Why Do I Text Assholes After Midnight?
-by Jeremy Gloff
-appeared on TheNewGay.net
-August 9th, 2010

In fairy tales at the stroke of midnight Cinderella’s carriage turns into a pumpkin.  In Tampa Florida, at the stroke of midnight, Jeremy Gloff’s integrity turns into a big pile of smelly shit.

There is a duality to my existence. When the sun is shining I feel fulfilled and well adjusted. I enjoy my job and my friendships.  It is when the clock strikes twelve that the transformation begins.  Dr. Jekyll turns into Mr. Hide-Your-Face-In-Public. It is around midnight that I begin to text and IM the assholes.

I had sex with a lot of those assholes once, pun somewhat intended. The sex wasn’t damaging, but the fact that they often ignore my IMs is. Never mind the fact that generally these men bore me. My chilly and cavernous late night loneliness craves company. Books, movies, sleeping pills, and television have always failed to appease.

A portion of my nocturnal desperation is driven by horniness. But I’d be just as content strolling the aisles of WalMart together at 3 am. Irregardless of my motivation my head starts to scramble once I’ve IMed three or four boys and none of them respond. I’m aware I’m feeling crazed yet I type that third or fourth sentence...just in case. I feel awful about myself the next day.

As the well adjusted and responsible set are snoring away this night owl has been lurking amongst lunatics and vampires. None of these men I contact late at night are bad people.  But all of them are bad for me.  My history with unresponsive men dates back to the time I was six and waiting by the window for a father that never showed. A six year old doesn’t know better.  A thirty five year old should.

This week I deleted ten men from my phone and facebook. I’ve seen these men naked but they would never meet me for coffee. These were the men that talked dirty back when they were in the mood but ignored me for weeks if they weren’t. Without the willpower to resist them in my chat box I did what I had to do.  Laura Branigan didn’t have self control either - she’s dead.

I've done the phone number deletion routine before. Hours later I was cruising my AT&T online bill trying to recover that tragically lost phone number. I will own up to deleting and re-adding phone numbers to the point that I've memorized the digits of some pretty unsavory characters. This recent purging feels a bit more disciplined.

Without wayside boys to distract my mind when it’s dark out I’m now forced to confront my empty spaces. I’ve never been without this reliable but destructive cache at my disposal. From my teenage little black book to my twenty three year old booty call pager to my thirty five year old facebook chats.

My intuition is telling me the only way to find the substantial is to lose the peripherals. At the risk of turning into a pumpkin after midnight I am forcing my brain to do the talking instead of my hands.