John, or Joe

By A. Delamater

There's this guy at work. I think his name is John. I don't know because I've never really had a conversation with him, only seen him around. He's my type: tall, with dark hair and sharp eyes. I like that, the hungry look. Insatiable. It gets me going. We work at a huge company. It's huge enough that I'm not even sure which part of it he works in. So I just see him around.

One time I was headed to the cafeteria and I was lucky enough to walk in right behind him. It's nice to watch him. He fills his corporate uniform well, with the blue sleeves rolled up just so. Sometimes I wonder if guys do that because they want to feel like they're doing physical labor--you know, blue collar, like real men. They--we--sit behind desks all day. I don't roll my sleeves up. Anyway, I like that John does. He's got nice forearms. I choose the same lunch line as his and admire how evenly his hairline is trimmed, and wish I could follow the curves of his neck as they go down into his collar. His clothes don't leave much to the imagination; they don't really have a choice. The guy is ripped. I wonder if girls this hot get into trouble if they don't wear modest clothes. More likely they get promoted.

I'd promote John. If I was in a position to.

Work isn't the only place I see him. On weekends he works at this bar that I haunt, Josie's. He's a bouncer, of course. He wears a tight black shirt, which is frustrating because it makes it hard to see the contours. When I show up he never recognizes me, from work or from my other visits to Josie's. There's this exchange we have, every time. He is always working the door when I arrive, and I give him my out-of-state driver's license, and he says:

"Hey, you're from Summervale? I lived just south of there before I moved here. Small world, man."

And I say, "Yeah, small world." And I go in and get my beer, and watch the people. When I leave he doesn't notice.

I had a boyfriend once who looked a lot like him, but even more ripped. John is maybe a little flatter all around. His face is softer, like a picture of my ex. The ex's name was Joe. He's the only guy that I've made love to, really. I say that because with everyone else there's been this reserve, a preservation instinct. Not with Joe: I just wanted him to rip me up. He didn't; he was gentle, but it was gentleness that did not come from timidity. If anything, it came from how passionate he was. It was just as good as if he was voracious.

I can tell John would not be gentle. He's got that hunger. I've gone to that bar a lot and he doesn't ever say my name when he reads my ID, only the hometown I left over two years ago. I'm not going to give up, though. Maybe he's hungry for me.

I'll be the first to admit that the guys I'm attracted to look a lot alike. They're starting to, anyway. John looks like Joe. Joe looked a lot like this Scottish guy that enraptured me once, when I was younger. That didn't last long, but it was the first real taste I had of that kind of man. He was just the absolute embodiment. I can still smell his skin if I think hard enough about the way he looked when he was naked in my bed.



It's springtime now. Back at Christmastime I went to Summervale to see my parents and I actually saw John there, when I was meeting some old friends for dinner. He was looking magnificent at the end of the bar, and there was this girl with him who looked tiny and fragile compared to him. There was such tenderness and humor in his eyes when he looked at her and talked to her. I wonder sometimes how these men can feel so strongly for these tiny women but feel such revulsion for other men who have the same qualities. There's that contingent among the gay guys whose ads I see online, the "no fems" guys. They're all the manly men, the Joes and Johns of the world. When I see those ads I feel like a brick wall is being built around me, one that I won't be able to claw my way out of.

But Joe wasn't like that, I tell myself. True enough, but Joe isn't with me, either.

One night I stay at Josie's unusually late. I think some friends had been with me at some point, but I'm not sure. The bar staff is waiting for me to leave, but I lost my wallet and I'm trying to get them to help me look for it. They tell me Come back tomorrow, buddy. If they find it, they'll call me, they say. After I write down my number, I want to tell them to give it to John but he's nowhere in sight and I don't think they would understand. On my way out I hit my head on the door frame and some barback shakes his head in disgust.

Who am I? I'm too good for fucking sidewalks, that's who, so I walk in the street. In the street! I shout this for the world to hear and after a moment some woman shrieks out a window at me. I'm trying to find the goddamn subway, I inform her, and it's none of her business anyway. I then tell her exactly what she is and she says she's calling the cops. It's time to get to my train, and she's bluffing anyway. The stairs are steep, and I start wishing John or Joe would come help me walk down them. There's no handrail, so I'm holding onto the wall. When I get home, I want to watch some of the porno I've got on my computer. I think about how far off home is and it makes me sad that I have to wait that long. The porno has guys in it who look like John, except I get to see it all, from every angle, close up, and I get to see what they do with it. They're completely flat, but that's okay. It's a foundation to build on.



When I wake up, there is a group of people around me and I have a sensation that something is not aligned. Something really hurts and they're taping me to this body-length board. A guy is in my face, very close, and I try to focus on him. He's got a handlebar mustache. He's wearing some kind of uniform. I think he's a paramedic.

"We're going to get you to the hospital as fast as we can, sir. Can you tell me your name?" he asks me.

"No," I reply, sincerely.

"Okay, sir, don't be alarmed. I want you to try hard for me to stay awake. You had a very bad fall and I need you to stay awake until we get to the hospital."

I calculate the distance to the hospital and decide that I can stay awake that long. They're pushing the board I'm taped to onto an ambulance. Inside is another paramedic, and then there's John. It looks like John, anyway, but he seems to be so far away that he looks like a flatter version of John. He looms up above me like the set on a studio lot, all propped-up facade.

"You're a paramedic, too?" I ask John. He smiles at me and asks me my birthday. I tell him. He's writing it down, and then he stops.

"I was born two days after you," he comments.

"You never told me that when you checked my ID," I reply.

"You have an ID on you, sir?" he asks me, looking serious, but I'm lost in the joke now, giggling.

"You could be my next Joe, John," I tell him, and I laugh out loud now, because I know it's not true. There's no John like Joe was, not among all the porn stars in L.A. There's no other guy like Joe in the world.



A. Delamater lives in Austin, Texas with his beloved cat and a large collection of dust bunnies. "John, or Joe" is his first work to be published online. When he's not writing or stroking his pussy, he spends his time wishing he had his own Wikipedia article.