The winter break of my 20th birthday I met Joey Antinore. It had been New Year’s Eve, at club Tilt. I had been standing watching the drag show when I felt the back of my ear get flicked. I turned around and said, “Hi.”
Joey explained he was following an impulse and immediately knew the type of person I was dealing with.
“Alright.” And turned back around.
Joey got my attention again by asking if wanted to roll.
“Okay,” I answered.
For the longest time Joey Antinore was the elusive ideal; the one ex that all potential suitors were measured against. In attempting to write down our first encounter I came to the realization that there was nothing epic, template worthy, about the encounter. There was nothing grandiose or particularly outstanding about the relationship’s arc. In fact, the mental glorification of that relationship and its beginning is rather obsessive.
What was it about the whole scenario that became #goals? I wasn’t particularly happy. When I recall the relationship with Joey, what comes to mind is his habit of telling him something, then he vehemently disagrees. These weren’t ideological differences, or rooted in arcane knowledge. Rather, disagreements came over individual rights and basic operations of politics and humanism. We’d part in the morning for our separate work, and then return to each other that evening with Joey’s mind changed. This change of mind arose because he had talked to his co-workers, who told him that he was in the wrong; that I was correct. That was the routine of our relationship: Joey respected only his friends and their opinions, and not mine. I never fully understood how and why Joey could never just have faith that I’d know something, or respect my stance as having validity.