We'll Never Talk About What Happened at Midnight

Contains explicit mentions of sexual content.

TEN P.M.

There’s no other beauty like a party. When you walk into a party like this, you become anonymous. The colored lights wash out your face, and the music drowns out your words, and the drugs take you out of your own mind and into a stranger’s. At least that’s what you hope happens. 

When you walk into a party like this, you become a demigod. Nothing can touch you.

These are the things I tell myself as I enter the fray, late but unnoticed. Immediately bodies press in around me and I see nothing but red. Here, no one knows me: I can be whatever I want, and tonight, dressed in fishnet, the waistband of my briefs just visible over the pants hanging off my hips, hungry and ready and alert, I want to be sexy.

I roam the building with a plug in my ass and today’s dose of PrEP coursing through me. I’ve never been here before, but I find the drinks easy, and from there the evening flows naturally. I catch eyes like an athlete deadset on scoring; I pull boys into corners and kiss them sloppy, not knowing their names or even the sound of their voices, just grinding and wanting and hoping. 

After wiping my mouth and walking away from one of the nameless youth (ribbed tank top, one earring, six-foot-something, curly-haired and eager), I turn a corner and see an angel in the crowd. 

They radiate in the blue light. Glitter shines on dark skin and when they move they shimmer like an illusion, like a mirage, and as they dance the wings on their back dance too. Their wig is long and black and rests on bare, broad shoulders, and in a room full of people they’re the centerpiece. The angel captivates me. They seem to glow in the dim, like moonlight has somehow spilled in through the windows and taken form. I stand in the open doorway as bodies shove past me, staring for a length of time I can’t determine. 

Eventually the angel walks up to me. I think, I hope, that they might speak; they also saw me across the crowd and recognized something about me, something special. But they don’t. They didn’t walk up to me at all– they sidestep me and leave the room, and all I can do is watch as they disappear in the swarm. 

I try to shake the idea of them off. I’ve loved a lot of strangers before, briefly and intensely, and I’m trained in the art of letting them go. But the angel continues to stubbornly occupy my mind. 

ELEVEN P.M.

We’re both a few drinks in too deep when we meet eyes across the room. 

At these types of parties, I don’t know names. I don’t ask for them and I don’t want them, and more than anything, I don’t want anyone to know mine. But when I see him and he sees me, there’s recognition in his eyes, and I don’t think either of us know who’s more fucked. 

His name is Sterling. He was a swimmer in high school, varsity team, and judging by the looks of him he hasn’t stopped, even three years into college. He’d graduated a year above me but I still remember passing him in the halls, a different girl on his arm every month, wondering what it was like for her– were his hands warm? Was his hair as soft as it looked? I noticed everything about him: his team’s wins, his class schedule, his love life, his outfits, his locker assignment. But I don’t think he ever looked my way. 

That is– excepting once. 

The men’s bathroom; prom. We were washing our hands at the same time. I kept my head ducked, my eyes down, pretending I didn’t care that he was there and doing a horrible job of it. My hand was on the door when he called out my name: “Tyler.”

I froze; it was the first time he’d ever spoken to me. I hadn’t thought he knew who I was. 

“You look good tonight.”

I turned around and faced him, my hand falling to my side, and I blinked at him. He had a date to get back to– his tie, emerald green, matched her dress. “You too,” I’d said. I left immediately after, shaking from the shock of him having spoken to me, and I’d thought that would be the end. But throughout the ensuing month between prom and his graduation, he stared at me constantly. Our eye contact was frequent and intentional. I attended graduation and went up to him after the ceremony, looking to say goodbye (or, perhaps, instigate a summer romance), but he stepped back as soon as I said hello. 

“Look, dude, I’m not gay. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I left. That was the last time Sterling and I saw each other, until now. 

He fights through the crowd to reach me, somehow without spilling a drop from his cup. I’d forgotten about those eyes; they should be illegal. I stand and I wait because I can’t go towards him, but I can’t walk away. “Tyler,” he says, and his voice is a little deeper than it was in the bathroom three and a half years ago, but the name comes out just the same. His hair is longer now, his shoulders broader. They bulge out of his sleeveless shirt and I can’t tear my eyes away. 

“Sterling,” I start. He’s not the only one with the power of a name. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

He swallows– I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “I didn’t either. It’s… it’s been a while.”

“It has.”

“You look good tonight.”

MIDNIGHT

Sterling’s got me pinned against the wall. My wrists ache from the pressure of his fingers closed around them and we’re panting like dogs. From outside the locked door the booming bass leaks in, it travels through the floors into the cold wall against my back into my bones, making my skull buzz and rattling my thoughts around in my head. I have nowhere to look but his eyes. 

“I thought you were straight,” I tease. 

“I am.”

He releases one of my wrists, grabs the back of my head, and presses our lips together. And even if I could get away from him, I wouldn’t. 

He fucks me. It’s fast and it’s vicious and it’s a dream. For a few seconds of it, I might even love him. The sheets are on the floor and the mattress groans beneath us, coils springing up against my back. We’re sweaty and drunk and we don’t speak a word; when I make too much noise he wraps his hand around my neck. The room is dim and green light floods in from the space under the door. Both of us come: him first, myself second. 

Afterwards, we lay side by side, naked and slick. My hair sticks to my forehead and I have the instinct to put clothes on, but not the energy. Sterling seems to have no such shame. He spreads himself out on the bed like he knows he’s beautiful. If I cut off his head and limbs and painted his skin marble-white, I could put him on display in the Uffizi.

“I jerked off to you once when I was sixteen,” I say. “You posted a thirst trap on Instagram, and it worked.”

He closes his eyes. None of his skin touches mine; we are only inches apart, but completely separate, running like parallel lines. “Drugs,” he starts, “will fuck you up. I’m a mess tonight, Tyler. I couldn’t even tell you everything I’ve drank, everything I’ve taken. I don’t have a mind anymore, just a body– and my body wants you, so that’s all I know right now.”

The speakers are still pumping music through the house, but somehow in this room it is quiet. Outside there’s movement, but in here all is still. I lean over the side of the bed to find my shirt and briefs, but Sterling flings an arm across my waist and pulls me back, turning me so we face each other. His eyes are wide. 

“Don’t leave,” he says. “Not yet.”

His voice is uncharacteristically pleading. So I abandon my clothes on the ground and kiss him again, and like this we fall asleep, lulled by distant cheers and the rhythmic thrum of the bass. 

THREE A.M.

I check the time on my phone when I wake up, and cringe at what I see. Sterling is still knocked out next to me. He’s not quite snoring, but his exhales are loud, lifting a lock of hair against his cheek. Unthinkingly I move the strands out of his face with my thumb. 

With my clothes back on I unlock the door and step out into a wasteland. Music still plays, but quieter now. A handful of people are asleep in various places– three on the sofa, a few on the floor, one on top of a table where they pushed aside all the cups– but otherwise the house has emptied out. I think about leaving, but I don’t. 

Someone is in the downstairs bathroom. There’s every chance they’re unconscious, but I don’t feel like knocking to find out. So I climb the staircase, holding tightly to the railing, and find a bathroom at the end of a hall. The door is cracked open and a dim light flickers gently behind it. 

I push the door and reveal someone standing at the sink. They’re covered in glitter and staring intently at the mirror, carefully taking pins out of their dense, close-cropped curls. They turn to me, our gazes locking, and I recognize the angel. 

“Sorry,” I say. 

The angel smiles. “I didn’t realize anyone else was awake.”

“So why are you still here?”

“Because, this is the best part of every party.”

They step back, signaling that I should come inside. When I glance at the mirror I don’t recognize myself. My makeup has smudged around red, watery eyes, creating the dark circles of a man who’s not slept in weeks. My hair is still damp, sticking up at odd angles around my face, and the clothes I felt so confident wearing before look like ill-fitting costume pieces now. Five hours ago I wore no glitter, but now I somehow shine with it. 

“Dear god,” I laugh, rubbing at my itching eyes. 

The angel pulls out their last pin. “Don’t like what you see?”

“Well, the way I look is a little incriminating.”

I’d needed to use the bathroom, but that’s forgotten about now. I sit on the toilet lid and watch the angel deconstruct themself. They pat at their sparkling eyes with makeup remover wipes, and then with fumbling hands attempt to undo the clasp of their choker. Instead of watching them struggle, I stand and unclasp it myself. Their hands fall to their sides and our eyes meet in the mirror, as above the glass, one of the lightbulbs blinks in and out.

“Why haven’t you left?” they ask. 

I don’t know how to answer, because I’m not sure myself. “He’s still here. Sleeping. But I woke up.”

“Same bed?”

I nod. “Same bed.”

I place the choker on the sink counter and retreat back to the toilet. Now– wigless, wingless, matte– I can see the angel’s face. Their skin is dark and smooth and clings firmly to a set of pronounced cheekbones. Their arms are thin, but muscular; a lace-up top reveals a flat chest and visible ribs. “You’re scared,” they say, leaning their lower back against the counter. “What is it?”

I’m silent for a moment. “I think…” I say, quietly, “I think I’m afraid, if I do leave, that the enchantment will be over and he won’t want me again. That we’ll never talk about what happened at midnight.”

“He already wanted you once.”

“I know.” The hallway is dark and so is the world outside the window. Life has condensed itself to this bathroom. “But he’ll call it a mistake. A fluke. And I don’t want to be a mistake. I just– I just wish I were someone he could love.”

The angel shakes their head. “No you don’t, sweetheart. You wish he was someone who could love you.”

I don’t know why I do it, but I stand up and I kiss the angel. They lean into it for a tenth of a second, kissing back with the softest lips I’ve ever felt, but then they pull away. “You’re cute, Tyler. But you can’t kiss this away. You have to face up to him. I know you can.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“You’re right,” they say. The angel takes me by the shoulders, and the warmth from their hands fills me. It shows me what love is. They guide me past the hall of mirrors, past all the deception and warping and panic I’ve known for so long, into a bright and airy place of clarity. “I don’t know you, not really. But I’ve met a million and one twinks before and I know what you feel. There’s more, I promise, and it’s waiting for you. You’re better than this… so go tell him how it is, and burn this shit down like it’s Paris.”

The angel sidesteps me and takes their wings from the bathtub. They tuck the wings under their arm as they walk down the hall, then slowly they descend the stairs, fading out of sight and leaving me alone before the mirror. 

FIVE A.M.

The sun hasn’t quite risen as Sterling and I lean out over the edge of the flat roof, our elbows resting on the concrete half-wall which separates us and the open air. There’s a hint of pink creeping out from behind the skyscrapers. For the first time in seven hours, my head is not pumped full with music, and I breathe in fresh air as the wind whips at my hair. 

Sterling pulls a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and flicks his lighter once, then twice, before it catches. He inhales, holds, and then lets his shoulders drop as he breathes out. The smoke is carried away by the wind. 

“Am I your first guy?”

Sterling shakes his head. “No, not exactly.”

I let out a dry laugh, and the sun rises another inch. “Sounds like a straight man,” I say. We’re silent for another few moments; we look out at the city as it wakes up, watching people hurry along the sidewalks with their jackets pulled tight against the early morning breeze, listening to the horns and sirens ring out. I think about the man I was when I walked into this building last night, and wonder if he and I are still the same. 

Sterling gestures at the cigarette, and I accept it and inhale as he speaks. “Sometimes, when I’ve been out all night, when I’m tired and drunk and stupid, I want to fuck a man. I don’t think that makes me gay. But– but I had fun with you last night, Tyler. Maybe, sometime, if I find myself getting that way, we could meet again.”

My instinct is to accept the offer. It might be noncommittal and meager, but it’s an offer, and three years ago I would have given him my number and waited– waited for days or weeks or forever– for him to call and tell me he wanted me. But now I raise my brows and I want to ask if what he’s just said to me is a joke. 

“No,” I say. “No. When– if– you figure yourself out, find me again, and I’m yours. But I won’t be your experiment. I won’t be your last resort.”

I look over at him and am once again ambushed by the intensity of his beauty. It would be so easy to fall back into my normal: the routine of being wanted, used, then discarded until the next opportune moment. Sterling is so easy to pine for. 

But no; not this time. The sun clears the horizon and the city is awash in gold, and we live in those few magical moments after dawn comes but before the streetlights turn off, little pinpricks like fireflies gradually flickering out of sight as day arrives. I extinguish the cigarette on the concrete wall and then, when he gives me no response, I leave. 

I met an angel last night. Today, I can’t remember their face, or the shape of their body, but I do remember the feeling of their hands on my shoulders and the warmth of their skin beneath the clasp of a necklace. Today, I walk into the world and feel that more is indeed waiting for me. I know it is, because they promised.