane my neck to look at the small table clock, it says ‘Tuesday, half past seven’. That means I get to spend my morning on my own free will, either I’ll stay at home and bore myself to death or go looking for jobs around the city and/or have breakfast. I choose the latter.

So I stumble awkwardly out of my bed , still half-naked - I had put my pants on at some point last night - and walk toward the closet, choosing a white V-neck and black jeans, then grab a towel and head straight for the bathroom.

Water runs down from the top of my curly hair to my chest, I shiver a bit at the jabbing coldness, waking up fully after I finish. Normally I’d shower right after, I can’t really take being sweaty for too long, I must be tired and exhausted then, the sex wasn’t that good for me to forget such a ritual. As I look at my reflection in the mirror, I can’t help but cast a disgusting look at the bruises. This is what you get for ignoring all the signs. I should have known by now to not judge a book by its cover. Or to not judge a boring looking man for his boring expression.

If anyone asked me, I’d say one-night-stands weren’t my first option. But after few failed attempts at dating and such, both in Ohio and New York, I find hooking up is much easier than relationship. And yet, it’s laughable that I still believe in meeting the one.

Sighing I put on the clothes and comb my hair. I decide to give up after ten minutes, I hardly use gel anymore, it costs money and I have no need to keep appearance in front of people. I borrow my colleagues’ bottle when I work as a waiter. At first they looked at me as if I’m insane, it would take a whole bottle to tame my curls and they weren’t willing to give it up. Yet when they saw the phone numbers I got from the female customers they would say it was their help that I’d look that dapper.Jerks. Must have been sore to see a gay dude being hit on by hot chicks while yourselves get none.

Putting aside the annoying thoughts, I pick up my wallet, carefully counting the cash and put it back in my jeans’ pocket. I grab the black, almost vintage - as in old and worn out - jacket and put it on. Something fall out in the process. My eyebrows furrow as I bend down to pick them up. There is five hundred dollars. Cash. No business card. No memo or phone number note. Just cash.

I clench my teeth as a sudden realization hits me. That bastard thought I was a hooker. A hooker. Do I look like one? Do I dress like one? And five hundred dollars, really? Am I that cheap? Sure, I’m not that tall or appealing, but what about that blow job, it surely worths more than just five hundred. Or was he scared that I’d go and find his friends and blame him for the bruises? So this is for keeping my mouth shut. Fuck him. Stupid bastard and his stupid money. Now I don’t even know what I’d do to the money in my hand. I don’t know his name and barely remember his face, how can I dramatically throw the bills on his face then? And if I use it, it means I accept money for sex, and it wasn’t even mind-blowing or anything.

Five minutes of mind battle, I decide it’s not worth it to trouble myself for such matter, so I stuff the bills in the other pocket and head outside, sticking to my original plan. If I can’t find anything else to do, this will be the third month I live on cheap take-outs and cereals. The cereals aren’t even nice.

The early morning air is fresh, but it is colder than I expected, the thin jacket I’m wearing should definitely show that. I close the door and walk down the stairs. I turn right when I’m on the street, I’ll have breakfast first then go looking for jobs. There is a nice cafe three blocks down. They serve breakfasts and the coffee is decent. What matter most is the reasonable price. I found the place three months after my third year. A girl in my class was talking about taking her girlfriend there one morning and asked me if I knew the place. After I learned that it was so close to mine I decided to give it a chance, having no clue it’d turned out to be one of my favorite spots in New York (besides Central Park and a coffee shop on 39th street).

I walk faster for my stomach is beginning to growl. It’s been more than twelve hours since I had anything down my throat (blow job not included). And I’m still angry at that complete bastard. I feel as though I’m doing the walk of shame so I glued my eyes to my feet. I speed up as I go and refuse to look up. Such thoughtless behavior results in a loud ‘thump’ on my head.

I finally collide with someone and hear a tiny yelp from her. I almost cry out the ‘I’m so sorry miss can I help you?’ before I see the other isn’t a woman. It is a man. Boy? I can’t really tell his age but I’m sure the girlish yelp is from him. He looks stunning with seemingly smooth and beautiful skin, his hair is styled carefully and I’m pretty sure that takes an awful lot of time. The clothes he’s wearing are far more expensive from mine. And is that a Marc Jacobs jacket? Is that thing even affordable? I would go broke if I purchased such things. And ohmygod I’m really making him uncomfortable just staring at him like that.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Let me help you with that.” I get on one knee and start to collect the papers that must have been in his arms. “You must be in a hurry, I’m so so sorry.”

Out of the corner of my eyes I see him also gets on one knee. We lock eyes for a moment and I’m sure I’ve never seen anyone with such exquisite eyes colors like that. Looking at them almost makes me forget all the bad things in my life. The monthly rent, the struggling life of a freelancer, the dreams that will never come true, the bastard who makes me wanting to punch him in the face. All of those almost disappear.

Well, that is until my stomach starts growling. Again.

I’m certain that I’d die from embarrassment. My face should be in a deep shade of red right now. But the man chuckle softly and smiles at me. The term ‘butterflies in the stomach’ is probably for moments like this. It is stupid to feel nervous and happy for a stranger. A beautiful stranger. Still…

“Guess you’re in a hurry too. Well, thank you for your help and sorry, I also didn’t really pay much attention.”

I smooth the papers and smile at him as I give them back, our fingers touching for a split second. He has nice hands, must be really soft given the initial look.

“The blame is all mine.”

“You are dapper as you look, huh?” Despite the tone he is smiling. “I’d say we call it even.”

I nod, it’s been a while since anyone even mention the word ‘dapper’ in front of me, “My name’s Blaine.” I extend my hand for him.

He takes it after giving it a careful look, “Kurt.”

His hands are truly soft. But I let it go after two shakes.

“Well, better get back to what we’re doing. I’m in a hurry.”

“Me, too.” I lie. “See you around.” Oh god am I stupid? This is New York for crying out loud. It’s not like you can meet each other in our walk in a sea of people only knowing their first name.

Again, he chuckles and nods, “See you around, Blaine.”

And we go our own way. At least he does. Me? I pretend to continue walking but after a few strides, I turn back and catch the man’s, Kurt’s figure the last time. It is slowly getting smaller second by second. I consider running back to him and give him my phone number and hope to get to meet him again. I laugh to myself. As if he would want to see you again, you’re already a creepy stranger to start with. Besides, I gave up on hoping for miracles to happen a long time ago.

So I put my freezing hands in the pockets, return to walking and never look back.