I don’t know why I’m doing this.

Maybe it’s the insatiable loneliness festering at the very bottom of my acrid soul, or the remnants thereof.

The flyer for the reading is a butterfly-themed tramp stamp on a willowy white girl’s naked back. It’s at a nightclub called Night Club 101. The website’s quirky, the cursor’s lipstick-stained lips, the icons are hand-drawn, or digitally made to look hand-drawn. Hours: Monday - Sunday, 5:00 pm - Late.

Late.

I take over 100 mg before leaving. Why not? Grab Denis Johnson’s Angels and a notebook. I’m dressed casually because I went to a reading a few nights ago, and I dressed up, and nobody gave a fuck.

Earbuds in.

Out the door, down the stairs, the stoop, onto the sidewalk, the gum-freckled pavement, with the city and its people broiling all around me. My path’s a perfect right angle to the subway entrance, not even a minute away, a perk of the sublet I suppose, and I venture, off-kilter, holding my frayed copy of Angels, down the road and into 4th Ave Station.

F train to 2nd Ave.

Tap my phone, twist the turnstile, and sweat my way up the stairs to the platform.

It’s a nice evening, I guess, and the edibles are kicking in just fine, the sun’s slanting and sinking, nearly dead, and us strangers are stuck waiting and wondering. Together. I get the feeling that most of these people are special, they have missions and milestones, grand plans for gilded, half-assed greatness, and I’m just an aimless dud who never was. Buried deep in their phones, their bubble worlds, minds, eyes, fleeting images flickering at a constant rate, skittering across glass, a metronome of content until the brakes squeal and the doors part…

I’m about to start reading when a homeless man staggers to the center of the car and shouts:

“Listen up! So, like, I’m sorry to interrupt ya, I don’t wanna take up too much of your time… My name’s Kansas, and I’m homeless, times is tough, and I’m a father, yeah, I’m a father, so… If you could spare anything, anything at all, it would be much appreciated.”

Nobody listens, nobody cares, it’s as if I hallucinated Kansas, and we meet eyes for a moment, flabbergasted by what we’ve become. He’s a father, I think, reaching for my wallet, deciding against charity once he starts nodding off. He’ll be good for another couple of hours… What about the kids?

The woman across from me is tapping her fake nails against her screen over and over, so I turn up my music. Oceans In The Sky. A good album for reading.

Muffled laughter, high-pitched metallic whines, tinny automated speech spit through a dusty intercom…

2nd Ave Station reeks like a sewer built solely for alcoholic diarrhea. But I’m walking behind a girl, she’s barely dressed, and she smells like peaches and brown sugar. Her skin looks brand new, like they just made it yesterday.

Everyone has somewhere to go, someone to meet, and I’m just a guy walking straight, letting his beard grow, smelling peaches and brown sugar with a hint of human shit.

* * *

When I walk down the street in New York City, I can’t help but feel inadequate. Like I should just give up, load a syringe with a finger1 of fentanyl-laced dope, liquid so thick I can barely draw it up from the spoon, and meet whatever God’s desperate enough to take me. I was never a fashionable guy, I like gray t-shirts with breast pockets and slim blue jeans, and eighty percent of these cunts look like they just walked off a runway in France. The other twenty percent are actively dying, decaying, completely ignored, casualties of the city like me.

I get the foolish idea to stop at a juice bar called Juicy Lucy. The juice guy’s got a decade-long grimace, so I go straight to the case and grab a pre-made bottle. Pineapple, orange, ginger, and turmeric. $12.00.

I’ll never buy juice again.

* * *

Nightclub 101.

Looks more like a dive bar. As I enter, I’m distinctly aware of my loneliness, how it sinks my heart into my shoes, and my shoes sink right through the earth until I’m swallowed whole.

Earbuds out.

“ID.”

He’s angry, but not at anything in particular. The job, the girl, the boss, the bills, his bad back, the busted air conditioner, filled with mold just like the bathroom, the walls, the baby, diapers, formula, 2, 3, 4, 5 AM wake-ups, never enough of anything, and nothing for himself…

“Sure… There’s a reading here, right?”

“Yup. Downstairs.” He points wearily at the ceiling, hunched over in his uncomfortable chair.

“Where is it?” I ask, unaware of the layout, and now he points west, past a dead bar, a line of empty seats and bored, pierced, heavily-tattooed hipsters being hip and passive, and I see a door. I know the way. “Thanks.”

He groans.

I slink by the bar, westward, through the aforementioned door, into a bright stairwell with mirrors for walls, and I don’t like this blatant reminder of who I am, there should be warnings, signage for this type of brutal reality. It’s dark again once I reach the final step, heading toward a vocal-fried murmur.

I walk into a small, shadowy room with a step-up stage in the back. Booths line the left wall, and a two-tier wooden bench licks the right. Sprawled with shitfaced dilettantes who’d kill themselves for a shot of Ocean Vuong’s semen. Libertines and faux-bohemians and licentious twenty-somethings far too beautiful to be writers, who scribble profound poems about boys and sex and how pretty they are and how the sun breaks through the windows of his bedroom the morning after a good pounding.

Lena Dunham disciples.

I stand at the back of the room, scanning, taking mental notes, feeling like an almighty interloper. Every desirable seat is taken, so I lean against the wall, trying to appear inconspicuous.

I don’t know why I came here.

I’m too high.

She’s way too pretty. They all are.

I’m too bald.

Everyone’s talking to somebody but me.

I thought the reading would have started by now.

I’m nervous for absolutely no reason. Nervous because I just spent seven months alone in the desert. Nervous because I haven’t kissed a woman in over a year. Nervous because I’m no longer important, because I have no friends, no enemies, no feelings, only numb, cancerous dread.

Maybe I should have a drink. Just a beer.

No. Can’t do that.

Can’t do that….

A couple leaves their place on the bench, so I take it, sit down, brush nothing off my shirt, scratch my neck, adjust my position.

I don’t know why I came here.

I take out my twelve-dollar juice so my hands have something to do. Something to hold. I wish I had someone to hold, I think, pathetically, truly disgusted with myself.

A pretty girl is sitting alone, dressed in Victorian-era garb, curly and flowy and floral. I’m into it, I can’t lie, and she’s glancing at me, wondering who I am, and I’m doing the same, wondering who she is. But it’ll never happen, the antiquated version of me who would go and talk to her was an alcoholic dope fiend with a full head of hair.

A camera flashes and I wonder if I’m in the picture. I hope not. I think I should leave. I haven’t said a word since I walked in and I’m starting to hunch. To sweat. I comfort myself by writing this. If only I had whiskey, I’d be at the Victorian girl’s table telling her about my next great novel, I’d take the town and the city, eat the scorn and fuck the rest, but right now I’m falling asleep to the solitary echo of my own thoughts…

1

Finger - Bostonian junkbox slang for ten grams of heroin. Ex. - “Yo, ked, lemme getta hit offa that finger ya just grabbed, ked. Ya know I’m good fa it, ked!”

---

Yeah right.

I have a confession…

I made a burner Substack. Allie Sexton. Why? To check up on a few choice accounts that have blocked me during my tenure on the platform.

I snooped. I’m not sorry.

It must’ve been March.

After trolling my own podcast with Allie, telling myself I sucked, I forgot about the account.

On April 17th, I logged back in on a whim. No messages. No notifications. Not that I posted anything, but it was still depressing. And guess who was in my notes feed?

.

I got an idea.

He likes to brag about how women pay him for sex. So I thought, Let’s test that, changing my profile picture to an anime girl I found on Google.

I checked his notes feed to see where he was—as he constantly updates his mob of keyboard-warrior zealots on his travels—and found him in Los Angeles, hitting comedy shows with an endless string of dates. Fuck it, I thought, sending him this ridiculous message—

I wasn’t even trying at this point. Just fishing. I mean, seriously? “Will you fuck me in my asshole?” I didn’t think he’d respond.

But he did.

I’m guessing this wasn’t his first “Will you fuck me in my asshole?” DM.

I went along with it, thinking, Could I send him to a random address in San Francisco? Have him knock on the door and say, “Hello, I’m here to fuck Allie Sexton in the ass.”

No.

Let’s just have some fun with it.

I offered him more money, an outlandish amount, $10,000, to help me fulfill my (Allie’s) deepest sexual fantasy. I wanted it to be something so stupid, so fucking absurd, that he’d know our conversation was bullshit. At least I thought he’d know.

Enter: The Hot Dog Thing—

He jumped at my offer, undeterred by The Hot Dog Thing, immediately sending me his number. Flabbergasted, I created a TextNow number with a San Francisco area code, shot him a message, and the shitstorm started…

My first run-in with Worst Boyfriend Ever, AKA WBE, was back in February when I did a written interview with him.

Just weeks before, he bragged about defrauding his fans for $40k in a Hawk-Tuahesque crypto pump-and-dump scheme.

His brazen indifference to stealing (“rugpulling,” as he put it) from his own audience baffled me. My idea was simple: offer him money for the interview, never pay, and illicit an angry response from him, proving his hypocrisy.

It worked.

The backlash was swift. Droves of WBE supporters descended into my DMs, calling me a “dumb nigger lover” and a “pussy faggot retard,” among other brilliant insults that still haunt me to this day.

It took a while to get over the devastation. (I didn’t shit for a week.)

I didn’t think I’d ever interact with WBE again.

But there I was, stoned to the gills, texting him.

Kismet.

Here’s the rest of our conversation on Substack, before we get into the meat of it. I do, unfortunately, go full newspeak, imitating what I thought would be the perfect girl for him—

LARP. I had to look that up. I’m thirty-two. Should I know what LARP means?

Anyway…

I was in fact LARPing.

Feeding him exactly what he wanted. Mirroring the women from his stories. I thought it was obvious, but…

Onto the text messages. This is when I committed to the bit. Became Allie.

Excessive, I know. I really thought, “I like cum in my eyes an its good for the skin,” would set off some alarms…

(But I do hear it’s good for your skin.)

Though Allie Sexton is clearly an English or Irish name, he believed that I was in fact Asian.

Baby.

He then sent me a video to prove he was real.

I was fucking astounded. How could this be so easy?

Losing interest, I stopped responding. Around an hour later he hit me with: “did you get scared/ because youre fat?”

No, just tired. Dealing with dread.

Writing the words “foundling subscription” sparked another idea. Rejuvenated me.

(Allie.)

He sent a link to his Substack, insisting I buy a founding subscription to prove I was real. But I just played dumb. Really fucking dumb.

Again with The Hot Dog Thing, which he didn’t mind at all. He just wanted his ego stroked. So Allie stroked.

I thought, “th best piece of writing ive ever read,” would set off some alarms…

He kept nagging me to send the money so he could leave for San Francisco.

Allie couldn’t figure out the subscription page, so he sent his Buy Me A Coffee page instead.

She couldn’t figure that out, either.

I continued playing dumb and nervous, saying “how do i know you’ll come???/wat if u just take my money???”

His response: “if youve read the writing you should know/I always tell the truth now”

At this point he thought I was an older woman. A wombat with a strange hot dog fetish. But Allie Sexton lied.

That bitch!

If I were texting a woman, and she revealed she was a teenager, I’d block her. Report her. Do anything to get as far away from the situation as possible. And that’s what I thought WBE would do. Surely this man doesn’t like teenagers, right?

I’m skipping a lot of texts, because there are just so many. Here’s the meat of it.

“… ur like a god on the page :)))”

C’mon.

Mentioning parents. Another great place to block me. But we continued on, and I grew more and more astounded as the conversation progressed…

I thought this would be the moment he left. Truly. But the further I pushed, the harder his cock got. Oh, WBE, if only you could see the face that had you so engorged, you’d be terrified.

And just like that, he agreed to bang a sixteen-year-old. Allie Sexton.

The Girl Who Doesn’t Exist.

Tuckered out after all the cumshot talk, evading his requests for a picture, I fell asleep.

I woke up to this:

Jesus, now he’s journaling about me!

Allie. T.G.W.D.E.

He resumed hounding me for cash so he could fly over and fuck me.

I was tired of the act. But I wanted to see if I could get him to clearly state that he’d have sex with a supposedly sixteen-year-old girl (again) before I threw in the towel. (I’m a big Chris Hansen fan.)

And he did.

This one made me chuckle.

These didn’t.

He wanted Allie bad.

But Allie doesn’t exist.

Hot dogs do, though.

;)))

P.S.—After leaking a few pictures on Allie’s account, I received this lovely message:

Thanks, !

Inspired language from another promising young mind.

Dear Amanda,

When you dropped me off on the side of the road in Central Square last night, I walked home. It gave me a lot of time to think.

I thought you were going to turn around, apologize, realize how ridiculous our miscommunication was, and continue our date.

We were having fun there for a moment. Wasn’t it fun? I’ll be honest, Amanda, since I can’t be anything else—I don’t know what people do for fun anymore. I haven’t had fun in years. Life’s been a real pile of shit, a series of small victories and large, everlasting defeats. (Thanks, Buk.)

I walked through Central Square in the rain, tears welling (I’m ashamed to admit) over you, this person I barely know. I came upon a homeless woman panhandling. I was crying by this point. She asked me, “What’s wrong, youngin’?” and I told her.

I spilled it all.

You picked me up at 6:30. No, you were late. You texted me, said you needed gas. It was 6:43. I put on my shoes, locked my apartment, and waved at you as I walked to your car, a BMW, then got in. I wore my leather jacket, navy blue Levi’s, black sneakers, and a gray flannel my ex bought me.

By the way—I’m not over my ex.

Anyway—

Taylor Swift was on the radio.

You said, “You’re late, Colin. Why weren’t you ready right when I arrived? You should’ve had your shoes on. You should’ve been pacing, waiting for me.” You were being sarcastic. During our first FaceTime, you mentioned it was your defense mechanism. You kept calling me by the wrong name when we were texting, and I played into it, calling you Sharon and Karen and Shannon and other generic white girl names.

I thought it would be our “thing.”

Who knows, maybe that’s what you do with everyone.

After a twenty-minute ride filled with pure sarcasm, not one serious word uttered, joke after joke, Swift after Swift, we finally found parking and walked to Roxy’s. A grilled cheese restaurant with an arcade in the back.

Now, Amanda, I have to tell you, you’re not the first date I’ve brought to Roxy’s. Kels and I used to go here. She was much prettier than you, but I’m bald now, so I have to lower my standards. Although I am in great shape.

But my jawline’s crooked.

And I’m missing a tooth.

You probably didn’t notice it, it’s in the back. But it’s definitely gone. I remember the day they ripped it out of my head. It was at Tufts downtown. My ex paid some timid dental student $200 to tear the sucker out. It was infected. Hurt like a motherfucker. Looked like I had a golf ball in my mouth.

There I go bringing her up again.

Those were the days. Do you remember that show Days of our Lives?

Neither do I.

Anyway—

We played some arcade games. Our hands touched a few times. Our legs touched as we sat at the bar.

But only for a moment.

I tried to explain to you that every time I’m at a bar, I start dissecting everything. The spirits, the bartender, the way he pours, the shake. Fucking everything. I’m The Barman, for Chrissake. I’m 52,000 words into a book about bartending. All I do for ten hours a day is write about my life as a fucking bartender. But you didn’t know that.

I guess now you do.

You ordered a classic grilled cheese and a cocktail I picked for you. I got a fried chicken sandwich, something I haven’t eaten in a while, and a soda water. With lime.

And the limes were cut like shit.

You wanted to know my pen name. What I write about. The “fucked up past” I’ve been alluding to. I told you some. That I’m bipolar. But I don’t think I’m bipolar.

I think it’s the world that’s crazy.

I didn’t say that to you. I kept it to myself. But I definitely thought it.

We talked about medication. Funny thing to talk about on a second date.

(America.)

I told you I was on a few meds, but didn’t mention names. You said you were on a few, too, but also didn’t mention names. If I had told you the medications I’m on, you would’ve slapped me in the face and walked out.

You told me you went to an inpatient treatment facility. I can’t remember how many I’ve been to.

Too many to count.

You told me you went because of something that happened at work. You’re a teacher, which is noble, but you act like you hate your job. Teaching disabled kids. Who hit you and throw shit at you. You don’t have to do that. It’s a good thing that you do, helping those kids, but you don’t have to if it’s making your life hell.

You could do anything, Amanda. You’re white and you drive a BMW.

It seems you have a need to be hurt. So many Americans do.

Because deep down we’re numb. (From the medications.)

After the crazy talk, it was right back to bullshit sarcasm. You started checking your watch, laughing at texts from your family. “We have this family group chat and there’s been like fifty texts since we got here, sorry.”

I remember when I had a family. When people cared about me.

As I’m recounting our night to the homeless lady, she interrupts me: “Where’d ya meet dis bitch?”

“Ah, online. On a dating app.”

“Huh. Go ta the library, the fuckin’ book store, the grocery store. Getcha self out there. God’ll provide for ya when ya need providin’ fo’. She gunna fall inta ya lap right when ya least expect it.”

“But that’s the thing,” I said. “I don’t think I’m capable of… of being loved. I think… I think I’m just gonna be… alone… That I’m meant to be alone.”

“Uh uh. No sir, dat’s bullshit. Plenty mo’ out there, you jus’ gutta wait fa God. He’ll provide when ya least expect it. Trus’ me, I been there. When men used ta reject me, I’d fall apart. But then I found God. Now God’s my only man.”

That’s what she said to me, Amanda. You and I spoke briefly about religion—between your brilliant, incessant sense of humor, of course—on the ride to Roxy’s. We agreed religion was a form of control.

I mentioned wars.

Anyway—

You were checking your texts. We played Pac-Man, and I could tell you were losing interest in the whole scene, so I said, “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

You agreed.

Did you think I was going to invite you back to my place? On the second date? When, at every turn, you made it clear that you were not that type of girl.

I didn’t know what to do. You continued your sarcasm and whimsy until we found your car. The BMW.

(Good for you.)

We got into the Beemer.

I said, “What now? Do you wanna go to another bar?”

“Nah.”

“Okay, what do you wanna do? Anything.”

“I don’t know.” You glanced at your phone.

“I mean, do you wanna just head home?”

You said no, but you seemed off. I couldn’t tell if things were going well. You were a shell that didn’t want to be cracked, perched on a tall ledge, amused by the idea of splatter.

I said, “Look, I don’t know when you’re being serious… Everything’s a joke to you. I don’t even know if you like me.”

You got upset. Said something about how you were sorry that I couldn’t tell if you liked me. Things went sour fast, Amanda.

I bought you a grilled cheese, Amanda.

That’s serious shit.

I told you everything was fine, that I wasn’t upset. I tried to get through to you, to continue the night. I was going to ask you to come back to my place, watch a movie. I wasn’t going to try anything. I’m a fucking gentleman.

And I don’t drink anymore, so I’m not as daring. I’m actually pretty boring. You kept saying that. Just to remind me.

As I type this letter to you, Amanda, more comes back to me.

Anyway—

Things went sour. And so did I. I thought you were being—and I don’t use this word lightly, Amanda, I really, really don’t—a bit of a bitch. I’m sorry. I said it. But the endless sarcasm and the contrived whimsical personality are defense mechanisms. And I see through defense mechanisms, Amanda.

I couldn’t take it anymore, Amanda.

I could tell you didn’t want me there.

So I said, “If that’s how it is, just drop me off up here.”

You didn’t even flinch. Just pulled over. Said, “Fine, get out.”

I said, “Do you want me to get out? I think we should just rewind and—”

“Look, I’m tired and I’m just gonna go home.”

I paused. You stared ahead in silence.

“Okay then. I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

I got out. It was raining gloom, and I absorbed it as I walked. You should’ve seen me, thinking you were going to turn around. Looking for your BMW.

After a while, I lost hope. I kept staring into bar windows, watching people laugh and love each other. While I walked by in the gloom.

That’s when I came upon the homeless woman. And I can’t say she gave me any semblance of hope, but she gave me something. Her name was Teresa, Amanda. Teresa the homeless crackhead. Excuse me, crack addict.

(That’s an inside joke for anyone who’s read my first novel.)

I didn’t have any cash on me, so I asked her if she was hungry. Went across the street, bought her an Italian sub and a bottle of water. Thanked her.

Then I walked three and a half miles home in the rain.

And I thought of nothing but this letter. I wrote it in my head as I walked, Amanda. You know what I realized? Maybe I don’t need anyone but myself. Maybe I’m okay alone. Maybe that’s just how it goes for people like me.

Bald guys, I mean…

But seriously, when I called you halfway through my walk, and I left you a message apologizing and making sure you got home safe, I meant it.

I’m not a bad guy, Amanda. Maybe I need to learn how to let go. Have more fun.

Maybe Taylor Swift is brilliant, and my ear for music is awful.

Maybe Deftones’ “Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)” is a bad song. Bill Evans, Poison The Well, Daïtro, Harold O’Neil, Miles, Chet, Aesop, billy woods, Mach—trash.

I need more Dua Lipa in my life. I should start watching daytime television.

I have a lot to consider here, Amanda, so thanks for opening my eyes.

I’m sure you’ll read this, considering the last thing I did before blocking you was text you my Substack. You wanted to know what I write about, after all.

Enjoy,

C. James Desmond

To anyone wondering—yes, I wrote and recorded this last night after a date. Shout out to Anja for proofreading it.

Nothing like a good walk to stir the mind.

THE BARMAN, A NOVEL OF SORTS, FEBRUARY 2026

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P.S.—My next interview will be with an up-and-coming YouTuber, Foolish Wisdom. We’ll discuss fitness, mental health, kratom, 7-hydroxymitragynine, addiction, and more. After that, I have a fellow Substacker. Stay tuned.