My heart says nothing. Because be careful, my head says. As he and I spend what are inevitably our final hours, he cries sporadically (even when we fuck), continually questioning why I’m not joining in on what’s become an endless shared sorrow. He doesn’t see the wall—I’m the organic version of those new passive-apartments, virtually self-sustaining (cheaper utility bills). Besides, I only die alone these days. I am modern. I am an ex-human version of myself. My body operates how it was built by who knows who (systematically). This mouth, a mere battery outlet now, gets fed (dinner he paid for—it’s my birthday), the waste management to the bottom right, in the back of this computer. But he can’t plug in. Even when he comes in, it’s not affecting the operations of my system. Think Robocop, lawless. Think Haley Joel-Osmond, A.I.-style outcast. And when an obsessed fan approaches him as he waits for the only toilet in this packed restaurant in Cobble Hill, I’m not bothered. She asked him what he was doing later. I’m flattered, he said, she’s pretty, he said. I go to piss next, and I pass her as she’s eyeballing me, sizing me up. I note her ocular reversion to him at the bar. She’s wondering about me, wanting to know if she can join us for a threesome (am I famous too?). I ignore the whole thing. I’m invincible, and I’ve never been a fan. I never knew who you were before I knew you. That T.V. show never infected my Netflix, thank Someone. Pay for my dinner, my former love. He’s celebrated by the world, and a permanent disappointment in mine. It’s time to say goodbye. Call my Uber on your account, pay for my ride, I’m ready for bed. Waking up alone never sounded more human.

In the sky, there’s a monster fighting the satanic sun, its face covered in clouds, puffed up and foreboding, mouth gaping, preparing to swallow us whole, as we lie on our sides on a steep grassy hill, staring into each other like children.

A nightmare lying on your desk, a coiled snake, a scab from this morning: the tie is long and thin, made of Irish wool, cut by hand in Long Island City, dried come encrusted on it with a couple strands of dog hair. Your brain is a dehydrated prune, making every part of your egg-shaped head pulsate with pain, and you need a haircut. You always look older when you haven’t been to the barber, especially when waking up. You’re getting old. But you should’ve thought about that before. An overstuffed schnoz leads to a packed sinus cavity, a self-inflicted avalanche. You’re a snow beast.

But you weren’t alone. The first one left around two, those pebbly white lines up your noses, his slimy white business down your throat. His cock traced the crack of your ass, then penetrated you. He could’ve been anyone, his come interchangeable with any other nobody’s, as if you were lying on your back, blindfolded, throwing knives in the air above you. Your dog is an afterthought. You haven’t fed or walked him in 18 hours. Last night the dog lay on the edge of the bed, watching you, looking as if he were judging the scene, turning his head in disgust and disappointment. But the sucking made him curious, the fucking made him wonder, and he crawled to where you were on your knees slobbering, eyes watering, and then on your back, face wincing, asshole prolapsing. He smelled the first one’s legs, licked the back of your foot. You kicked him away. But gently. The first one said he wanted to stay. He wanted to fall asleep in your squeaky bed, cover himself in your dirty sheets, except his girlfriend was waiting. She allowed him the time with you as long as she wasn’t alone in the morning. He left. Powdery remnants from four empty baggies littered the coffee table. Blue Moon beer bottles everywhere. A drinking glass filled with polluted water and two-cigarette-packs worth of extinguished butts. The bright screen on your laptop beat down on you like a stage light, an imaginary audience anticipated whom you’d select as your next visitor.

But it wasn’t that easy. There was posting and reading and responding and sending and waiting and deleting, deleting, deleting to do. And you were doing it, searching the digital city, and wetting your parched throat with the last few drops of alcohol, and sniffing ivory-colored crumbs. The second one lived in Breezy Point, close to Fort Tilden, nowhere near Williamsburg. But he had a car. Even though it was 6 a.m. by the time you found him, he said he’d drive and you agreed to wait. Thirty minutes later the bell rang. You were already in bed, your fingers putting pressure under your eyes, a futile attempt to relieve the throbbing. Throwing on a red T-shirt that said “Dandy” in big white letters across the front of it, you hit the button and let him in. The dog barked wildly, growled loudly, and you kept telling him to shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, until he did. The second one was shorter than you, a could-be-clean-cut Caucasian who dressed otherwise. His dingy, baggy khakis, extra-large navy blue T-shirt and soiled Nikes. His buzzed black hair, big green eyes, nice round face, and several tattoos drawn on olive skin. You loved his deep voice and brusquely masculine mannerisms, you liked that the rest of him was adequately sized. Men as women christened your computer. He made you watch them in between snorts off his cock. You wanted to be his bitch, didn’t you? You were his girl? You wanted to be his little faggot. Faggot. Before either of you knew it, the time had passed, the treats he brought finished. But he knew someone to text. He used to work in the business, and he had numbers. Both of you stared at his phone, nothing happening. Then a tiny red light flashing. Spam email. Little sister. It wasn’t what you wanted. The second one’s agitation grew as his body wilted. He wanted none of it. Don’t touch him. He didn’t want to finish. Next time he’ll listen to his bed when it’s calling his name. No joy rides or ski lifts. Just a quiet room with closed windows and cool air blowing from a purring machine. He had to leave, because the sooner he did, the quicker what he’d done with you had never happened. He left. Sticky residue remaining from your saliva-slick fingers sopping up talcum-like scraps. A spent bottle of Polish vodka. Three Parliaments mounted on a hardened wad of chewing gum attached to the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Passable pre-op trannies getting head in a video playing on a loop. You were frightened of the time, unwilling to confirm the hour.

But you shouldn’t have been so hard on yourself, reluctant to accept that they’d gone, the sun was piercing the blinds, the dog needed walking, and you’d been awake more than 24 hours. What a life, you thought. What a pointless existence: a weekly weekend venture into sexual depravity and self-destructive indulgence. You were all alone, the sounds of unruly traffic along Broadway in Brooklyn getting louder, working-class folk click-clacking past your window, Chassidic kids laughing in Yiddish, bike-riding hipsters ringing bells and hollering—just another day in which you wouldn’t participate. You had to catch up on your sleep, if possible. But at that point your heart was still beating as if it were a portable drum in a marching band, your mind running in circles like a hamster in one of those plastic balls, the rodent in your brain soldiering on, the occasional pellet-shaped shit ejecting from its asshole, involuntarily.

Coming down, you believed your life was nothing but feces, and you were looking for a way to defecate it out. Via knife would’ve left scars if you survived, which as you knew take more than a year to fade. The pill route had gone awry the last couple of times. There had to be another way. Hanging? You searched the smooth ceiling, found nowhere from which to dangle indefinitely. But the idea of strangulation stuck in your mind. Coincidentally, you’d only recently learned that when one is strangled to death, it’s usually because the flow of blood is cut off from the brain rather than oxygen from the lungs. You pondered which tools you had lying around the apartment. Belt? Nope, you never wear them, the ones you own packed away in the back of a closet. Rope? Didn’t have any. Using electrical wire was a possibility, although, you’d have to unplug a few electronics. Too much of a project. Sorting through the top drawer of the dresser, you found the winning instrument: a gray wool tie from J.Crew. You lay on your back on the bed, wrapped the fabric around your neck and knotted it once. Holding one end with one hand and the other with the other, you were able to tighten the grip of the tie. You felt around for an artery carrying blood to the brain, and believing you’d found it, focused on constricting that area of the neck as much as possible. Die, coke-whore. Die, pussy. Die, faggot.

You became lightheaded. Opening your eyes, you noticed the sun had gotten brighter, the dove-colored paint on the walls had taken on a whiter hue, and you felt as if you were about to pass out. But you didn’t. You were wide awake, and instead of dying, you got to thinking about the night: those anonymous first and second cocks, the small mountain of cocaine, and the loads of come. Stimulating memories of risky debaucheries halted your masochistic mission; rather than killing you, the asphyxiation made you unbearably horny. Keeping the tie as taut as possible with one hand, you freed the other, using it to satiate yourself to completion. After wiping the results off your body, you tossed the tie on the desk and passed out, satisfied.