One of the Boys
Open vowels lodge in the back of my throat, pooling like half-formed confessions. I choke on the ambivalence that underwrites my every word, every gesture meant to signal belonging.
I am one of the boys—at least for tonight.
Here, body checks are a dialect. Respect is measured in pounds lifted, in the hours spent pulling against resistance, dead weight growing heavier with every rep. A slap on the ass is erotically fundamental if we are to be close—our brand of intimacy, our way of pressing the logo of conservative ideology into one another’s skin like a bumper sticker on a Bentley.
Locker room talk doubles as free therapy, so long as you keep your truth brief, your struggle amusing.
Public outings are game days for the players. Bonus points if you can make your girlfriend cry with that charming vagueness of yours, that practiced ambiguity. Her mascara runs down her face like war paint, darkening her view of you—of herself—wondering what part of her believed your emptiness was generosity.
My medal of HONORARY BOY hangs from my neck, gleaming with false light. Her joy is the offering I make to belong; I can’t cry with her, can’t let my mascara stain their view of me. Just another tax to
pay for membership.
I wear it like a costume: voice lowered, laughter sanded of melody, hands glued to my sides as if tenderness might betray me. My heart folds inward like a paper crane, too fragile to open.
I sip Brady’s beer, pour shots into Kyle’s cup, hold Harry’s hair back when he hurls. A brotherhood—no man left behind, no man left feeling too much.
It’s only when the game hits the second quarter that I falter—cheering too loudly for the wrong team, my mask slipping with the ungoverned joy of an expression I forgot to suppress.
They know.
They know.
But instead of exile, they laugh. They laugh at the bimbofication of my quarterback cosplay, wink toward the medal still swinging low across my chest, as if to say, It’ll be our little secret.
Tonight, I earn my all-access pass to care less than the weight I carry. To laugh like a man should—not from the belly but from the performance of bravado. To prove I can be strong, unbothered, self-contained—that I too can drink too much and slap when all I really want is to hold.
Ten-hut. The tiny balls pass between brothers, touchdowns given like offerings of charity. Tit for tat. One for you, one for me. That’s how we play ball in the public arena—our communion delivered through
collisions.
And yet, there is something oddly tender in this posturing. Being one of them feels like stepping into a hug that’s too wide, too cold. Like waiting in a room with one other person, both of us choosing the
seat farthest away, still close enough to keep each other in view. We nod in passing, intimacy growing like moss on the ceiling—quiet, patient, nourished by the density of what remains unsaid.
Close, but strangers.
Winking toward the television tuned to the sports channel. This is where we’ll bond, maybe even share a laugh—not from joy, but from duty.
Until, once again, I cheer for the wrong team. My face flushes scarlet with the fever of my disguise. Knowing I’ve given myself away, I bow my mask toward the tips of my curled toes, feeling the man’s face slip from my porcelain.
With the little courage I have left, I lift my eyes to meet his—apologetic for letting myself down in this battle of the same sex. He tilts his head, a crooked smile bending his face, and raises his mask by the edges.
A quick wink.
Don’t worry about it, he seems to say. It’ll be our little secret.
By Nicky Neto
Nicky Neto is an artist and author of the unpublished book-in-progress GAP TOOTH, a collection of prose poems and lyric essays exploring the spaces between who we were and who we are becoming. He earned a BA in Acting from Point Park University in 2023 and works across writing, performance, and visual art, creating work that moves between observation, intimacy, and wonder.
Instagram: @nickyyneto