When my close friend Nathan Ayon announced that he was debuting a line of clothing, I couldn’t have been more excited. “Bring a date to the fashion show next week,” he told me, “and what size are you? I’ll have a special present for you.”
I’d seen a preview of the line: lots of beautiful silk shirts and tailored sequin blazers. I couldn’t wait.
I’d been postponing a date with a cute boy that lived down the block from me, mostly because I was too busy writing since we’d met. I asked him to attend the show with me, and he happily agreed.
We arrived at Acme, where the show was to happen in their downstairs lounge. Nathan pulled me backstage while my date ordered wine at the bar: “Here,” he said excitedly, handing me a small bag.
The bag was really small. Like, really, really small. And inside of it? A really, really small, multicolored speedo. “I love it,” I said, and I did—but I wasn’t expecting to be changing into swimwear for his event, in mid-March, on a first date.
He had to run off to help someone in hair and makeup, so I put on the speedo, stashed my pants backstage, and came back out. “Hey,” my date smiled, “I got you…” He looked at my bare legs. “… Chardonnay.”
While chatting with other guests, a man asked my date, “So, are you two dating or…?”
My date glanced down at my multicolored spandex dick, poking out just below my black satin blazer, and shook his head. “No, we just met,” he clarified.
As the night went on, people kept complimenting the swimwear, and I started holding my head higher. “It’s one of Nathan’s—it’ll be in the show,” I bragged. A few people asked to take pictures with me. I felt like a celebrity.
The runway show was phenomenal, but my date left immediately when it was over. “I’ll call you,” he said, racing for the stairs.
I didn’t even care—I was popular. People wanted pictures with me. I was famous! Nathan came up to me later, smiling wide. “Oh, you changed into it already?” I realized he hadn’t actually intended for me to wear it at the event, but I was drunk and on cloud nine. He beamed. “I love it.”
When I finally got ready to go, I went backstage, which was empty. Staff had removed the chairs and tables, and—of course—my pants. “Is this really happening to me, again?” I wondered, remembering the time I walked home pantsless from a hookup at 11 a.m.
I wrapped my leather coat around my waist, headed for the subway home. So I’d never see the cute boy down the block again, at least intentionally, but for the night I was the boy in the Nathan Ayon multicolored body-cut speedo. If you can’t handle me in a speedo, then you don’t deserve me in a suit.
