CEREAL MILK

If I were kinder to myself, I might have admitted that conditions were not ideal for getting hard.

Two days after another shitty Valentine’s Day, I found myself in Cal’s apartment. It was our first date. Tinder. His bedroom smelled like clothes. The plants, which Cal introduced to me as Fernilicious, Herb-ert Hoover, and Thorny, stared me down from the windowsill. Treeluxe, a kitschy Christmas tree that Cal bought at a garage sale for 50 cents, twinkled beside them. Worst of all, the Christina Tosi episode of Chef’s Table droned on and splattered blue light in all the wrong places.

Well, what did you do to get it this fudgy in the center? Or, are you happy with the balance of chocolate to butter?

I snuck glances between my legs at the TV and almost laughed, despite the dick in my mouth. The image flickered between slow-mo food porn shots of dough, well-lit interviews with Christina’s mentors and friends, and a surprisingly peaceful bike ride through NYC.

I was the one who had recommended Chef’s Table. I had caught the Great British Bake Off in his “Continue Watching” section, and I thought we might actually finish whatever we started. Most of our conversation up to that point had consisted of Vine references, excellent banter, and a thoughtful discussion of our experiences with mixed-race identity politics. Sure, we met on Tinder, but I had met all kinds of people on Tinder. And Cal had mentioned times in his life when he had questioned whether or not he was asexual. Then again, he also complained about how messy the queer hookup scene was at Brown, so I should’ve known.

I tasted it, and I was like, ‘Who the hell would make something like this?’

“Have you been with many guys before?”

I took a break from sucking him and sat up a bit. I thought about the people I’ve fucked with dicks who weren’t guys and decided it wasn’t the moment to bring that up.

“Honestly, no. Just like a couple, and only oral,” I said. I noticed how shirtless I was. “Can you tell?”

“No, you’re great. Just relax.”

Obviously, that meant he could tell. Of course he could. I was gagging on him, and not in a good way.

He played with my hair and pushed me gently back down. I wished he could be honest. At the same time, I appreciated the necessary lie.

As I figured out what he liked, or at least what made him pronounce sex noises, I wondered what he would do when he saw I wasn’t hard. I was hard when he kissed me earlier, then I wasn’t.

I had experienced this before with past sexual partners of different genders and bodies. I knew I needed to just get comfortable and let myself be kissed or dommed or both, but Christina Tosi kept fucking talking.

and with his mouth full, because when he’s really excited he can’t wait to share his thought.

After he finished in my mouth, he smiled and readjusted his piercings.

“What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

“Well, what are you feeling?”

I hated and loved how careful he was not to push me beyond my limits, how communicative he was.

What’s hard is that the flavor that you get of the blueberry in the drum-dried is pretty magical when you eat it with the milk crumbs.

“I don’t think it’s gonna happen,” I said.

“Okey dokey, whatever works for you. Don’t stress about it.”

It wasn’t his fault. He attempted every strategy one might find in a grocery store magazine listicle. He kissed, bit, licked, slapped, clawed, and grinded. I liked it. My body didn’t comply.

The true roadblock was doubt. Of course it was doubt. Of course no matter how he tried to please me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was queer enough. The thought popped into my head when I was sucking him, then popped up a week later when I ate his ass. Yes, as I licked every part of him and enjoyed it, as I watched him play with my ass and enjoyed it, every time I fucked him for a few months, I thought, Am I queer enough?

So we don’t frost the outsides of the cake. That’s my diatribe on cake.

I’m sure we’re all aware of this overwrought idea. That some queer people believe they are not queer enough (even as they console their queer friends with the same doubts andassert that one does not need to fuck or try anything close to fucking to be queer). The stereotype bores me. But I am interested in what it means to fall into the stereotype while fully aware of its existence.

For me, it meant anger. Anger at myself, anger at Cal, anger at Christina Tosi and heteronormativity and my dick and Treeluxe and my mother and father and everyone else who had doubted my queerness.

I wanted Cal to embody my anger. I wanted him to yell at me for being another inexperienced queer kid who wanted to fuck around in college. For sucking his dick badly. For treating him as an experiment. Even though I truly believed I didn’t.

Cal handled the situation too perfectly. He accepted me when I failed to get hard, asked me about myself and listened when I answered, held me as I growled, naked and frustrated. He played with my hair. He kissed me not to fuck me, just to kiss me.

If I’m being honest with myself, I wanted him to confront me so I wouldn’t have to consider any other confrontations.

To be like I don’t owe anyone anything, and I don’t actually need anyone’s permission. A little bit like F the world.

As I left his apartment and trudged through the snow, a bit too embarrassed and busy to stay over, I played a song that invited head banging. I think best when thrashing.

I understood that hardness didn’t serve as a perfect measure of horniness, let alone sexuality. Despite my body, I knew I liked it, and he seemed to like it too. Parts, at least.

I half-remembered reading once, in Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts, a celebration of a queer, impotent poet. Maggie Nelson lauded his work as “triumphantly wilted.”

As I kicked along chunks of ice, I wondered how I could find glory in my inability to get hard. I didn’t quite work out the details, but I convinced myself that such a vision was possible with just a bit of mental gymnastics. Maybe I could find pride in pleasing a partner even when I myself received no favors. I did enjoy that, sometimes.

I can get down with that. The only thing about panna cotta is panna cotta is usually pretty boring. Maybe it’s a vanilla panna cotta, maybe it’s chocolate.

Only two minutes after I left his place, Cal sent me a text.

“thanks for coming over! let me know when you’re free so i can show you some tips and tricks”

I immediately replied with some concrete dates and times. Then I asked him the names of his plants again because, even though they stared, I remembered I thought their names rung with something like glory.

Originally Published on May 23rd, 2019

AUTHOR: Joaquin Munro is Mexican & white & queer & trying to learn how to be tenderly militant. He grew up in Boston & studies creative nonfiction at Brown. His favorite spot in Providence is White Electric Coffee.

ARTWORK: Emma McKhann