Blueprints

All pics @ Slutever

The first time I visit the home of my internet crush Hamilton Morris, I know instantly that I like him because the place is a disaster. If someone died in this apartment, it could take months to find the body. Erratic towers of books mask every visible surface—kitchen table, windowsills, floor, sink. There’s a half eaten sandwich withering away next to the air conditioner, now half its original size. Except for a couple rickety wooden chairs, the only piece of furniture in the place is an offensively modern, neon orange sofa turned over onto its side, located directly in the center of the living room. “My dad directed an e-Harmony commercial a couple months ago,” says Hamilton, pointing at the orange heap. “That was a prop. I never got around to deciding where to put it.”

His bedroom is a roughly 3 meter by 3 meter square with a bare mattress lining the left wall. A couple yellowed pillows and a rainbow quilted blanket lay sloppily at its side. Above the bed hangs a hand drawn poster of the chemical structure of something-or-other. Old protein drinks and more books—The Psychopharmacology of Hallucinogens, Ketamine: Dreams and Realities, etc.—are the room’s sole embellishments. I scan the room multiple times over, then breathe in really deep, filling my nose with any available smells. I smile and say “I like this” out loud.

“I know, right?” he beams, gesticulating with his bony, awkward hands. “I don’t get why people need large bedrooms. I’d much rather live in a small cube than a large cube, don’t you agree?”

“Definitely,” I nod, forgetting to consider whether this is actually what I believe. “But like, where do you keep your clothes?”

“Right there,” he says flatly, pointing to a small cotton heap of about three T-shirts.

“Oh yeah,” I shrug. “Duh.”

You can tell a lot about a person from their surroundings. I like to think of one’s bedroom as a blueprint of his or her character. Personally, extreme cleanliness freaks me out. I mean let’s face it, people with immaculate houses have something wrong with them. Plus they’re bad in bed. Everybody knows that; it’s just a fact. I would never fuck a guy who vacuums or who folds his underwear. I much prefer a guy with a sink covered in hair and black mold, who wears the same clothes for weeks at a time. It lets me know we’re on the same page, that we want the same things out of life.

If I have sex with a guy and he comes on me, I don’t like to shower immediately afterward. I prefer to walk around for the rest of the day with his DNA festering on my skin. I want to be able to smell him on my fingers for hours. Naturally, I want a guy who feels the same—who revels in wearing my old cum and dried blood. Judging by the state of his bedroom, Hamilton would definitely wear my cum.

“Do you have any tattoos?” I ask, scanning his twiglike body for any visible markings.

“No, do you?”

“No.”

“For a while I considered getting the chemical structure of methylphenidate tattooed on my arm, but then decided against it.”

“That’s nerdy,” I say, followed by “You, uh… have very beautiful long hair.” And he laughs like I’ve just said something really silly, but I sort of meant it to be silly so whatever.