The first time I met Johnny I had just turned nineteen. It was two months before Christmas and outside, the stars were brighter than I had ever believed possible. Our meeting was the obvious work of destiny because Johnny was a native of Boston, and I had grown up barely two hours away from his hometown. Yet we were in South Beach- over a thousand miles away- and somehow, we had managed to run in to the only other New Englander within a square kilometer. I knew instantly that he was mine, and in the very same second, knew I was his. There was something in his eyes that night. It was a strange and familiar radiance on either side of his nose and the wicked flair in his smile that took me captive, and even though I was rolling face- or possibly because I was rolling face- I simply knew that I had to have him.
The beach was aglow with a chorus of lighters, and the assortment of flames bounced off the ripples and waves of the vast ocean like fluorescent rocks skipping from the hands of eager children. Marijuana had never been more potent to me in my entire life. If Tommy Chong had been a pro-surfer, he would have never left the state of Florida and, had I not followed Johnny to my doom, I wouldn’t have either.
His enormous hands made their way down to my scantily-clad hips, worming their way into my swimsuit, and dug into my flesh, dominating my movement as we rocked back and forth against the blasting speakers in the fine, white dunes. The beach-side DJ spinning merely three yards away from us kept nodding in our direction, as though we were the only two completely enveloped in his ambiance. Johnny was honestly the only other gay man I had ever known to love death metal, gangster rap, and dubstep in the same spiritual capacity that I did, and it showed in our very first moments together. Fate appeared to have it in for us, because there were literally fireworks during our first kiss, and I mean literally.