The year after that, he sucked my cock.
The year after that — last year — there was transgressed flesh, a little blood, and the unspoken understanding that this first night would be our last.
Since the beginning, J and I spent every New Year’s Eve together — not really on purpose, but by happy chance. We never made any particular effort to be together on holidays or birthdays, but it always just happened to work out that we were together on New Year’s.
In general, I could give or take the holiday. But over the past few years with J, New Year’s Eve felt special.
We spent those nights so wrapped up in each other that we never bothered to notice when the clock struck midnight. Noting the time just wasn’t important, but knowing we were together at the end of one year and the start of another felt good. I enjoyed eschewing holiday conventions of sparkly dresses and champagne in favor of a naked boy and a fifth of whiskey.
I never admitted it (I fear nostalgia and sentimentality), but I secretly loved the idea that whatever I was doing when the clock struck midnight is what I’d be doing for the rest of the year. While I can’t remember exactly what I was doing, whatever it was, it was with the boy (or to the boy). There was nothing but him, and me, and the beautiful alchemy of us together.
The promise of more nights like that and the hope for more moments together made me ridiculously happy.
This year, J’s ringing in the new year on the other side of the country — he’s two thousand miles, eight states, and three time zones away. Sometimes his absence hurts more than others, and this is one of those times.
Tonight, I’ll share the champagne alone.
Cheers to what was… and to what lies ahead.
To be clear, we never drank champagne — we were a hard liquor sort of couple—
but it’s a new year, and we’re not a couple anymore… so why the fuck not?