chicago,

Our relationship was tragic – each act, every verse. 

We began on the stage with a slap on the ass; our eyes wandered lower as our characters undressed. Everyone seemed to know you, something I was unequipped. Yet, we knew about the other, what we were each reluctant to admit. At the time, talk was rich; each orchestrating their own tune to knot tightly round your neck, ready to consume. Lucky, lucky, me: we sang in the same key. You taught me to sing, or rather, to belt. You placed my hand on your throat, vibrations passed from yours to mine. As I felt where you sang from, where you came from, mime-ing felt divine. You made me comfortable in my voice and granted me your power to speak. 

I visited your house alone, ran lines under your direction. Whatever spark we had owned vanished as you mentioned kissing my cousin. When I left, I swallowed the fact that I may never visit your home again. In the year that would follow, your home would become mine. 

Do you remember the night you asked to show me your dick? I accepted, knowing well: I wanted to see it. chicago, you obsessed over aesthetics; you used color, so divine. But your use of that filter – you know exactly the one –  was unsavory put-lightly; ungodly on its own. When I passed you by in the hall the next day, we locked eyes for mere moments. Sweating, I quickly looked away. Did you feel overwhelmed, or embarrassed that day? Or did it all feel quite normal? Though I hadn’t returned the favor, your coyness made me curious: Was I the only one who received it?

When I sent pictures back, the gates rusted; stuck open. In tandem with the pique of our teenage-horniness, we sought out to analyze bodies that resembled our own; homo-erotic, overdue, curious, exploration. We traded pictures daily, for what felt like months, until god interfered in my life once again. You were raised christian, and I, a catholic. Aware of our wrongdoings, I was certain we didn’t care. By this point, I knew many peers receiving your pictures as well. Realizing most were women, I was forced to question: Was I the sin here? 

After a week of not talking – gone to your church’s summer retreat – you returned home to house-sit for your old teacher [or was she your previous principal, I digress]. Her house was near mine; a much shorter drive than to your farm in the fields. Her home smelled of books, hardwood flooring, and the hedgehog that inhabited it. We set up camp in the basement, where we spent the day watching your current film-fixation: Hateful Eight [Tarantino’s most monotonous of movies]. You asked me to come closer, to cuddle while we watched. With my heart having left my body, I managed to agree. Only twenty minutes into the near-three-hour movie, you moved away, saying you were stronger in what you believed in. We each took a half of that couch in the basement. Not talking, not touching, no glancing, no groaning.

When it was finally over, we sat and we talked. Your retreat truly moved you; inviting me to come too. An autumn escape with you sounded actually quite swell: a walk in the forest; communal shower that night; our beds next to each other; stolen kiss in broad daylight. I agreed that I’d think about it, so we reminisced about summer break. When it came time to sleep, you suggested we separate. After I heard you settle upstairs in her bed, I felt unwanted, texting you: 

“this is stupid, i live down the street, i should just go home”

“Don’t go home”

“why? we aren’t spending any more time together tonight”

“Do you wanna trade?”

“trade?” 

“Yeah, pics?”

“chicago, we are in the same house”

“Come here then.”

And I did. Making my way through the dark home that I was unfamiliar with, I stumbled my way to the main bedroom, where I found you wearing only your underwear. You encouraged me to match your state of dress; I did, laying down in your arms, unaware of what the night held for us. 

chicago, you gave me my first sexual experience, in a bed neither of our own. No kissing, no lights, just hands attempting to make the other moan. We explored, finding ways to make each other tremble. chicago, can I ask you, did you wake up bruised too? 

As life passed us by we continued our journey, sleeping over more and more – we took our time, hands-only, for what felt like an era. One night, you stayed in my bed, and asked if I wanted more.

“of course i do, but i’m following your lead”

“Well I’m sure your mouth feels better than your hand”

“probably, but i’m not giving my first blowjob before i’ve had my first kiss”

chicago, you ushered me to the floor, in fear of my creaky bed making too much noise, and began to kiss me. Delicately, politely, before returning to the heat we were enveloped in. My first kiss, on the floor of my room, as a right of passage toward giving you head: what a terrible story to have to fear to share.

That autumn, I attended your church’s fall retreat. It was everything I hoped for, except god, in my way. But an actor, you did make me, so I faked it, played along. Writing our biggest barriers to be banished into bonfireternaldamnation; releasing of our sins unto hell. I wrote that I was gay and cast my paper away. Not more than 12 hours later, was my hand on your cock on the bus ride back home. It’s funny how god works, you know… ‘in mysterious ways’. They brought me closer to you over and over again. 

chicago, we continued exploring: hand to mouth to hole to kink. If there was something we could imagine, it was something we did try. Remember our first time having sex [which, I was told, was our mutual loss of virginity. I, still, am unsure if that’s true]? For nearly three hours, we attempted all positions, all speeds, and went-so-far as to get the yoga ball involved. When we finally finished, you sprinted downstairs and grabbed two cartons of BLK WATER – something that would become a staple in our post-coitus routine. We cuddled up together, threw on the office, and drifted off to a deep, mutual slumber. 

My love, I nearly killed you. Ended things in one fell swoop. That morning in your bed, we kissed and killed off kids. I offered to carpool to campus, you declined, “not today”. You sped off ahead of me, turning corner a bit too quick. You didn’t realize I did a donut, hit the ditch, and rolled twice over. I crawled out of my car, upside down, in the dirt. I couldn’t hear, could barely speak, until I saw your CRV. I hugged you and I loved you, that day I should have died. The police came, filled me in, “If you had passengers, they would not have survived”. I think about that day, how we both were meant to die. I wish we understood then: we were meant to stay alive. 

Dearest chicago, do you remember how our relationship began? It never made sense; Un-sacred in my heart. You had told me, you were exclusively fucking me – my sole saving-grace. I was mortified of getting STIs, leading to my parents finding out I was both having sex and gay.

The night our relationship began, was the night our friendship forever-ended. A slew of peers had told me of your inquiries to hookup, your active hooking up, or that you had been sending them nudes. The situation climaxed when a friend that I envied filled me in of your sexcapades. Immediately, I texted you, informing you whatever we had was over. You apologized and I did not care. I was done – no more friendship, no more lies, no more pleasure. You pleaded, blaming this on your relationship with god. In my immaturity, I offered you an ultimatum: 

“i don’t want to be friends anymore”

“Please”

“how can i trust you?”

“You can’t, but I want to change. Please”

“you want to be my boyfriend?”

“I do, but I am moving in a few months”

“well, let’s see what happens.”

You broke my heart; worse each time you lied to me. But for the next two months, we were happy; feeling like finally, the stars had been set straight. Though I don’t think you cheated on me during the time we were together, founding a relationship on the basis of you lying to me was certainly not ideal. Retrospectively, I want to apologize for forcing an ultimatum onto you. I loved you, truly I did. In a way I have only matched twice. I loved how you smiled, how you laughed, how you goofed. I loved from head to toe: your eye color, your calcium deposit in your left thumb, your hairy hobbit feet. I loved buying new criterions for the date nights under our parent’s noses. I loved your parents, your brothers, and the tune that played turning on the light in your bathroom. I loved garage sale-ing with you that summer, preparing for your big move. I loved our trips to Kansas City, Lawrence, and Manhattan, making memories we’d hoped would change your perspective towards this false-home. I was ready to love to watch you break free. 

I stayed in your bed, the night before you moved away. We dyed our armpit hair: purple and blue. Tucked-in to your favorite Wes Anderson, and cried saying I love you. In the morning, we awoke. We hugged for near hours. A secretive last kiss goodbye, your mom’s famous cinnamon rolls, and to Chicago you went. I feared I would lose you to the city and new friends. You kept in touch, skyping me every now and then. We knew things had changed. 

You came back in September, I think for a birth. Then during the holidays, where we’d finally depart. You drove me out to the pond, each time you were home; we’d smoke and we’d chat until horny became home. Our sex was on fire, at least for our age then. We took pictures – that last holiday – the final time we fucked, would you like me to send them your way? Our keepsake of love: the one we both lost. 

chicago, if I wouldn’t choose to change my experience with you. You treated me poorly and I did the same. Our love was a tragedy, something meant for the stage. We granted each other escape, from the lives we both hated – a smile in the hallway, a kiss in your room, a hand-hold while driving – all for our lives to part ways. I am evermore grateful for the love you helped find; the exploring, the understanding, and our lives, destined for change. 

I visited Chicago three times before I met you, thrice while we were friends, and three times more since we’ve withdrawn. I go and fall in love: the city, the skyline, the parks. The lakes, the culture, the transit – chicago, Chicago, how you make me smile. Thank you for the city, the experience, and the love. Please know, I’ll never miss you, but I will always feel quite fond.