It’s a golden October in New Orleans. Rashid is coming back today, which makes everything even more golden. He’ll be stateside for almost two months but with a lot of travelling involved. But he’ll be in New Orleans over the weekends, sometimes more.

We talked a lot over breakfast that morning after he told me he’d been called back to London. It’s our first honest conversation about our feelings for each other and our relationship. Although we both carefully avoid using words like “feelings” and “relationship”. I think we’re both not ready to put a label on it. Not yet. Are we a couple now? Are we exclusive? This doesn’t come up. But we agree that we enjoy spending time together and want to keep seeing each other as much as possible. Despite the fucking ocean between us and a six-hour time difference.

He had to leave a few days later, much sooner than I thought, but he consoled me that the sooner he left, the sooner he could come back. Just a week or two, tops. Unfortunately, this turned out not to be true, and it’s now been more than two months since we’ve seen each other. Of course, we texted a lot and sent each other silly selfies every day. I feel like I’ve seen most of London already, just from Rashid’s pictures. He even snuck one in of himself in front of the Talamasca motherhouse. You can hardly make out the building in the background, but he’s going to be in so much trouble if they find out. We try to do a video call every evening, but time differences, work and social calls sometimes get in the way. I miss him so much.

If anyone tells you long-distance relationships suck, then believe them. They do. Especially if you’re only starting to be in one. I have no reason to mistrust Rashid, but I’m just so acutely aware that he has this entire life somewhere else that doesn’t include me. He mentioned friends, friends with kids, but I have no idea who they are. Three names have come up: Charlie, Luke and Sam. Charlie is a friend, I think. Luke and Sam were boyfriends. I don’t want to be nosy or appear jealous, so I don’t ask too many follow-up questions. Piecing the shreds of information together, Luke happened in college and it was a first-love type of situation. A bit like Remy and me, maybe. Only that Luke didn’t get shot, and they just grew apart. Sam appears to have come and gone later, but Rashid is particularly tight-lipped about him. Perhaps their split-up didn’t end up quite so amicably.

I found out that my initial assessment that Rashid is in his “maybe mid-30s, but not more than that” was actually accurate. He’s 35 precisely. Which means he was in two relationships in the past 15 years or so. Doesn’t sound too much. I assume he hasn’t lived like a monk in between, although he never mentioned any one-night stands or flings.

I know he travels a lot for work and lived in Dubai for a while. Talamasca business, so I’m not getting any details. It’s a pity because Dubai sounds fascinating.

We spent the last few days before Rashid had to leave mostly at my place. Rashid still kept his room at The Celestine and went back to change clothes and shower but stayed with me otherwise. I was still under doctor’s orders to rest in case I had a concussion. There was a lot of kissing and cuddling, but no sex. Doctor’s orders again. It didn’t seem to bother Rashid, and I admit, I enjoy the way we are taking it slow. I feel so safe with Rashid. Whatever we are doing – holding hands, being in each other’s arms, kissing – is fine with him. There’s no pressure or expectations for more.

The thing is… I do want more. Eventually. It’s the natural progression of things, isn’t it? If you’re into sex at all, that is. You date, you kiss, you fuck? Right? Rashid – probably – had two longer relationships. My only reference point is Remy, my first – and so far only – boyfriend when I was 16. I was happy to let him take the lead. He initiated our first kiss. My very first kiss. Not counting the time Lena Boudreaux tried to make out with me behind the bus stop. We were barely teenagers, and I think it was a dare. It was pretty awful, all messy and slobbery. Last time I heard, Lena is now with an artist from the West Bank, named Tasha Ngyuen. Go figure…

It was always Remy who took us to the next level, gently guiding me and showing me how to do things and what he liked. I never asked him where his experience came from; I just assumed he must have been with someone else before his family moved down here.

With Rashid, I’m a little lost. I don’t know how “normal couples” do it. What’s the appropriate waiting time? We’re both adults and clearly not virgins anymore. My first time with Remy was clumsy and a bit awkward. I had no idea what I was doing, but Remy was patient, and in the end, the feeling of being so close to him was incredible. It made me feel so happy, so whole and loved like never before. Or after. Until Rashid. I’m sure sex with Rashid can be just as wonderful. He’s a great kisser, attentive and tender, soft with just the right amount of firmness. I’m sure sex with Rashid will be just as amazing.

I desire Rashid. I want to feel his naked skin on mine; I want to feel the weight of his breath; I want to feel him lose control, just a little. I want to… make love to Rashid. Of course, the four-letter word hasn’t come up between us, but deep down I know that’s what it is. I love Rashid.

When he told me last week he’s finally coming back to New Orleans, it turned me into a jittery ball of nervous energy, like someone wired me to a low-voltage current – restless, overthinking, too full of everything.

I’m too excited to think about logistics. I assume Rashid will be staying with me this time. It would save him a lot of time and money, and it’s not like he hasn’t slept here before. We make some plans, like going for runs in the morning and getting coffee and beignets at Rosalie’s. This is when Rashid mentions he’s booked a room at The Celestine again for his first weekend here.

I try to hide my disappointment, especially because he didn’t discuss this with me first. On second thought, it’s maybe for the better. This way, we get to have a choice to spend time together, but we can also retreat into our personal space. We’ll see how it goes this weekend, and after that, he’s off to do something somewhere for work anyway.

I get to the airport stupidly early to pick him up – partly because I couldn’t sit still and partly because, well… ants in my pants. And maybe a few butterflies, too. There’s still about an hour until Rashid’s flight arrives, so I pass the time by ordering a pumpkin latte and some water at PJ’s Coffee and watch the hustle and bustle surrounding me. Rashid said I could come and visit him in London if I like. It sounds a bit scary. Me out in the big world? On a frikkin plane? But other people do it every day, so why not? I decide it’s time to man up and get myself a passport as soon as possible. I have no idea where I’ll get the money for the plane ticket, but maybe I can save up a bit here and there. I’m not robbing Soso’s college fund.

I’m just finishing my second pumpkin latte and possibly my fifth gallon of water when the airport app tells me Rashid’s plane has landed, and I make my way down to arrivals. It’s hard to stand still, and I’m fidgety from my overdose of sugar and coffee. Finally I spot Rashid. He looks wiped. Dead on his feet. He still smiles when he sees me. He kisses me, wraps his arms around me and whispers, “It’s so good to see you again.”

“You’re not seeing much of me with your head buried in my shoulder,” I tease him while patting his back, and I feel him laugh.

He places a kiss on my cheek. “Then let’s go somewhere where I can get a proper look at you.”

He winks at me, and the bubble of nervous excitement inside of me grows.

We get a taxi to his hotel, and he starts kissing me before the door to his hotel room even shuts close. We end up on the bed quickly, and I decide there’s just too much fabric between us, so I take off my shirt. I can see him watching me intently. There’s something in his eyes that I can’t quite place. I know I’m not much of a looker, but I don’t think he dislikes what he’s seeing. There’s something else. Apprehension? I tentatively reach for my discarded shirt to put it back on when I see Rashid smile and take off his.

He really is beautiful, and I think my heart skips a beat. I’d tried to imagine what he looks like, just from feeling his body when we embraced, but the reality is even better. He’s not the big, beefed-up type of guy, but I can see a ripple of muscle running underneath warm brown skin when he moves. He’s slender, shoulders slightly broader than his waist, and there’s just a fluff of well-groomed hair on his firm chest. He settles on the bed, arms crossed behind his head, to let me assess him.

With a moment’s hesitation, I put one of my fingers over his heart and let it follow the subtle ridges and hollows of his ribcage. I’m fascinated by the trail of goosebumps that follow my touch. I can feel Rashid’s gaze on me and his hand wandering across my lower back. Then he gently tugs at my waistband to pull me closer for another kiss. There’s definitely a bit more oomph behind his kisses, but his touch never wanders lower than my waistline, and I respect his choice. It still feels amazing to be so close to him.

Unfortunately, at one point the gallons of water and pumpkin latte that I downed at the airport demand their due, and with much regret and murmured apologies, I steal myself to the bathroom. When I return, Rashid is fast asleep, his face peaceful and relaxed, the hint of a smile still on his lips.

I want to stay, curl up next to him, watch him sleep, and when he wakes up, continue where we left off, but I don’t want to make this creepy. Bruno will also want feeding, so I put my shirt back on and press a kiss on Rashid’s forehead. I leave him a note on the hotel stationery that I find in the desk drawer: “Good morning, sleepyhead. Call me when you wake up. xoxo”

I get a taxi home. It’s not very late but late enough that being out on the streets makes me uneasy. When I open the door to my apartment, Bruno comes running towards me and circles my legs, frantically bumping his little head against my shins. It makes it almost impossible for me to get to my kitchen area to feed him without stepping on him.

“Oy, cat! Watch it!” I pick him up and carry him to the counter, although he’s struggling tooth and claw. He’s clearly half-starved since his last meal a few hours ago, so I hurry to fill his bowl. I watch him wolf down his food and think how easy a cat’s life is compared to this human kerfuffle. I crash on my bed and scroll aimlessly on my phone. Bruno joins me after his meal, burps in my face smelling of cat food, and then falls asleep next to me. Thanks, cat. My thoughts are with Rashid. Maybe I should have stayed. Is it strange that I didn’t? I put the phone away and roll over. I keep tossing and turning for most of the night. I wish Rashid was with me. I sleep better when he is.

This is also the night when a new type of nightmare starts. Bad dreams are nothing new to me, but most of the time I don’t remember many details. I usually wake up, drenched in sweat with my heart racing. I’m scared in my dreams, scared to death, of people trying to hurt me, grab me, pull me. Sometimes I see Remy, covered in buckets of blood, stretching out his hands, beckoning me to join him. They got worse after my attack three years ago, but I basically had them as long as I can remember.

The new one is different. It starts with Rashid. We are somewhere. The locations vary. He smiles at me, the kind that seems only reserved for me. Sometimes we make out; sometimes he undresses me, slowly and seductively, until I’m completely naked. Then he leans in to whisper in my ear:

“Wendell, you little piece of shit, you’ve had more dick in you than a confession booth on judgement day.”

When I look at him, he’s not Rashid anymore. He’s Quinn.

“Wendell, you spineless little bitch, you’ve been tossed around more than a heroin needle in a junkie’s hand.”

Quinn turns into the drunkard, who gave me a black eye because he couldn’t get hard.

“You little rat bastard, you’re a waste of space – worn out, useless, and as good as a rotting corpse nobody cares to bury.”

He turns into Russ, the guy who always only asked for a blowjob.

“Wendell, you pathetic little worm, if I had a nickel for every time you’ve been fucked, I could buy a lifetime of dignity – something you’ll never ever get.”

They all surround me now. There are more faces. The guy who fucked me so hard, I couldn’t sit for five days. Some of my other regulars, Ralph, Dom, Steve… they all laugh at me, point at me. They call me whore, faggot, cocksucker… Then Rashid bends down to me again, his face a grimace.

“You’re just a cum-stained footnote, Wendell. A walking afterthought. Who’d want a worthless piece of trash like you? You disgust me!”

There are variations. Other nameless men from my past. There were too many. What they’re saying is also different every time, but the message is loud and clear.

I wake up, dry-sobbing. No tears; just empty, breathless choking. I press my fists into my eyes, hard. Like I can force the dream out. Like I can scrape his voice off of the inside of my skull. I feel sick in my own skin.

Sleep has ceased to be an option. Once I have the energy, I drag my sorry ass under the shower. I stay there long after the hot water’s run out before I escape, shivering, to my deckchair on the terrace. At least I can breathe here – no walls to suffocate me. Seeing the place brings back memories of my first kiss with Rashid. When my lips barely touched his for the very first time, and Rashid kissed me back like a man set on fire.

I know this memory is real. My nightmare isn’t. It’s just my fucked-up brain making shit up. None of it is real. But the dream keeps coming back, more frequently, the closer Rashid and I become. I’m not getting enough sleep, and my frazzled mind starts spinning.