Kiss of Death

I was just sitting around my apartment when E messaged me, out of the blue, and asked if I wanted to hang out and catch up.

I don’t see much of E—he keeps busy with his big, fancy career—so I take every opportunity I can to spend time with him. I put on pants (well, my tights with The Starry Night by Van Gogh printed on them) and jumped into a cab to his West Harlem apartment.

When I arrived E was just opening a bottle of wine, one of those jumbo bottles you bring to parties (or drink on your own at home with your cats, if you’re me). He poured two jumbo glasses and asked me how my dating life was.

By the time I finished the most recent escapades of The Ex Fiancé (since my column didn’t exist back then), the entire bottle was empty. E stood up, stumbling over the coffee table. “Donchu worry, little thing,” he slurred. I’ve never heard him call me “little thing” before or since. “We’ve got more.” He brought out another bottle of wine, this one regular sized and expensive-looking. “Lemme order us some sammiches,” he said, too loudly. Feeling fuzzy, I nodded in agreement.

By the time the sandwiches arrived, the second bottle was gone, and we were trashed. He tossed something wrapped in tinfoil on my lap: It was a beef sandwich, doused with onions. But I was drunk, and I was hungry, so I ate it, greedily and with joy.

“This is the best onion sandwich I’ve ever had,” I said, giggling.

“You’re so funny,” E said, scooting closer to me on the couch. “And cute.” I’ve also never heard him call me cute, before or since. I squinted at him, trying to adjust my blurry vision, noticing he had some sandwich grease smeared on the right side of his face. And then he went in to kiss me.

Whatever sandwich he ordered had a similar oniony taste, but wasn’t exactly the same—the two flavors mixed together in our mouths. Even drunk, it was absolutely disgusting.

We went into his bedroom and took our clothes off—but he had wine-dick, and I had a feeling even if I could get it up that I wouldn’t be able to cum.

We fell asleep, half-clothed, still smelling of onions. When we woke up, we agreed that last night was a mess, and that it wouldn’t affect our friendship. “And let’s never mention it again,” he said.

And I didn’t. I mean, until now.

Ian-Michael Bergeron

Iowa-born writer Ian-Michael Bergeron has written his weekly column in Get Out! Magazine since 2015, as well as editorials and interviews. He lives in New York City in a one-bedroom with two cats, Alexander and Thomas, and spends most of his income on shoes.

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