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June 17, 2024 Fiction


Filip Fufezan

BUD photo

It’s been two weeks since our last contact.

Bud is either dead, on a bender, or has forgotten about me.

I pick up my iPhone.

 hey. I type.

The message bubble turns green.

Bud, what’s up? :)


wanna come over, my parents are out of the house ;)



Green. Alert symbol. Not Delivered.

He’s blocked me.

Has the director of my life canceled my queer coming of age movie?

Bud and I were supposed to be the Call Me By Your Name of 2024.

I’m visiting my family in the suburbs for the weekend.

They’re at a wedding right now, so my only companion is the blind family dog, Lola.

I play Black Swan on Netflix.

As a Virgo, this is my comfort movie.

I open UberEats and order frozen yogurt from Menchie’s.

It’s $37.74.

Estimated wait time: two hours.

Worth it.

I open my drawstring bag and pull out The Boyfriend Book.

It’s this Taylor Swift journal that has quotes from her songs in the header of each page.

It’s important to keep mementos of men in this city.

It’s the only way to hold onto them.

It’ll be worth a lot when I’m famous.

I flip to Bud’s first entry on page 89.

Where did it go wrong?


‘baby just say Yes’




April 1, 2024

Today, I met Bud. It was at a screening of My Own Private Idaho at Vision Cinemas. I saw him, this handsome stranger, in line for popcorn and drinks. My hole: loose. My mouth: salivating. My jaw: dropped. He wore white Converse sneakers. Levi Jeans. A green flannel with the top buttons undone. I sneaked a photo of him so I could send it to the groupchat with my fav coworker girlies at Starbucks. Bud was with some other hot dude who had a porn-stache. I thought they were dating. Later, though, I asked Bud. They were just cousins. I sat in seat G22. Get this. Bud sat in G23! I could smell his Old Spice Deodorant. He was so still. So stoic. His own gravity. The whole movie, his gravity pulled my knee closer and closer to his. And then there was contact. He didn’t resist.  He pushed back.  I barely paid attention to My Own Private Idaho.  After the movie, Bud turned to me. Elbowed me. Cool movie, he said. I asked for his Instagram. I had to. His username: budboi34. He’s private and has 140 followers.  Huge green flag. The text from my starbucks girlies: eggplant emoji.


page 89



I tear out page 89 and chuck it at the wall.

“BUUD!” I wail.

On the TV, Natalie Portman rides the subway to her ballet rehearsal.

Back to the Boyfriend Book.


‘You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath.”


April 7, 2024

Our first date was at his place. I had my location on for the girlies. His flat was trashed with empty amazon packages and construction tools. Told me he’s renovating. Kinda hot. He had no bed frame, just a mattress with a stained white sheet covering it. Bud has a huge black Mastiff puppy named Tulip. Funny. We hooked up on his mattress and Tulip watched. Kinda hot. After sex, Bud talked at me: sports, bulking at the gym, movies, his mommy issues. Honestly, he just kept talking as if he were on a podcast. He reminds me of my high school bully, Joshua Silverstone. I want to live inside of Bud’s armpit.


April 9, 2024

Bud came over to my apartment at 2am and we hooked up.  Now, his musk won’t leave my apartment. The smell is there on the towel. My upper lip. Pillow. Mason jar he drank water from. Clothes I haven’t washed yet. The tip of my cock.  I write poetry in my notes app about this feeling. I want to marry Bud.

page 90



I check my phone.


No new message.

I rip out page 90 and 91. 

I throw down the Boyfriend Book, startling Lola.

I put on my Airpods Max, and play ‘Red, Taylor’s Version’.

I go on a walk around the neighborhood.



When I come back, Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis are making out on the TV. 

My Uber driver is now 20 minutes away.

I open the Boyfriend Book to the last entry.

“slow motion, double vision in rose blush”


April 17, 2024

Today, Bud and I had our first fight. Bud was away visiting family for this past week, so he wanted to celebrate his being back by going out to the gay club.  At about 3 tequila shots in, the DJ played Taylor’s best song off her discography, Blank Space. I dragged Bud to the dance floor and danced with my eyes shut. But when I opened my eyes, Bud was gone. I pushed my way through the crowd of tank tops and jockstraps and I sat on a barstool. I texted Bud. Then I saw him exit the bathroom. He ran up to me, kissed me. He had cock breath. I think he sucked off that Twink in the crop top who was walking around with his butt sticking out. I was watching Twink all night. Prowling the club like a cougar. A PUMP! a jockstrap was showing from his waist. He's young. He must be an ‘05 baby. I’m ‘02, verging on Twink Death. Twink still had acne along his chin- or herpes? I couldn’t tell. I shoved Bud and yelled at him. He gave me his wallet and told me to get what I wanted. He was just so drunk he didn't know what happened. I took out his Visa. Bartholomew, it read. His actual name is Bartholomew. I teased him a bit! Called him Barty. I may as well have told him his nudes leaked. He screamed at me, MY NAME IS BUD! NOT THAT! It was the first time I’ve seen a 30 year old man cry.

page 91



WOOF! WOOF! Lola howls at the Uber Driver, her blind milky white eyes bulge.

My Menchie’s!

I open the door.



I throw my arms around my boyfriend.

“I didn’t know you did Uber driving!”

Bud gasps, shoves me, drops off the package, runs to his car.

I run after him, pound on his window.


He drives off.

Not Bud playing hard to get.

I run after him.


He turns the corner and speeds down the main highway.

I watch as his car rear lights fade into suburban void.

I watch as the light of my life vanishes.

I watch as Bud leaves for good.

A tear (a paid actor) runs down my cheek.

This is the climax of my coming of age movie.

Under this streetlight.

‘right where you left me’ by Swift would hit so hard right now.

I’m not wearing shoes so the soles of my feet fucking hurt from running on the street.

I limp home.

I forgot to close the front door, and when I get back, Lola’s silhouette is in the door frame.


She got her way into the Menchie’s.

The paper bag is ripped up.

Brown bits are spread across the entryway.

Lola has overturned the Menchie’s cup, and licks the frozen yogurt.


She looks up at me with her white milky orbs.

I collapse on the floor and hold Lola close.

I pick her up (she’s like so skinny) and take her to the couch.

I caress a shivering Lola on my lap and watch as Natalie Portman flies off the platform at the end of her final dance sequence, onto the white mattress.

Natalie Portman dies happy.

My iPhone buzzes.

Is it Bud? 

My heart leaps.

I open my iPhone.

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