“Not The Type” (2016)
Hello Mr. magazine — “about men who date men” (issue 08; aug 2016)
I’m organizing some of my writing clips starting at around the beginning, which for me is 2016. I was ready to quit writing in summer 2016 — I’d moved to Seattle from Minneapolis after it looked like City Pages, a popular alt-weekly I freelanced for, was going belly-up, and I needed a different alt-weekly gig. I’d later get a job at The Stranger as an intern for the Savage Love column, but before that, I was doing nothing except working at Rover.com as their doggy 9-11 operator (long story; not now). That turned around when I finally got something published in a magazine, and this is that piece. I wrote it in 2016, and it’s the first narrative piece I ever worked on with an editor. I appreciate the opportunity to have published this in Hello Mr. magazine, which at the time felt very gay and trendy. It was one of those magazines you would get at American Apparel and never look at. A dream to be on hot people’s coffee tables and never read. I’m trying to work on sharing old work uncritically, so I won’t criticize it. It’s perfect. Thank you.
Chase Burns Broderick
Tuesday, April 28, 2026
Art by Pacifico Silano
📚 Originally published “Hello MR. Magazine” volume 8 (August 2016)
🤡 WRITTEN BY CHASE BURNS BRODERICK
There is the standard preamble before the kissing. We talk about something unimportant, do the necessary fiddling and waiting before the opportunity to devour each other. I assume this is the “standard preamble” since I haven’t brought many men into my bedroom before Adrien. Too tired, not ready, looking for something different. But here is this Parisian, kissing me gently now with plenty of spit, pushed against my second-hand dresser.
The kisses are good. Like listening to The Cranberries while stoned. Our heads rock together as we move to my cheap Walmart bed with the mattress that came rolled up in a box. He says nothing about the squeaks coming from the bed’s plastic legs and crumbling frame. Secretly, I hope he finds these squeaks endearing, as I do.
Adrien pulls my legs over his shoulders, sliding off my pants even though they’re way too skinny for me. I hate skinny jeans.
“I’ve wanted this all day,” he says, looking up with a smile, and then I’m naked.
Adrien once called my ass a “Juicy Lucy,” the name of a famous Minnesotan burger where the patty is stuffed with cheese. The Juicy Lucy is Minnesota’s state treasure, despite the carbs and fats and heart attacks. The burger is never going away because Minnesotans are proud people — the kind of people who wear shorts when it’s 35 degrees, who trumpet their award-winning Recreation and Park Association like it’s the Stanley Cup. As long as the Minnesota State Fair stands and A Prairie Home Companion airs, the Juicy Lucy will be made. I like the thought of my ass as Minnesota’s state treasure. Obama has eaten a Juicy Lucy.
Adrien says other American phrases that aren’t sexy. He says “no biggie” and “booyah” and asks if Lake Street is the “hood.” Hes gathered most of his ideas on American culture from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I correct him sometimes, though he knows repeating mistakes makes me cranky, which I guess he thinks is cute. But Juicy Lucy – I don’t correct Juicy Lucy.
We gasp for air. Foreplay, check.
“Roll over,” he says.
Sex has never been a mystery to me. My mom would tell me about her sex dreams involving Brad Pitt while driving me to elementary school. I studied Interview with the Vampire while my friends studied scripture. I hid my mom’s copy of the Kama Sutra behind volumes of Nancy Drew. And yet sex has never been easy. Guys tell me, “Yeah, you like that,” but I don’t know if I do. Still I practice the ritual – shave, sort of; douche, kind of; lotion? – and wait for the magic.
“I’m going to take a nap on your ass,” he says.
“A nap?”
“You know, like your ass will be my pillow, and you’ll put your head – your head, um – ” he searches for the English, “under my balls.”
Hmm, I think. This must be a French nap.
On the phone with my mom I tell her I want to be the kind of guy who has a type. Things seem more fun for guys who can articulate their turn-ons. I’m more nomadic. My dick and heart and brain seem to live in different states. My brain liked Rick, the Marxist middle school teacher who lived in a mansion and had a beer belly. My heart liked John, the slender urban planner with a pornstache who picked me up when every taxi driver stayed home during a storm. My dick liked Michael, the grocer who was a yoga teacher and then a chef and then a real estate agent but always a prick.
I make a list.
MY TYPE Boy Next Door. Slim. Or Fit?
Not Too Fit.
I Don't Care About Their Body As Long
As They Have Profound Eyes.
No, As Long As They Have Thick Eyebrows.
But Maybe I Want A Daddy.
An Iranian Painter.
Intelligent But Generous.
Foreskin Optional. Tattoos Preferable.
Not Corporate.
Ezra Miller.
But Not Ezra Miller From
We Need To Talk About Kevin.It isn’t helpful.
Adrien’s balls are fine. Relaxed, even. Hygienic.
This is all very new to me.
“Mmm,” he moans. “This is nice.”
I imagine napping on my ass is nice. Pale, hairless, round, and firm. A quality pillow.
He’s getting the better deal, I think, attempting to mouth-breathe under his scrotum.
“Yeah, this is nice, too,” I say. I might mean it.
“Would you consider this sex?” Adrien asks, pulling his head up from my ass.
The skin of his cheek and the skin of my left butt cling to each other a little before they pop apart. I wish the pop would leave a permanent mark so I could show my grandkids. Here, I’d say, proudly displaying the beige mark, is where a Parisian napped on my ass. On my right butt is a similar beige mark which I say is a birthmark even though it’s a burn from a tanning bed I used in the back of a rural post office in the Rocky Mountains. A Parisian nap mark would be more impressive!
“No,” I tell him. “I typically only call penetration sex.”
“Ugh, Americans.” He rolls his eyes – he’s good at it. I get surprisingly hard when he suggests I’m simple. I bet boys all over continental Europe drop to their knees when he says, “I wrote my graduate thesis on Twin Peaks.” Or maybe I’m the only stupid one. Maybe I’m the stupidest boy in the world.
“So if I put my cock in your mouth ,” he does, “is this sex?”
My mom always told me I should never talk with my mouth full.
Spoiler!
Pulling out, he retreats and sits on my hips.
“In France, it’s all sex. What if I don’t want to fuck you? Like today, I was so horny before meeting you .”
I’m only half paying attention – still thinking about his cock filling my mouth. I like losing words, to have my brain stirred, to unlearn, to be somewhere between English and French. It’s all sex in France? Uh huh.
“ I kept masturbating but not coming,” he continues. “I’m useless. But, I wanna be here with you. I wanna see your ass. I wanna lie on your chest, spoon you, nap together.” This must be how women felt in the ‘90s Rom-Coms, like how Meg Ryan felt in those movies my mom likes.
“And I wanna fuck you in your mouth.” He stops, satisfied with this final statement. I’m learning he puckers whenever he’s proud of himself.
“But Real Talk now. You want to have Real Talk?” he says.
I say yes, even though I’ve never had someone ask for Real Talk, for boundary setting, for relationship defining, on date number three.
“Do we sleep with other people?”
“Yes,” I say, knowing that’s what he wants.
“Good. Do we tell each other?”
My jaw clenches, reminding me to think before I speak. Later I’ll over-analyze our texts and check if he’s on Scruff. Remember, you have a life. It does not revolve around Adrien, I’ll think before swiping through his private album. Those lips. That hair.
I bite his neck and say, “I wanna know everything.”
He smirks and says, “Come up here.” I pull up to his face.
“Now kiss me.”
We do. There’s a lot of spit. There’s always a lot of spit.
In between the kisses, I stop myself from dropping every compliment I can think of; whispering your eyes are blood moons, your hair is a field of poppies, your balls smell nice, also please stay. I can change, but please stay. Fortunately, my years in the Midwest have taught me how to lie about my feelings.
He smirks again, “You’re my beach.”
“Bitch?” I ask.
“Yes. Beach.”
“So I’m a hookup?”
“No,” he says, tersely.
“No. You’re not a hookup. You’re my beach.”
“Do you have a lot of bitches?”
“I had beaches in Paris,” he sighs. “But I let all my beaches go. I said, ‘Be free beaches. Go be your beach selves’.”
I’m not sure that a modern boy should want to be a Frenchman's beach. Don’t I want love? This is a man who says a nap on my ass is sex, so all my relationship lingo is out the fenêtre.
“So, I’m your bitch, and we sleep together, and we go on dates — ”
“I give you homework,” he interrupts.
“Homework?”
“Have sex with other people. Once a week.” He puckers.
“I could,” my answer isn’t entirely certain, “definitely do that.”
“Do we kiss in public?” He asks.
Without question I say “Yes,” but realize this is my first misstep. He squints.
“Oh,” I stumble. “We also don’t have to kiss in public. I’m kind of new to this, this thing . ”
“No, no,” he stumbles, “maybe, after some time—”
“Right,” I say, “You never know, but we don’t have to — ”
“Maybe!” He blurts out. “Let’s see how it goes.”
I kiss his chest and bring the topic back to our bodies.
His tongue gives me a physical, wandering from my neck to my thighs.
I think maybe Adrien is my type. Maybe I’ve always been waiting for some dom French guy, ready to tell me how I like it and when I like it, confidently moving my body. Maybe I’ve just been waiting for someone to say “now kiss me.” Or maybe this is just another experiment. I’m exhausted by the idea that this experiment will likely be followed by another, and another, and another.
“Keep going,” I ask.
He smiles, “You’re never satisfied.”
“That’s not —”
He eats me out. It’s better than a Juicy Lucy.
