The Geography of Release

I left the house,

the morgue with walls painted in shadows,

where his ghost still sat at the dinner table,

where the bed whispered sins that weren’t mine.

I left to forget,

to drown in vodka and skin

until the weight lifted.

The Navy Yard was the first stop,

parking at my wingman’s place—Zach,

my best friend, my partner in crime,

ready to chase freedom with no leash.

“Tonight, we drink,” I said.

“Fuck it. Let’s find someone to fuck—

maybe a closeted liar who deserves it.”

We laughed like idiots,

burning our pasts

and warming our hands on the flames.

At Pitchers,

the bartenders knew my name,

knew my thirst,

knew that the night wasn’t about sipping slow.

Vodka. Midori. Tequila Sunrise.

Shots that burned

and healed all at once.

I drank to numb.

I drank to feel.

I drank because Santiago’s face

still lingered behind my eyelids,

and Kesha sang Wherever You Are

like a blade twisting in my chest.

The crowd pulsed—

beautiful, young, unbroken bodies

dancing like they’d never lost.

I scoped the room,

every smile a potential escape,

every laugh a door I could walk through.

The bill should’ve ruined me,

hundreds of dollars for rivers of alcohol,

but when they handed me the tab,

it was thirteen.

I tipped one hundred to every guy behind the bar—

my boys, my comrades,

my keepers of secrets.

Drunk doesn’t even cover it.

We stumbled out,

the cool night air slapping our faces,

singing Kesha’s Praying at full volume,

my voice cracking, breaking.

“Cause you brought the flames, and you put me through hell…”

I was a broken record,

a scratched CD skipping in public.

Zach laughed, filmed me on his phone.

I switched to The Book of Mormon,

screaming I Believe down 18th Street.

I was loud. I was free.

I didn’t care who saw.

We never found Blake.

Fuck it—DIK Bar in Dupont was next.

A bar with the kind of vibe that lets you breathe,

lets you drink without drowning in noise.

Wicked songs poured from karaoke speakers.

Someone sang For Good,

and the whole bar erupted.

I sang along,

drinking vodka like it was holy water.

Then I saw him.

Five foot five.

Pacific Islander.

He sang and danced like the world wasn’t watching,

like the room didn’t exist,

and I couldn’t look away.

I sent Zach over with a shot—

my envoy, my icebreaker.

His name was Kai,

and all that mattered

was the way he moved,

his laughter louder than the music.

For a moment, I saw Santiago in his freedom,

that same spark,

that same fire.

We followed him to Larry’s Lounge,

downstairs to the basement,

where vodka flowed freely again.

He sat beside me,

and before I knew it,

his lips were on mine,

his hands pulling me closer,

his hips pressing into me.

We didn’t care who saw.

Zach went to the bathroom,

and Kai followed.

I don’t know who started it,

but when Zach walked out,

Kai pulled me in.

The lock clicked.

Our mouths collided.

His hands tore at my jeans.

My cock was in his hand.

His cock was in mine.

We kissed, we stroked,

we pissed into the same toilet,

streams crossing like a joke

we didn’t need to laugh at.

He pushed me against the sink,

sank to his knees,

and took me into his mouth—

hard, fast, wet,

his tongue tracing fire along my length.

My hands gripped the edge of the sink,

white knuckles and shaky breaths.

He wanted all of me,

and I wanted to give it.

We left before finishing,

because he whispered,

“I want you inside me. Raw. Now.”

Zach waved us off,

“Go have fun,” he said,

and we stumbled to his car,

parked under the streetlights,

blazing like a stage.

Inside, his mouth found me again,

sucking me hard,

while his pants dropped to reveal

smooth skin and a tight, perfect ass.

He bent over the seat,

spreading himself open,

begging me to taste him.

I dove in,

tongue and lips devouring,

fingers sliding in and out,

spanking him until his cries filled the car.

The windows fogged.

The world outside blurred,

but we didn’t care who saw.

We drove to Columbia Heights,

parked on a side street,

and he stepped out,

naked, pissing in the open air.

I climbed into the back seat.

When he returned,

I stripped him bare,

admiring the way his body moved

as he climbed into my lap.

He ground his ass against my cock,

moaning with every shift of his hips.

I bent him over the front seat,

ate him again,

fingers spreading him wide.

Then I pinned him to the back seat,

his legs pressed to his chest,

and slid inside.

He was tight, warm,

every thrust pushing us closer

to the edge.

The car rocked,

the windows dripped with sweat,

and when he came,

shooting across my stomach,

I pulled him down hard,

filling him with everything I had.

I wasn’t done.

I bent him over again,

spread him open,

and sucked my own cum from his hole,

letting the warm salt coat my tongue.

When I stood, I kissed him,

spitting it into his mouth,

watching him swallow it down

without hesitation.

We lay in the fogged-up car,

our naked bodies tangled.

Handprints stained the glass like a signature,

and outside, the world moved on.

We talked. We laughed.

The high of connection lingered.

Eventually, we dressed,

drove back to U Street,

and exchanged numbers and Instagram handles.

I kissed him goodbye,

then caught an Uber back to Zach’s.

“Tell me everything,” Zach said.

I did, laughing as his jaw dropped.

“You’re fucking insane,” he said,

grinning like he wanted the story to go on forever.

At 6 a.m., I texted Kai:

“Last night was amazing.”

He replied,

“Let’s do it again.”

As sunlight poured through my windows,

I thought of Santiago—

his fire, his laughter,

the way he burned through my life

but left warmth behind.

Maybe I’d never forget him.

Maybe I wasn’t supposed to.

But in Kai’s freedom,

in his wild, unshackled joy,

I found the courage to let the light in,

to feel the cracks begin to close.