Over the Top: A Raw Journey to Self-Love by Jonathan Van Ness

Author:Jonathan Van Ness [Jonathan Van Ness]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-08-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Mr. Clean

I REMEMBER EVERYTHING ABOUT THE NIGHT I MET SERGEI.

It was November 22, 2010, and I was out in West Hollywood. It had been a long day at Tonia Skoekenkaya Tutberidze, and like any hardworking, red-blooded American, I was ready to let my hair down. Back when I was living in Tucson, I’d met this boy named Alyosha—a really cute biracial boy who wore a full face of MAC makeup everywhere he went. We’d met at my first gay party when I was cheering at the University of Arizona, where I was a seventeen-year-old college freshman, and he was still a senior in high school. He’d come hang out at my apartment, show me around town, and introduce me to the Tucson gays.

Alyosha was a sweetheart, but he was extremely traum due to a very vuln past that rendered him mildly alcoholic adjacent—he had a nasty habit of drunk driving. But he was right in my friend arousal template and I attracted those kinds of people with my bleeding heart. I love someone with a story—always have, always will. So I wasn’t surprised when I got a call from a WeHo gay bar called Trunks that Alyosha was blackout drunk and lain out on the bar, and if someone didn’t come to pick him up, they were going to call the police.

When I got to Trunks, there Alyosha was, facedown on the bar. But standing against the wall, there was another guy I’d never seen before. He was like a bald black Mr. Clean: six foot three and striking, with big brown venti mocha latte eyes and a big ol’ muscular chest. His name was Sergei. And he was alone.

“Is anyone sitting here?” I said, pointing to the seat next to him at the bar. He shook his head no. So I picked Alyosha up like a sack of potatoes, threw him over my shoulder, put him in my car, locked the door, and went back into the bar.

“I’m meeting friends at the Abbey,” he said. “Do you want to join us?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.” We called Anatolia to come pick up Alyosha and off we went. I could only hear every third word he was saying, because the music was deafening, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he wanted to hold my hand and I was instantly in love.

Sergei and I went to every bar in West Hollywood that night. Our conversations weren’t deep, but they were playful. I couldn’t believe that a boy taller than I was, with a toothy grin, who was visually so masc-for-masc could be into a hippie vegan topknot yogi like me.

When he dropped me off at home, we made out—but we didn’t hook up. That was unusual for me because typically I would have had him park his car, come up to my place, and vanish into the wind, never to be seen nor heard from again. But not this time. There was something wholesome about Sergei. I really liked him.

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