I wasn’t trying to find love, I just wanted to fuck that night. But the thing is… I am not huge on one night stands. (Shoutout to casual fun, truly, I just lean more toward chemistry.) However, I am human, it’s been a while, and I was really horny.
A little tequila, a little weed, curtains held open like theater drapes, the night deserves a show. I download Grindr for the umpteenth time. One shirtless pic, sunglasses on, chin up, post. The phone starts humming like a vibrator plugged into a slot machine.
Brrrrup! Brrrrup! Brrrrup!
A voice in my head goes full nature doc:
Observe the nocturnal homo in his habitat, in sexy pajamas, horny in bed, thumb doing a courtship tap. The ecosystem answers with urgent “Brrrrup!”s, many penises, few sentences.
So yes, I did the obvious and mature thing.
I got out the Ouija board.
Two candles, cheap and dramatic. A salt circle that looks like a pastry tragedy. The board goes on the comforter like a wooden dare. The planchette parks on hello like it pays rent.
💥Pop.💥Shoulder company. 😇➕😈
Right side, Drag Queen Angel, rhinestone halo, white robe, lashes like ceiling fans. She smells like hairspray and redemption.
Left side, Drag King Devil, tux vest, tiny horns, mustache sharp enough to sign a contract. He smells like leather, liquor, and bad decisions.
Angel, softly: Drink water, breathe, 🔗touch grass, baby.
Devil, louder: Drink tequila, then consider letting somebody drink you.
The planchette twitches, impatient as hell. It moves side to side around the board held under my fingers like a little haunted shopping cart.
H,E,L,L,O.
Me: Do I want a hookup tonight?
The planchette sprints.
O,B,V,I,O,U,S,L,Y,B,I,T,C,H.
Angel tries not to laugh. Devil absolutely laughs.
Devil: She said what she said.
Angel: Desire is fine. Safety is smarter.
The board zips.
W,A,S,H,Y,O,U,R,D,I,R,T,Y,A,S,S,F,I,R,S,T.
I choke. Devil claps. Angel raises a sanitized eyebrow.
Grindr goes off like a slot bonus.
host?
wya
dick pic?
raw?
into
Devil leans over my shoulder like a horny guidance counselor.
Devil: Raw is law. Anonymous is art.
Angel: Boundaries are art. Condoms are art. Aftercare is art. Safety is not a plot twist.
The planchette snatches center stage.
G,O,O,D,B,Y,E.
It scoots again.
N,O,P,I,C,N,O,E,N,T,R,Y.
Another beat.
C,O,N,S,E,N,T,I,S,A,F,O,R,E,P,L,A,Y,W,O,R,D.
Devil: Or a safeword is “more.”
Angel: Or a safeword is “no.”
Board, knife-clean:
R,E,S,P,E,C,T,O,R,G,E,T,T,H,E,F,U,C,K,O,U,T.
A blank profile appears, distance 98 feet. Message:
“sup.”
I close my eyes, count to eight like it is a yoga class and not a digital thirst arena.
“Name?” I type. “Face? Preferences? Safe? Sane? Showered? DDF?”
Three dots appear, disappear, reappear like a nervous firefly.
“maybe.”
The Ouija board snickers. Yes, that is a sentence. The planchette physically wobbles like it just heard the dumbest joke at the bar and has to tell me.
Angel tilts her head with kindergarten-patience. “Baby, ask for a name again. We do not cuddle with ‘maybe.’”
Devil blows imaginary smoke rings, because of course he vapes disrespect. “Ask for a body pic and a vibe check. If the vibe is wrong, block. If the vibe is right, block after fucking.”
The planchette slides, fast, petty, teenage.
S,E,N,D,F,E,E,T.
I squint.
“What the hell, Parker Brothers?”
Angel dabs her temple with an invisible handkerchief. “Feet are fine, consent is finer.”
Devil shrugs. “Foot pic is a handshake for some people.”
I ignore both of them, partly because they are imaginary and partly because they are correct in opposite directions. I message the blank profile again. “Name, then face, then feet if you’re proud. I am a gentleman and a beast, but I am not here to waste time.”
No reply. Another profile pops up. “u host?” Another. “wya” Another. “send hole” Another. “n2 carplay?”
Angel’s halo visibly dims. “I just want to speak to their English teachers.”
Devil is delighted. “It is poetry to my ears.”
The board twitches. It skates in a circle like a haunted Roomba doing a victory lap, then lands on a word it apparently thinks is cute.
C,A,R,P,L,A,Y.
“Carplay?”
Devil claps. “Public. Hot. Fast. Character building.”
Angel blinks slowly. “Felony.”
Devil responds, “Live a little.”
The board, unbothered, writes again with the gleeful handwriting of a petty aunt.
T,E,X,T,Y,O,U,R,E,X.
I smack the side of the planchette like a TV from 1998. “Absolutely not.”
It doubles down.
T,E,X,T,N,O,W.
Devil laughs.
“Whose side are you on?” I hiss.
“Chaos’s,” Devil says, proud.
Angel adjusts her lashes like a librarian adjusting her glasses. “Chaos can wait outside till he learns boundaries and brings consent.”
My phone buzzes again. A new profile, ripped torso image with the face cropped off like a witness protection brochure. Bio: “looking now.” Distance: 0 feet. Sir, are you under my bed?
“Face?” I type.
He sends a picture of the lamp in my bedroom.
“Sweetie, that is the devil catfishing you.” Angel says, with a voice sweet as honey.
Devil leans in. “I would never.”
The board, chaoticly, spells:
G,O,O,G,L,E,V,A,M,P,I,R,E,S.
“No.” I collect the planchette like a naughty toddler and hold it over the word GOODBYE like I am baptizing it.
Another message pings. A different blank profile, this one with a username that looks like a bar code. “u alone?”
I screenshot my soul. “Unfortunately.”
He replies with a single emoji: the devil face. Of course. I look at my Devil. He salutes like a scout leader.
Angel sighs. “We could solve a lot of this with three questions: What’s your name, what do you want, are you kind?”
Devil counters. “Top or bottom? How big is your dick? Kinks?”
The board, annoyed by our diplomacy, writes:
H,U,R,R,Y,U,P.
I stare. “Where do you have to be, ma’am? Is there a party on the other side?”
It answers, rude as a cat:
B,E,D.
“Okay, queen.” I set my phone face down again. “We are interviewing candidates.”
Devil rubs his hands together like he’s about to judge a talent show. “Welcome to The Gay Bachelor, Season One.”
Angel conjures a clipboard from God-knows-where. “We will be grading on thirst, grammar, and respect.”
💜✨💜
Candidate One is the mystery meathead. He sends a photo that could be a knee, a knuckle, or the trunk of a tree. “into?” he types.
“Into what,” I say, like a clueless virgin.
“outdoor fun?”
The board spells:
P,U,B,L,I,C.
Angel’s halo flickers. “No, we have already discussed this.”
Devil hisses. “Yes.”
After a few minutes of silence, he finally texts a shirtless photo.
I text the mystery meathead, “Hot, but I’m not into public. I prefer private, safe, sane, showered, and no mysteries. Name, pronouns, boundaries. You first.”
He leaves me on read. I salute his cowardice. May he find whatever he is looking for.
💜✨💜
Candidate Two is all caps: GYMBRO4LIFE. Bio: “Hotel on the Strip. 38. PrEP/Vaxxed. Face on request. No drama. Music yes. Condoms yes.” He sends an actual face. It is a kind face. He looks like a golden retriever with a job. He adds, “Into cuddling if we vibe.”
Angel clasps her hands like a mom at graduation. “We have a contender.”
Devil nods, somewhat impressed. “Ask for dick pic.”
The board spells, unhelpful:
W,I,E,N,E,R.
“Be serious,” I tell it.
It answers politely.
N,O.
We do the basics. Name is Miguel. He’s here for a conference about software or world domination, I tuned out after “expense account.” He asks mine. I say gabro. We swap green flags like trading cards.
He is clean, kind, funny. He uses commas. He spells “you’re” correctly on the first try, which counts as foreplay in my book.
Angel fans herself with relief. “Finally, someone who reads.”
Devil winks. “And he cuddles.”
The board whips to life like a flamingo on roller skates.
M,E,E,T.
“Where?” I ask.
It spells:
A,T,M.
“Come on.”
It tries again:
H,O,T,E,L,B,A,R.
We all look at each other. That is actually reasonable.
Angel floats closer, voice low, no longer camp, just care. “If you meet, share your location with someone, check his name at the front desk if he gives you a room number, and text me the word pineapple if you need an exit.”
Devil perks. “Text me the word thirst if you need a round two.”
I grab my hoodie, tuck condoms and lube into a pocket, refill my water bottle, and look at the board.
It spells:
W,E,A,R,C,R,O,P,T,O,P.
Angel smiles. “He can wear the hoodie.”
Devil shrugs. “Fine. But no socks with sandals.”
I walk toward the door. The halo light in the room flickers like an applause sign and we head out.
The Strip at near-2 a.m. is a church for unholy people. A shirtless guy in angel wings argues with a churro. A bachelorette staggers past like a loose chandelier. A man in a suit is crying into his phone about Bitcoin and redemption. The casino carpets try to hypnotize me into forgetting how ugly they are.
Miguel’s hotel is the kind with too many fountains and a lobby that smells like refrigerated orchids. I walk in, Devil slaps the back of my head because he is affectionate like that. Angel floats slightly above the floor.
Miguel texts. “Blue jacket, bar. You?”
“Dark hoodie, sunglasses, emotional support water bottle. ✨” I add a little sparkle emoji because I am a professional flirt.
I see him. He stands when I approach. He is real, and definitely not weak. He smiles. He has forearms that could lift a couch and eyes more beautiful than a snow leopard’s. The angel whispers hello in my ear. The devil whispers something else and I shove him into a ficus.
We sit. The bartender asks for our souls and our orders. I order sparkling water. Miguel orders the same, which the devil pretends not to be annoyed about.
“So,” Miguel says, looking at me, not at his phone. “I appreciate the boundaries. It’s hot.”
Devil catcalls. Angel blushes on purpose.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate the commas.”
He laughs. The laugh is genuine, not a sales pitch. We talk for a minute. Job, travel, what brought him to Vegas. He asks what I do and I say “cards and chaos,” then tell a tiny story about a lady who tipped me with a prayer candle and an expired Burger King coupon. He laughs again.
From my pocket, very faintly, because we brought them, the ghosts chime in.
Angel, low, to me only. “Scan the vibe, not the fantasy.”
Devil, low, to me only. “Scan the package.”
I do both. Vibe is good. Package looks nice. We are adults with beautiful bodies and boundaries. Hallelujah.
The board, which I did not bring because I am not insane, still sends a vibe. I imagine it spelling “USE PROTECTION” in caligraphy. I nod like a witch in a business meeting.
Miguel says, “I like cuddles. Sex is great, but honestly, if we end up falling asleep next to each other fully clothed, that’s fine.”
Angel needs a moment.
Devil mutters, “He really is a golden retriever.”
“Fetch me water,” Angel says to Devil. “Be useful.”
We decide to go up to his room. Calm. No rush. If the vibe changes, we change our mind. In the elevator we do small talk. Music tastes. Favorite breakfasts. Cats or dogs. He says both. I didn’t tell him about the pomeranian with a baccarat license. We will get there.
We step out. The hallway is the long type, the kind where doors stare like teeth. We get to his room. He pauses.
“House rules,” he says. “Shoes off at the door, water on the nightstand, safe word is pineapple.”
Devil whispers from afar, “My safe word is harder.”
Angel throws her halo at him. “Breathe, gremlin.”
Inside, the room is clean in the way men clean for guests, which is to say it smells like a candle trying its best. The bed is king-sized and taut as a drum. There is a ridiculous photo on the wall of a woman smelling lavender aggressively. I adore her instantly.
Miguel locks the deadbolt, then looks at me in the eyes like a person. “Still good?”
Still good. I nod. We set phones face-down like a ritual. We show each other what condoms we brought like proud boy scouts of sex safety. We stack water bottles like altar offerings.
Then, gently, like we have time, we sit on the bed. He puts his hand on my knee and doesn’t push. I put my hand on his arm and don’t rush. The room exhales.
Angel floats near the ceiling, humming something that might be gospel or might be Gaga. Devil opens the minibar and judges the prices out loud until I shush him with a look.
We kiss. Not a performance, not a wrestle, not a porn audition. A kiss. Soft, then not, then soft again. A little pressure, a step back. We check in with a look and a breath and little yeses. Hands, shirt, hoodie, chest, joy. We laugh because one of us bumps a water bottle, spilling it all over the floor, while making a weird cartoon sounding noise.
“Hey,” Miguel says between kisses. “What do you want tonight?”
I like this man. “Connection, yes. Intimacy, yes. Some sex, maybe? Okay, maybe not sex. Not tonight. Respect, absolutely. We can find the rest.”
We lie there, breath doing a slow dance back toward normal. Miguel’s shoulder is the right height for a head. He looks at me and I look at him and neither of us explode.
Devil coughs politely. “Round two?”
Angel throws a grape at him from the mini fruit plate. “Shut it.”
We hydrate. The water tastes like patience.
At some point we order food because silence is cute until your stomach joins the conversation. A kid delivers fries to our door like a hero. He sees two men in pajamas, blinks like he is recalibrating, takes his $20 tip, and salutes us for no reason. I salute back out of respect for the youth.
Miguel and I talk. Not a TED talk. The good kind, with active listening. He tells me about his mom, a woman who calls every Sunday and pretends not to cry at the hello. I tell him about my first Vegas year, the part where I learned you can feel lonelier on a crowded casino floor than in an empty desert.
Devil gets bored and plays with the hotel pen like it’s a cigarette. He writes a tiny mustache on the lavender lady. I will be charged for this at checkout. Worth it.
Angel watches us and she smiles with her whole body. It makes the room warmer without the thermostat. She whispers, “See, baby? Desire and care can date.”
The board, from miles away, still finds a way to be chaotic. I feel it in the bones of the night like a tiny text message from a ghost.
T,E,X,T,Y,O,U,R,E,X.
“Block,” I whisper to the air, and the air listens.
It is late. Or early. Who cares. We make a pillow fort out of honesty. We fall asleep. It is not cinematic. It is human. That is better than porn ninety percent of the time.
In the morning, his alarm goes off with the confidence of a middle manager. We groan. He kisses my forehead like a man who has read a book about affection. We have breakfast in the lobby and pretend eggs are magic, because they are at 9 a.m.
Before we leave, we do the adult thing again. “Do you want to see each other tonight,” he asks, like a question with a real exit.
“Yeah,” I say, like a person who knows how to be brave without making it into theatre.
“Dinner,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
We exchange numbers. We do a stupid dance in the hallway because the elevator is rude and refuses to show up. The angel claps her hands. The devil bows to the housekeeping cart like it is royalty.
As I walk back into the morning, the city that pretends to be night sighs around me. A woman holds her shoes in one hand and her dignity in the other like twin trophies. A janitor pushes a floor machine that hums in C minor. A slot player greets the sun with the look of a man who has questions for God.
I text Miguel, “Thank you for being a person.” He texts back a yellow heart, which I interpret as a yes to everything gentle.
Back home, I relight the two candles because I am sentimental and dramatic and both were on sale at the dollar store. The salt circle now looks like a kilo bag of cocaine exploded from the dogs (Klaus and Cosmo) jumping on the bed while I was gone.
Angel appears with a robe that matches the drapes. Devil appears with sunglasses and a croissant he definitely did not pay for. I flop onto the bed.
“Alright,” I say to the board. “Review time. You gave a lot of bad advice.”
It writes immediately, petty hand on hip energy.
Y,O,U,A,S,K,E,D,A,F,U,C,K,I,N,G,O,U,I,J,A,B,O,A,R,D.
“Fair.” I look at my angel and my devil. “Thoughts?”
Angel taps the board with a manicured nail. “You are powerful and chaotic and I love you, but you need a community college class on boundaries.”
Devil chews. “And a masterclass on drama.”
The board writes:
C,A,L,L,M,E.
“Why,” I ask.
It spells:
B,L,O,W,J,O,B.
I laugh so hard I scare the candle. “You know what, hire the ghost. She has jokes.”
Angel tucks a strand of hair behind an ear that is not technically real. “Proud of you,” she says, soft but not weak. “You wanted sex. You found connection. You insisted on respect. You were funny and human and you didn’t lie to yourself to fill an hour.”
Devil rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “Also, the man has a big cock and tight ass. Good job hooking that one for the long run.”
I stretch, the kind of stretch you do when you haven’t slept like that in a minute. I feel my body, my heart, my stupid little hope glands, all doing a group chat in my ribs.
The board lights up like a sign at a dive bar when the good band is back in town.
B,E,K,I,N,D.
“Always,” I say, then point at it. “And you, next time you suggest I Text My Ex, I will mail you to a church. 😒”
It writes calmly, like a cat cleaning a paw.
D,O,I,T.
Devil leans back, hands behind his head, grinning. “So,” he says, “dinner outfit. Leather or leather.”
Angel shakes her head. “Clean shirt, clean heart, charge your phone. Take condoms and take your time.”
They bicker quietly, background music on a life I actually want. I blow out the candles. The smoke curls up like a closing monologue. The room cools. The city yawns.
My phone buzzes. Miguel. A restaurant suggestion and a question mark. The question mark is polite.
I text back, “Yes.”
The board writes one final word, neither chaotic nor petty. Sensible, even.
H,Y,D,R,A,T,E.
Alright, curtain call.
I believe in three things: clear texts (communication), clean hands (honesty/loyalty), and mutual enthusiasm (consent).
Want casual? Great. Want cuddles first? Also great. Want to talk and eat fries and pass out at 3 a.m.? Elite. Just be honest, be safe, and do not treat people like spare parts unless they want to be treated like spare parts. That includes sending your unsolicited nudes.
No car acrobatics. Beds exist. Safe word is pineapple, not “lol.” Aftercare is not extra credit, it is hospitality. If the vibe curdles, you leave. If the joy shows up, you stay and you text tomorrow like a grown-up.
On judgment, I keep this simple:
“Let us stop passing judgment on one another.”
Tip your dealer. Wash your sex toys. Change the sheets before they become Reddit folklore. Tell the board to hush if she tries to get you back with your ex.
I am keeping the app for chaos (until I randomly decide to delete it again next week), the board for comedy, the angel for care, the devil for spice, and my standards because I am not clearance rack intimacy.
Now, I will take her advice and hydrate with some coffee.
See you at dinner. 😉
One tip, more chaos, more flamingos on skates.
👇
