The Most Hetero Guy You Know

Published at the toast

Jonathan Anthony Williamston Dunwith-Cable III was probably the most hetero guy you could ever hope to meet. Biddies? He’s bagged ‘em all. Cash? He’s never strapped. Jonathan A.W. Dunwith-Cable III knows he’s disarmingly attractive and often spends a good fifteen minutes each evening shooting finger guns in the mirror and repeating words of affirmation like, “Hey, congrats. You did a really good job looking amazing today.”

So it’s really no surprise that Jonathan Dunwith-Cable III, at seven o’clock on the dot in his drop top, cruisin the streets, considered it his right; no, his honor; nay, his duty to give a low whistle or a call of encouragement to every passing skirt, set of heels, thick thighs, and crop top, that he saw waiting on the corner for a bus, walking with a friend, eating from a bag of potato chips, or generally just minding their own business.

Some of Jonathan Dunwith-Cable’s favorite words of affirmation to pass on were:

  • “Damn ,baby, where are you headed? Want a ride?”
  • “Those legs are good enough to eat.”
  • “Nice bedroom eyes, sweetheart!”
  • “As long as I have a face, you’ve got a place to sit!”

   And so on, and so forth. It didn’t matter how few women he actually picked up with these tactics. At the end of the day he knew they liked it. He knew, behind the quick, silent glance away, the frowning smile and the eyes hidden by sunglasses, the headphones and the blank stare (“the bitch face,” he liked to call it), he knew that they felt properly affirmed, for he was Jonathon D-C, the most hetero guy in the world, and biddies loved to be loved.

   One day, Jonathan C’s drop top was in the shop for its annual checkup, so he took the Orange Line subway to work, where he spent his days rewarding his coworkers with a fist bump for successfully managing other people’s assets in monetary denominations so high that the average plebe couldn’t even conceive of it. But Jonathan could. He was super hetero. He had stacks on stacks on stacks.

   Usually he didn’t like being surrounded by weirdos and strangers and the general malcontents (unless those malcontents were chicks with voluptuous bottoms), and subways were full of old dudes, kids in strollers, and bag ladies, but not tonight.

   He slid into an open seat next to a brown-skinned honey with billions of tiny braids framing her face. She had a silver necklace that fell across her bosom.

   Jonny drooled with appreciation (internally, of course).

   “Excuse me,” he said once.

   “Excuse me,” he said again.

   “Excuse me, miss,” he continued, “that’s a beautiful shirt.”

   The young woman, who’d been staring out the window at the subway tunnel’s graffitied walls so hard she nearly strained her eyes, hummed a simple thanks.

   “Pleasure’s all mine. Really, for it is a pleasure to sit next to such a–” Jon looked her body up and down, elevator style, while he searched for the right word, “beautiful piece of chocolate in the morning.”

   The young woman didn’t respond. Or perhaps the silence was her response.

   He continued. “I mean, it really warms me up. You’re so…mmph. I hope your boyfriend keeps you on a tight leash.” Jon laughed at his joke.

   The young woman pulled a pair of earbuds from her messenger bag and plugged them into her phone. She put the other ends in her ears. Jonathan knew this move, this was a classic bitch face precursor.

   Jonathan took out his custom-made gold-backed iPhone 7, so new that it had hardly been invented yet.

   “Hey,” came a voice from over his shoulder.

   “Hey, excuse me, man,” it continued.

   Jonathan turned to face a clean-shaven, strong-jawed, young man.

   Objectively, the man was quite nice to look at, but Jonathan was so strikingly hetero that the thought never crossed his mind.

   “Sup, dude?” asked Jonathan, just a bit annoyed. He didn’t like to be pestered on the subway.

   “Hey,” the man smiled wide. “I noticed you as soon as you got on,” he said.

   Jonathan frowned, unamused. The subway made a stop at 45th and the brown-skinned honey hurried off. Jonathan turned his attention to the tunnel walls.

   “I mean, damn. The way you wear those pants, boy, how do you have space for your junk in there?” The man laughed, “Haha, I guess you don’t really.” He wiggled his eyebrows, sexually.

   Jonathan glared at his reflection in the subway car’s window.

   “Hey, baby,” the man tapped Jonathan insistently on the shoulder.

   “Hey!” Jonathan whipped around, “Look man, don’t touch me! I’m not…I’m not like that. Okay?”

   The man frowned, confused.

   “Look, dude, I’m not like, a hater or anything, but I’m not gay. I don’t like dudes. I like chicks, okay?” Jonathan had let his voice rise without meaning and now half the subway car was studiously pretending they hadn’t heard anything.

   “Jonathan,” the man said, leaning in and dropping his voice, “don’t you know what this is?”

   “What?” said Jonathan. How did this man know his name? What did he mean?

   The man laughed. “Just take a look around.”

   Jonathan looked. He looked far down the car behind him. He looked to the front, where he could see through the glass door to the cars ahead. All around him there were men holding hands with other men. Women with their arms around the shoulders of other women. One old bag lady wearing a rainbow flag t-shirt kissed another old bag lady with a David Bowie button affixed to the front of her largest bag. Next to them, two dudes cooed at a baby in a stroller.

   “This is your worst nightmare, Jonathan,” the man said behind him, his voice still low,  “Everyone is gay.”

   Jonathan, eyes wide in horror, jaw dropped in an O of surprise, turned back to the man who knew his name.

   “You shouldn’t leave your mouth like that,” the man warned, “there’s nothing more desirable to a man like myself than a heterosexual male.”

   Jon bolted for the closed car doors, banging his fists against them, screaming for help. How did they know!?How could the gods of fame, wealth, and heterosexual good fortune abandon him like this!

   “You can’t run, Jon!” shouted the man, “We’ll be at every corner checking out your butt! Every time you wear a suit, we’ll ask about the size of your penis! We’ll pretend to be interested in your hair just to cop a feel of your shoulders! You can’t escape us! This is your destiny!”

   The subway sped past stop after stop as a mass of homosexuality ran after Jonathan Anthony Williamston Dunwith-Cable III, the most hetero guy you could ever hope to meet.

   At least, he was.

You are not abandoned!

Even though now there are stupid ads, I really like you, wordpress. You are great for long form rambling and topical posts. Here are some things:

-two stories internet-published

-so many clothes

-opening storenvy storefront to sell recycled clothes + prints/minibooks of my photos and writing

-lots of photos

-things things things (!!!)

-rodrigo’s birthday is tomorrow

been a long while

cause I’ve taken to posting photos to tumblr:, so please do follow that! It’s been a nice way to get feedback on some things I’ve tried, and to interact with other folks. though the thing i’ve always liked about wordpress is that, no matter how many views or what the stats say, i do feel like i’m talking to a disembodied idea, to a wider world, to an audience that isn’t listening because turns out i haven’t been saying anything out loud cause it’s all in my head.

ON THAT NOTE, the summer has been exciting. started a new job at upenn, doing photography for scribe video center, teaching a workshop there, reading more than can possibly be healthy, saw a friend from gov school for the first time in six years, spent long days and nights all over the midwest with le bb y la familia. a lot of stuff has been happening and it just makes me want to make more stuff happen. every time i lie on my bed beneath the ceiling fan unable to move through the thick, humid august heat, i feel right. i feel solid. i feel full of life. i am hungry for more life and i am always full.

this week i’m taking a stab at SELF-PORTRAITURE. maybe. probably : ] yeah, definitely.

by, a.nancy (chapter 1 of _)

(or: anansi the spider who holds all the stories who spins all the tales who tricks all the beings in all the worlds who is your best friend and your enemy.) (because anansi was dragged across the ocean and hides himself in the traditions of the states, but he still won the stories from the gods.)

This is the first chapter of a new series I’m making. (!)

The music is by Arcade Fire:

“If I could have it back
All the time that we wasted
I’d only waste it again
If I could have it back
You know I would love to waste it again
Waste it again and again and again
Well, I’ve got to ask

Sometimes I can’t believe it
I’m moving past the feeling again”

MISANDRY; a tale (just in time for fiction fridays say whaaaat):

Malika tumbled around with Luke for a good ten minutes on the dance floor before common decency led them out of Olde Club and into the nearby cluster of trees. Malika, with her back pressed again an ancient Birchwood, pressed the zipper of her jeans into the bulge of his. Luke’s hands groped with wild ambition and no lack of fear, but much lack of experience. Malika’s lips burned with a mixture of passion and pursing, for Luke, with all of his talk, didn’t leave much to the imagination. His tongue misunderstood the meaning of foreplay and dove hard against her teeth time after time, convinced that it was the way to her heart.

As the tempo shifted inside, and the DJ switched the mood from ‘find someone to fuck’ to ‘commit to your decision’ (tossing D’Angelo betwixt Trey Songz, with Aaliyah and Robin Thicke on top) Luke stopped mid-grope:

“You’re just…you’re not like other girls!”

Malika pulled her head as far back against the tree as physics allowed, confused, “Not like other girls? What’s wrong with other girls?”

“You know!” said Luke, assuming that she knew, “you’re not petty and you…you’re not caught up in basic hoe shit. You’re special. Classy. I like that.”

Malika looked left.

Malika looked right.

Malika, when Luke then tried to go in for a kiss, looked down, ducked low, and escaped his grasp.

Malika kicked Luke in the balls, shouting all the while, “OTHER GIRLS ARE AWESOME, ASS.”

Luke shouted back, half from a bruised penis, half from a bruised ego, “You think you’re so sexy!”

Malika kicked him again, “I am sexy!”

Luke shouted, “You think you’re so smart but—”

Malika kicked him once more, “I AM smart!”

Malika left Luke clutching his ‘nads and moaning about what a bitch she, and all other females were.

Malika went back to Olde Club, hopped down the stairs two at a time, found her friends at the bar, gave Jasmine a hug, Tully a kiss, and damn near picked Louisa and Nima up in one arm each.

Malika and the girls took shot after shot not bothering to wash it down with weak ass juice. They didn’t need it. They were GIRLS and they knew how to keep track of themselves and of each other.

Malika and the girls heard Rihanna’s famed song, Rude Boy, blast through the system, felt it vibrating across their energetic youthful waves.

They took the stairs up, still two at a time, and danced and danced and danced. They sweat the alcohol out of their systems to songs about sex and making out and lack of clothing and good times and hard times and boys and girls and running the world and they did it without worrying about anyone taking advantage of their state.

Malika, one two stepping in a circle of X chromosomes that radiated pure awesome, took a look around at the short tight skirts, the crop tops, the lacy bras peeking out, the tops of pink underwear, at the insecurities perpetuated by the media, at false prophets in the shape of men, at boldly painted faces, and naked faces, and sweatpants tucked into timberlands, at twerking and grinding and all-alone-happy-time-wild-armed-dancing, and she said to herself, as she’d asked Luke before, “What’s wrong with other girls?”


Finished with work at Swarthmore on Friday. I’ve been doing lots of stuff, and so much to say, but haven’t had time to think it, let alone speak. SUMMER really feels fully fleshed out around my bones, and I’m trying to catch up to my brain. A summer gulls post is forthcoming, I just need another day or two to unwind from the 9-5 work year. In the meantime, this is what things look like

Things I’ve Been Reading (March/April: Marchil, Mapril, Marpril, etc)

Okay, let’s do this. Pretty sure they’re out of order, but what does order matter to you? For the most part, in Mapril, I was on a pretty heavy YA fiction kick. I’ve been trying to think of a fair, accurate, and complex ratings system to use with these matters, as last time’s star system proved to be largely sarcastic and void of any sense. I’d recommend everything I’ve read this past month, and here’s why:

  1. Sisterhood Everlasting (Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants) by Ann Brashares: Yes. Great. Perfect, sappy, sentimental, teenage-girl-who-is-now-a-twenty-something CLOSURE. If you read the other books, you may as well suck it up and read this one.
  2. Hot Pink by Adam Levin: A collection of short stories by a veritable mastermind of dialogue and voice. Good enough to convince me to buy his first novel.
  3. Life As We Knew It, The Dead and the Gone, The World We Live In (it’s a series that aims to rip your heart out and eat it while you watch): I’d picked this book because the moon used to be my favorite rock in the sky. I say used to because it is now a looming rock of near-by death and destruction to whom I glare at whenever I get the chance. This series chronicles what happens when an asteroid knocks the moon slightly closer to the Earth (and apparently they didn’t have Neil DeGrasse Tyson’s twitter feed to keep them up to date about any potential disasters) and the entire way of life on Earth is shifted forever and ever. It’s like some cross between a Sarah Dessen novel and that movie The Book of Eli. Tragic because it’s written from the POV of a teenage girl and it’s about a world that can only get worse. I’m perhaps laying on the hate too heavily. If I’m honest, the entire time I was reading the series I felt the heavy weight of anxiety in my bones. Even though I knew the world wasn’t ending, knew that the moon was the same distance away as always, I found myself wanting to hoard cans of green beans under a hollowed out board in my closet, or stock up on rolls of toilet paper and keep emergency evac kits near all the exits of the house. I’d recommend all three, and have been considering pre-ordering the upcoming fourth.
  4. Liar by Justine Larbalestier: I’ll admit, the whole reason I picked it from my digital shelf was because there was a black girl on the cover and it hadn’t been hidden away in some vague and unnecessary “African-American Lit” section specifically geared towards young adults. I was intrigued. There are several twists and I won’t give any away for once. All you really need to know is that the main character is a Liar, and that you have to give the entire book a chance. The first-person narration is absolutely integral to the tale, due to her fear of the truth, and though her voice leans towards melodrama, it does so eloquently and, oddly enough, honestly. Said melodrama reminded me at times of the feelings displayed in Octavia Butler’s (RIP) works, especially in those told from a teenaged POV (folks who enjoyed Parable of the Sower and the Bloodchild short story will probably find enough substance to lose an afternoon too in this book).
  5. Mr. Penumbra’s 24-hour Bookstore (the cover glows in the dark): I went back and forth about buying this book for a few weeks. I’m always slightly titillated by any book about reading, books, writing, or movies, so of course a book about a bookstore caught my eye. I am also, however, always equally wary of anything on any bestseller list, as I’m sure that if everyone likes it, something must be terribly terribly wrong. Turns out that this one is gem. Rodrigo got it for me as we were exiting B&N on my birthday (I only wanted three things on my bday: something new to read, an apple pie from my mom, and for my friends to gather at my house and be in my movie. EVERYTHING WORKED OUT PERFECTLY) and as soon as I cracked the cover I couldn’t put it down. Lovers of the sentimental mysteries of Russel T Davies era Doctor Who will enjoy this. I think it can be best described as a book written exactly for the Millenial generation. Adults who grew up with books, but who now read more things from screens than paper. How do you keep up with your love of the written word in a paperless society? Does it diminish that love you have? Or does it simply make it easier for you to get lost in something well-written? After all, I’ve been wanting to get to Adam Levin’s 900 page novel for years now, but wasn’t convinced my shoulder could handle me lugging it all around the city, THEN ENTERS THE KINDLE. Mr. Penumbra’s 24-hour Bookstore is a book for book-lovers who felt like they were cheating on their local library when they bought an e-reader. It’s a book that tells you it’s ok. There is love, danger, computer science, cross-continental intrigue, and Google within these pages. It’s a bit corny at times, but most good things are.
  6. Geek Love by Katherine Dunn: This is another book that I refused to read for awhile because of its popularity. I’m too punk rock for that. However, recently one of my high school English teachers recommended it and her recommendations are things I can’t really turn down. Luckily the local library had a kindle version available and I picked it up right away. Gosh, what a clusterfuck. It’s about a family of purposely engineered “circus freaks” and I’d never read anything like it before. Unlike Stephen Moffat, Dunn understands how to give the perfect amount of information up in the perfect amount of time. I like when a story unfolds in front of you like a well-made piece of origami, because it feels like unwrapping a gift so well that you’ll be able to re-use all of the wrapping paper and the tape that held it together. All of the characters are rich and heartbreaking without ever seeking pity. You will find no pity here, there isn’t room for it. I don’t have all the answers I wanted about the beginning of the novel, but I think that maybe I was, at the beginning, asking the wrong questions. This is the sort of book that deserves a re-read in a couple of years. Then another a few years later.
  7. The Boneshaker by Kate Milford: It’s really no secret that I have an odd fascination with red-haired people. It started when I read Malcolm X’s autobiography in eighth grade, and continued soon after when I was introduced to the Weasley family. It wasn’t surprising, therefore, that I was drawn to this book cover of fiery red hair. The description will tell you something about Zombies in the old West, but don’t let that deter or excite you. Simply do yourself a favor and put that out of your mind or else you’ll do what I did and read as quickly as you can to get to the bit with the “zombies” and then you’ll say “wait wut?” then feel disappointed because really the things leading up to that were great as well and deserved a bit of a slower speed and the main character is spunky and young and a girl and anything that involves traveling circuses and appearances of devils at crossroads and red-heads deserves a read.
  8. All You Never Wanted by Adele Griffin: Why did I read this book. Probably because there are no more Gossip Girl novels for me to read. That’s probably why.
  9. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury: For years now I’ve lied and claimed I’d read this many times over in my youth, because, c’mon, how do you shout of your love of books from the rooftop without having read this classic? How do you preach for the church of social science fiction without reading this Bradbury gem????? YOU DON’T. Or you do, whatever. Fuck the canon, that thing is skewed towards dead white guys anyway. Racism aside, Bradbury will always have a special place in my heart. This book, more than most social science fictions from that era, most eerily depicts the way the world is now. I think Bradbury’s future observations tended to be the most spot on (this and the Harrison Bergeron story come to mind). I’ll keep my snark to a minimum, let’s just sink deep into some quotations

“If you don’t want a man unhappy politically, don’t give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the government is inefficient, topheavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so damned full of ‘facts’ they fell stuffed, but absolutely ‘brilliant’ with information. Then they’ll feel they’re thinking, they’ll get a sense of motion without moving. And they’ll be happy, because facts of that sort don’t change.”

“The average TV commercial of sixty seconds has one hundred and twenty half-second clips in it, or one-third of a second. We bombard people with sensation. That substitutes for thinking.”

“Only if the third necessary thing could be given us. Number one, as I said: quality of information. Number two: leisure to digest it. And number three: the right to carry out actions based on what we learn from the interaction of the first two.” (this whole section was so snap worthy)

“Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary. The public itself stopped reading of its own accord.”

OVERALL, Marchil was a fantastic month for books, and May/June, or, Mune, promises to be even better.