It's Wrong (Probably).

He’s sure there’s something wrong with him. What that something is, he knows, but it’s too difficult to describe. He’s always been like this. Always. As if it weren’t enough that he’s gay, now he has to add this . . . thing to the mix. He doesn’t like boys. He hates boys. They’re young and stupid and ugly.

But he’s gay. Oh, he’s very gay. The only thing Ryan Ross likes about girls is the clothes he buys in their juniors department. Ryan likes men. Ryan’s always liked men. Not disgustingly old, but older. Twenty-five to thirty-five. That’s the best age, he’s decided. His mom was fifteen years younger than his father, so he can’t be the only fucked up person in the world. And how many girls have posters on their wall of men twice their age that they claim to have fallen in love with and will marry someday?

But it’s probably the actual pursuit that makes Ryan feel like there’s something wrong with him. Because if any of those fifteen year old girls ended up in the bed of the thirty-something man on their posters, they’d probably start to cry and tremble and realize it wasn’t like it was in their flowery imagination daydreams. Whereas, Ryan’s legs are around the waist of a man that was in middle school as he was being conceived. And it’s exactly like he’s imagined it, raw and hungry and maybe even a little too rough, with the man’s eyes looking over every inch of his body. It’s perfect. It’s wrong (probably). Like the opposite of pedophilia.

By the time Ryan graduates from high school he’s carved six invisible notches into his bedpost, but he’s never had a boyfriend. There’s a certain type of terror that comes from dating a boy ten or fifteen years younger than you who still happens to be in high school. A certain type of terror involving bars and judges. Ryan wants a boyfriend, though, desperately. He’s sick of casual sex and now that he’s older he’s certain that the fear will disappear.

If only he didn’t gravitate toward the darkest of corners, where secrets still need to be kept. Six weeks after classes start, Ryan’s getting fucked by his History professor. And then they’re dating but it’s all back to secrets. Hush, hush, keep it quiet. Because the university would fire him, you see. And Ryan doesn’t want that. And truth be told, he’s so desperate for a boyfriend that he’d probably keep worse secrets.

And it’s everything he pictured it to be in certain ways and lots different in others. There are the conversations about books and politics and exactly how strong perfect coffee is until it’s too late for his eyes to stay open. But there’s no interest in music or Ryan’s guitar playing or going to restaurants Ryan’s heard whispers about from adults. And every so often he hears the phrase he hates, words that are like poison dripping in his ears: ‘you’re so young sometimes’. Or some variation of it.

And eventually, as soon as the semester’s over, Ryan dumps the History professor. And his band plays in Spencer’s garage for this guy that is a little young for Ryan’s taste, but not too young to be completely discounted. Pete’s actually twenty-six, but he doesn’t act like it. He’s definitely tripping over himself in front of Ryan though and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Ryan has no problem lying on his back to get a record deal. It’s actually rather enjoyable, even if he is taller than Pete. (And Pete tells him later that they would have gotten the deal anyway, but he couldn’t pass up the chance at Ryan’s ass and the younger boy laughs.) Afterward they both get dressed and the next day Ryan delivers the news to his bandmates. They can all tell Ryan’s had sex with Pete, but no one’s thrown off by it. Spencer’s actually happy that Ryan’s fucking someone closer to his own age because, compared to every guy before, Pete is close to Ryan’s age. And technicalities such as birthdays aside, Pete might as well be Ryan’s age and Ryan might as well be a few years older than his driver’s license indicates.

Ryan and Pete don’t date. They fuck, exchange late night text messages, spend more time than necessary together. It’s not what Ryan’s looking for but it’s nice nonetheless and it’s definitely enough to get him by. Especially since it’s going to be a lot more difficult trying to find some thirty-five year old guy to bed when, as far as the eye can see, there’s only girls! girls! girls! and hardly a single one older than him or even his age.

Matt had potential and Ryan tried to work his way in that direction while they were cutting the first record, but it turned out Matt was pretty fucking straight and married. Ryan had not wanted to do guitar tracking for a week after and turned into a pretty sulky, hormonal mess until he got laid at a party one Saturday night.

So for three years Ryan danced back and forth between the friends(or enemies)-with-benefits relationship and sleeping with guys at least ten years older than him at parties. By now everyone who knew Ryan had figured out the quirk in the boy’s sexual preference. Most chalked it up to Ryan acting much, much older than he really was. (Ryan never bothered to correct them; it didn’t matter anyway.)

So, of course, when Ryan started dating a guy Pete’s age but with no outward maturity whatsoever, everyone’s heads seemed to simultaneously cock to the side. (“Told you it had nothing to do with maturity.” Pete told Spencer when he found out.) And Ryan seemed genuinely happy.

It was nothing like he’d wanted back when he’d dated the History professor, but life had changed since then. When was there ever going to be time to discuss music theory over late-night decaf? And why discuss music theory when all your friends got it? There wasn't that burning need to explain himself anymore.

Trying to relax, trying to calm down, trying to maybe break down a few bricks from one of his many walls—those all seemed like much better uses of his time. Ryan never would have admitted it out loud, but he liked the way Gabe made him act like he was twenty instead of thirty. Flirting began the day they met, heated up six months before his twenty-first birthday, and they fucked that night in the bathroom of Angels & Kings. The next day they were dating and Ryan was happy. Happier. Happiest.

And that lasted. It lasted as long as Ryan lasted. Gabe started to notice the changes. He knew Ryan and Jon were probably going to leave Panic, but that didn’t scare him. He knew the people Ryan was hanging out with and the things that Ryan was getting into and how deep he was sinking into the water. That scared him. But by the time he opened up his mouth to speak, it didn’t matter. Because Ryan’s lips were moving and when they were done, he and Gabe were both single again.

Less than a year. And less than a month to leech onto yet another (almost) thirty-year-old. He fucked Ryan better than Ryan could remember ever being fucked. They watched bad movies and tripped over air. Smoking, popping, tripping, dancing in the brightness of lights that weren’t turned on. Alex was perfect for Ryan.

There were late-night talks about music theory and Ryan’s music, Ryan’s dreams, how much Alex loved producing their record. Sex and smoke and mirrors. It was a whole new world Ryan had immersed himself into and he felt like he had been born again, like maybe now he could finally be as young as he had never been before in his life.

It would have been a perfect beginning for an indie movie starring Rachel Evan Wood. Unfortunately, it was much more of an ending. Ryan had never been in a corner before, alone, crying, without anyone to hold him. Without anyone. Where was his father? Oh, right. Dead. And where was Brendon? Oh, right. With Spencer. In the band. In the band Ryan had left. So where was Jon? Oh, right. Jon was in Chicago. Where was Z? She was with someone doing someone with someone and there were lights wherever the fuck she was, Ryan was certain, but it was completely dark where he was. Oh, fuck you, Z.

Where was Alex? Gone. Yeah, gone. Away. With some too-thin pretty girl who had her pictures in upscale French magazines.

Ryan was alone. Alone. No History professor. No Gabe. No Alex. No Brendon or Spencer or Pete. Pete had a baby now. And he was cutting his hair off onstage with the band that had gotten Ryan into music to begin with and Brendon and Spencer had gone with. Yeah, fuck you, Pete.

Ryan was angry now. And he wiped at his tears with the back of his hand and stormed out of the apartment building. Well, it wasn’t fucking fair, he decided. And it was his fault, probably. Thirty was much too young. Now that he was older, thirty was too young. It was only eight years, after all. What’s eight years? Eight years is nothing.

Flag a cab, give an address. Thirty minutes later there’s something melting on his tongue and all the bright lights come back, flashing and dancing in front of his eyes. No one here is old enough, but he’ll go shopping the next day. Certainly there’s someone, someone out there for him. There has to be, right? They’ll fly together, they’ll dance together. Forever and ever and ever and ever . . .

Ryan smiles.

“OH MY GOD!”

A girl was screaming.

“Did anyone see what happened?”

“Call 911! Someone call the fucking cops!”

“Did he jump?”

“Did you see what happened? Did you see? Did he fall?”

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