by Scotty Herrera

I am a Bull in a china shop of relationships. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration; I am a Bull in a china shop of relations– nothing has lasted long enough to end in a ship. Much like my gluten sensitivity, I can’t fight this diagnosis. I have instead become a repeat offender who crosses boundaries, and then chides myself while I am curled up in bed with a knot in my stomach, tied by the most skillful of boy scouts.

I once had relations with a man in his apartment. It was a fine apartment. Nothing stood out to me in this fine apartment– nothing besides a massive clock on the immediate right wall that wasn’t a functioning clock at all, but a wall clock sticker set to no reliable time whatsoever. Functional. If a gay man is anything, it's functional.

During my freshly 18 “Am I gay?” quiz, “Are ‘Am I gay?’ quizzes accurate?”, clear-search-history-and-repeat era of my life, I was living in Southern California wine country and massive clocks were more common house decor than one should be comfortable with. This “date” went as expected: a quick jostling of each other on the couch, complete with performative oohs and ahs from the spectators in my brain that would sometimes escape me verbally. I asked if he lived alone afterwards, and he glanced at the sticker clock on the wall.

“You should go,” he responded. “My husband will be home soon.” 

Whose band? His band. Husband?

AH YES, husband. Because of course he would know what time his husband was coming home based on a clock sticker. Here I am, Bull horns and all, standing in the midst of this china shop– a homewrecker. My hooves crunched and munched the remnants of the religious figurines that were packed in displays four shelves high and one shelf long and bucked into aisle six that housed the novelty plates. My horns fanged as my focal point shifted from the fictitious massive clock on the right most wall to the massive cock of a person standing before me. I left, as asked, because I’m nothing if not obedient.

Sometime later, I found myself at the same apartment complex to meet up with another suitor. This locational repetition wasn’t an issue as it was a large apartment complex in a small town, and truly, what’re the odds that this suitor would live in the same section of the complex or even on the same floor... which… he… did.

My suitor opened the door with a finger to his lips to make sure I was quiet, which I thought was odd. But what about gay men isn’t odd? When I entered, I had a looming sense of familiarity. It was a fine apartment. A normal apartment where normal things happen. I wasn’t impressed by the decor (usual), and I wasn’t impressed by the man in front of me (also usual). It wasn’t until I was in a small four-by-six bathroom, staring at a bottle of Trader Joe’s lavender hand soap with my appendage in the mouth of the store manager at my local Target that it occurred to me that I had been here before. The cocktail of drugs I was on had fogged my ability to place the mediocre decor, that included a large clock sticker on the right most wall which I quickly brushed past when entering. I could hear the plates shatter and splinter all around me, as my hind legs wound up and knocked over the rows and rows of fragile china covered shelves. I was hooking up with the other husband.

My hind legs are in perpetual motion until the damage is done, and I can stop to admire my wreckage. People watch domestication for sport. People want to tame the beast, yet man has truly never conquered beast, only become its equal. Me, having never been dated, and two husbands, each vying for the company of another during the day while sharing the same bed at night. In a way, I was only a customer in their china shop which was littered with labels that read “FRAGILE” in bold, red letters, but I’ve never been known to be an observant person.

I finished and left, quickly and quietly, out the way I came (the front door, not my… Oh get your mind out the gutter!), panicking to myself about how I would or should relay this information to Husband #2, and wondering if I would be able to support capitalism in my hometown in a comfortable manner ever again. Has this happened before? Would it happen again? Did they both know? Once is an accident, but twice is a coincidence, and I wasn’t sure employers would be thrilled to read cuckolding under skills on my resume.

I reasoned with myself that if I was being cheated on, I would want to know, so I texted Husband #2 to let him know what had transpired. I told him what had happened from the comfort of my car and the protection of my phone thinking that I would be praised for my service to my fellow homos, but I was mistaken. The reaction I was instead met with was that of anger and disgust. Something along the lines of “How do you sleep at night?”I would respond something like, “With the door open and a nightlight in the hallway because I am scared of the dark, but I do believe that micro light pollution will affect my sleeping patterns if the nightlight is in an enclosed place with my sleeping carcass.” He was livid. He told me he never wanted to talk to me again, which I don’t blame, but I truly did not see myself as the villain. He was the one who pulled out a long, rectangular piece of red fabric that entranced me into the store in the first place. It is not my fault that, once removed, I would destroy everything around me as my obtuse size was not made to squeeze between aisles and aisles of things that are so delicate. 

Note to self and reader who may find themselves in this situation or something similar: Not everyone will see the good in your intentions. Yes, I was letting him know what happened, but I did also go through with hooking up with each of them. I do have to own up to that as well. That’s the literal definition of civic duty.

A little while later he texted me and apologized. He said they were happy and thanked me for what I did. They had been lashing out at each other and subsequently me, caught in the middle of the cum shot cannons firing at the enemy lines. Husband #2 invited me over, but I declined. I had already checked out after having to buy everything in the store with guilt because of their “you break it, you buy it” policy. But after the wreckage, after the admiration and chastisement, after the shattered bits have been swept up and the shelves have been reorganized, there is still a store, and I am still a Bull, now on the outside of the shop looking in.

This essay is a part of Revenge of the Gay Boyfriends, a column by Scotty Herrera who has been on lots of dates. Like so many dates. Like more dates than you could ever think of. Like whatever number you’re thinking of now- wayyyyy more than that. This badge of honor as “The Most Dated Person Ever” comes with a heavy burden of horribly toxic yet eye-opening lessons that are admittedly forgotten as soon as the next day comes along. Granted, he’s only had boy (space) friends, but never a boyfriend. Maybe this column is some sore way of trying to comfort himself of this fact.