If you make out with someone in your mom’s basement she will say things like:

…

“Your shirt’s inside out.”

…

“If I’d have known you were having someone over I would have put sheets on the pullout.”

…

“Next time you can bring the heater downstairs so you don’t get cold feet.”

…

“Who has dry lips?”

Oh my God. Mom. What.

“I think your friend left two sticks of lip balm downstairs.”

Oh.

…

Then your dad will ask whose shoes he spotted in the kitchen that morning.

The event will be so embarrassing that you will just say “fuck it” and buy a plane ticket to Australia so you don’t have to look your parents in the eye for at least seven months.

I saw these guys play at a brewery in Sydney a few nights ago.

I’ve been missing the Latin flare of America, and these guys brought it and then some. Best part? The show was free.

I haven’t said much about Sydney, just know that is has been incredible and soul-searchy and weird and entirely typical of my life. I hope to share stories and antics soon. I’ve been smooching the locals and enjoying the sunshine.

The show was sparked with energy and passion, especially compared to the usual free music options in Sydney.

Oh good the street guitarists in Sydney know "Wonderwall" I was worried I would never hear that one again.—
Hollywank (@GlitterDunn) April 25, 2013

I noticed that the farther I moved from Ohio, the more likely I was to have people from Ohio interested in me.

So I created a mathematical equation that calculates how many men in Columbus are available and ready for some tongue-tangos with you at any given time. Obviously it only works if you are literally anywhere but Columbus.

…

Number of Miles from Columbus
x
(Current Height in Feet/Current Weight in Pounds)
x
([.10][Number of Exes in Columbus]
+ [.10][ Number of Male Gay Friends in Columbus]
+ Number of Straight Male Friends in Columbus Who Just Really, Really Wanted to Hang Out at 3 AM That One Time
+ Number of Vaguely Sexual Messages You Receive From Columbus Men Who “Saw You at Union Last Weekend” Even Though You Live on the Other Side of the Fucking Globe
+ Average Number of Friend Requests Per Month from Men in Columbus You Have Never Met in Your Entire Life)
=
Number of Men in Columbus Ready for Smooching

…

Notice that if you are actually in Columbus, the entire equation is shot and the answer is automatically “zero.”

And that’s the other side.

Moving to the opposite side of the globe has really been doing wonders for my personal life in Ohio y’all.

One of them was a surgery resident named Louie. He was shorter than me, but sturdy, with red hair and a quiet magnetism that kept a constant circle of positive people around him.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the short, cheesy, medical types.

Louie took me by the hand and we slipped out the back door onto the quiet patio. He told me he needed some air.

“It’s one of your last nights in Columbus. You don’t have to be pissed at the world,” he said.

I was. When we were dating Louie had described me as the most positive pessimist he had ever met. He had told me I was always angry, but was at least able to make a joke out of it.

Louie kept going, “And I’m not going to tell you to just snap out of it because I understand your frustration I just… you’re going to be fine.”

He showered me in a few more compliments until it started to border on annoying.

We hugged. For a moment I lost my footing. Both of us were drunk enough to lose our balance and we stumbled. Our drinks splashed onto our arms.

“And if you hit 30 and you’re still single and unemployed, we’ll just get married and call it a life,” he said.

I was pretty sure I had already made similar deals with several other people, but I agreed. And I told him what I told the others.

“I mean we’ll be dead in gay years, so whatever.”

…

A few days before leaving Marco Island I was with Valerie. She was a member of the tight circle of drinking buddies and beach pals I had accumulated on the small island.

We were at a hotel bar right along the beach, sand scattered across the concrete at our feet. On paper the bar was only for guests but they would serve to anyone that paid.

The sun was setting and the waves were breaking. Everything seemed perfect.

“I get it,” she said, “This place isn’t for you and it’s time to go, just… just be careful.”

I asked her what she meant.

“I mean,” she paused. She was always so careful with her words, “I mean be careful. You can’t… you can’t complain about being lonely all the time if you never stay in one place. You can’t complain about where you live if you don’t actually try to live there.”

“But Marco Island?”

“Oh no,” she said in agreement, “Get the fuck out of here. Come back when you’re old and married.”

…

My news anchor friend smiled when I told him I was leaving Phoenix. We were eating brunch on the patio of some street-side cafe, the kind that sells vegan wraps and gluten-free brunch. The thing about street-side cafes in Phoenix is that they are almost always along a four lane road or overcrowded street. The abnormal length between intersections gives passing vehicles just enough momentum to become as loud as possible before slowing down for the next stoplight.

The cafes could enclose you behind an aging iron fence with ivy crawling along it. They could put tiny candles and checkered napkins on every table. But no amount of illusion could hide the street and its constant noise, the flow of vehicles reminding you that you live in the sprawl of the Valley of the Sun. The city’s attempt to be urban but spacious resulted in it being neither.

“Finally,” was all he said.

“Finally?” I asked. I hadn’t even been in Phoenix a full year.

“A boy doesn’t talk about wanting to die as much as you do without leaving or, you know, actually offing himself,” he said.

“It’s not about Phoenix,” I told him, “I like Phoenix.” He reached across the table squeezed my hand.

“It’s about what’s not in Phoenix,” he said. He followed with a wink and a sip of his drink.

He always said just the right thing, but it always felt scripted. Words that should have been comforting were unnerving.

“Whatever the fuck that is,” I said.

…

Columbus and Marco, the explorers.

Phoenix, the rebirth.

Whatever I’m looking for, I’m getting warmer.

Whatever the fuck that is.

…

On Monday I depart for Sydney, Australia.

We’ll see what’s changed when I fly back in August.

Chris is a frame of lean muscle. His face features a Western jawline with Eastern eyes and his once wispy hair has been trimmed short.

I’m sitting on the floor and leaning against the front of his couch. Chris is sitting on the couch, a leg on each side of me, his knees resting against my shoulders. He digs his hands into my shoulders and attempts to knead and pull the anxiety out of them.

“You’re pretty tense for a drunk guy,” he says, “Quiet for a drunk guy, too.”

“Sorry,” I say. I close my eyes as he massages my neck, “Would you believe me if I told you I just had a massage last weekend?”

He says no, citing that I’m cheap and don’t let people touch me. I laugh.

Chris starts prying with questions. My fingers fumble in the dark for a remote so I can drown out his voice and flush out the questioning darkness with television. He’s annoyed, but allows me to avoid his curiosity.

As his fingers tweak the muscles in my back I turn on his TV, scrolling through potential options. Something on his DVR catches my eye.

“Shut the fuck up…” I say, turning to him, “You DVR Adventure Time?”

He asks me if I’m serious, and reminds me that he’s been telling me to watch this show for years.

I tell him I should have listened and that I had just recently discovered it.

We fall into our old pattern, cuddling on his couch. We watch the silly-but-smart show, laughing together and forgetting the hostile cold outside his walls.

His hand squeezes my shoulder and I feel a kiss on my cheek.

“I’m sleepy,” he whispers. He leaves his head on my shoulder.

It’s the first time Chris’s lips have ever touched me, but it feels right in that comfortable, platonic way things always feel with him. Some people want more. They want the panting and the sweating and the attempted romance. Neither of us will try to go in for a full kiss or pull at a zipper. All we want is warmth, and tonight less is more than enough.