Cecil has an innate sense of direction. We meet at the park off Forty-third Street. I don\u2019t know the neighborhood. Cecil has lived his whole life in Houston. I asked him last time, at the last park, if he was giving me a time-lapse tour of H-town\u2019s greenery. His tight, friendly grin made me feel smart but small.<\/p>\n
\u201cI so envied his, his\u2014faculty. With the butterflies.\u201d We\u2019ve been walking two or three minutes. He has a disarming tone, as if trying to sell you an appliance you actually need. I would listen captivated to him tell me we\u2019ve no future, none whatsoever. \u201cThey just stayed, like out of respect, atop his outstretched hand.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe and the princesses of old-school Disney.\u201d<\/p>\n
He turns back to me. Always keeps a few paces ahead. I watch his plump behind, each side hitching then falling, a rhythm he maintains whether he slows or presses forth.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat was it like, watching Snow White<\/em> and Cinderella<\/em> on the big screen, Boomer?\u201d He doesn\u2019t laugh, but merriment soaks his voice. I wish this were a mere infatuation.<\/p>\n Actually, I\u2019ll turn forty-four next month. We both know there will be no party.<\/p>\n \u201cNYC Nurse Begs Gay Men to Stop Tricking During Pandemic<\/em>.\u201d I\u2019d never heard of the online zine featuring this plea. It was wedged into my newsfeed. Between an old classmate\u2019s phoned-in defense of Trump and a colleague\u2019s restrained confession that her last pizza tasted like cardboard. I read it. I typically let headlines suffice, but witnessing anyone walk that tightrope between bigotry and benevolent alarm\u2014American journalism offers few comparable thrills.<\/p>\n \u201cGay sex, by definition, is transgressive.\u201d Paulson exhaled a smoke cloud white and dense like midnight snow. \u201cNo true fag would have it any other way.\u201d His name wasn\u2019t Paulson. I checked his wallet while he showered. I wanted so damn badly to blow clouds of my own. But then I\u2019d have to confess, and it shattered me to imagine Cecil\u2019s brow clenching in dismay. His refusal to express his hurt. His pale blue eyes falling out of focus as if I were a mirage he knew must be discounted. \u201cWe fuck until we die, and if we\u2019re lucky,\u201d he continued, pausing perhaps to assure I remained enraptured, \u201cthe sex will be our protest, the one too loud to ignore.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m really beat.\u201d I didn\u2019t convince even myself. \u201cI work in six hours. I should sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n Paulson grimaced. His teeth were starting to rot at the edges. I hated him. I\u2019d fucked him anyway. \u201cTame the transgressive and you forfeit faggotry, my friend.\u201d He\u2019d forgotten my name. No proof, of course, but nihilism thrives in the absence of evidence. \u201cHope things work out with your crush.\u201d<\/p>\n I shouldn\u2019t have pointed out that snapshot of Cecil and myself. Our arms around one another, I held a kelly green sixty-day chip to my eye like a monocle. The picture captured Cecil laughing, his pointed chin thrust down, his lips still full.<\/p>\n We\u2019ve left, and I only now realize it, the park itself. Most Houston parks are a mite puny\u2014arthritic playgrounds and wilting landscapes. I need a damn cigarette.<\/p>\n We\u2019re strolling through a neighborhood, modest and bland households shyly nesting beside more robust, colorful ones. No neighborhood in this city can sustain a coherent identity for more than half a block.<\/p>\n \u201cOoh, ooh! Check this out!\u201d<\/p>\n I\u2019m a dunce with car models. If an automobile promises passage from A to B, I turn the ignition and forget its exterior. Cecil\u2019s latest love interest appears to be a Camaro. I forget whether it was a movie or TV program, but sometime in my childhood, I watched a shopworn stud slip into the driver\u2019s seat and screech away to his next adventure. That\u2019s the only reason I know it\u2019s a Camaro. My presumed ignorance tickles Cecil, however, and I wouldn\u2019t dream of depriving him.<\/p>\n He hops from foot to foot, his calves bulky with muscle. The vehicle is parked just a few feet outside a shut garage. The blinds are open. It\u2019s a goddamn pandemic. The car\u2019s owner must be inside.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is the jam, Boomer. This vehicle was made with love.\u201d He strokes the fender, reverent as a blind man traversing Braille. \u201cIf this artwork sat in my garage, I\u2019d be too busy admiring it to ever hop behind the wheel.\u201d<\/p>\n He\u2019s made love to strangers\u2019 cars before. At least once per walk. We\u2019ve been meeting twice a month since March. We meet in the mornings because summers here are for suckers. He peers through the driver\u2019s side window, no doubt frustrated by the extreme tint job.<\/p>\n I remain on the sidewalk. \u201cThe owner might pop up any moment.\u201d I\u2019m hoping he hears good-natured chiding, but my nerves condense in my gut. \u201cWhat the fuck will you say if he catches you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat he has a fine, fine vehicle.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI doubt your opinion will carry much weight.\u201d<\/p>\n He sidles up to me, his fanboy urges satisfied.<\/p>\n \u201cYou think with this face, I\u2019ll catch any shit?\u201d His index finger circles his rectangular head. He\u2019s handsome. He knows it. His straight, copper-golden hair remains parted at the side, locks dipping into his right eye. I\u2019ve checked out his Facebook profile. This hairstyle dates back to junior high with him. He\u2019s tall, at least six-foot-one. Milky white skin is gratefully blemished by a dusting of crimson on each cheek. He dresses like an undergrad forever postponing laundry, but that, paired with his amiably jerky, wide-swinging limbs, tempers his cornfed good looks. It bears repeating\u2014he knows he\u2019s attractive, but I wonder whether he knows\u00a0why<\/em>.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re quite fond of yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cVery unkind.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI say it with love.\u201d<\/p>\n Cecil turns left onto a street named after a tree that grows nowhere near the Gulf Coast. I follow. His ass twitches and mesmerizes. I\u2019ve no idea where we are.<\/p>\n Not long after Cecil agreed to sponsor me, I started watching porn sober. Before, porn tempted me only when I tweaked. I refused to ponder whether my new \u201csanitized\u201d viewing habit was a half-hearted stab at jolting my libido. I felt like a newly quit smoker huffing a dive bar\u2019s cloudbank of secondhand sustenance.<\/p>\n I\u2019d stopped dope, and my social calendar, like those of any neighbor without a death wish, had cleared overnight. I had money. I\u2019m a book editor. I worked remotely long before circumstance conferred it\u00a0du jour<\/em>\u00a0status. I rented whores. They came to my home. Cecil has never been to my home.<\/p>\n One boy I preferred far more than the other three. His name was Duncan. I didn\u2019t care enough to inspect his wallet. I opened my door to find him wearing a mask. Generic baby-shower blue, cheap cloth, bands that hugged his ears. I\u2019ll do whatever you ask, he promised, but the mask stays on. How can selling your ass remain transgressive if one insists the terms are his to establish? More to the point, since when has prostitution been deemed a legitimate path to self-worth?<\/p>\n I ordered him to recline on my love seat. Aside from a rolling black office chair and a plain wooden straight-back, I had nowhere to park guests but upon the shag carpet.<\/p>\n Tell me about your first trick, I demanded. Tell me why men pay hundreds to pound your ass. Tell me whether I\u2019m attractive. Guess which photographs include male friends I\u2019ve never fucked and which feature boys who served no other purpose. I shove the snapshot of Cecil and I (and my sobriety chip) into Duncan\u2019s face. Do I have a chance with this kid? Any chance at all? Don\u2019t take your eyes off me. I\u2019d always told myself that even moderate wealth renders a faggot\u2019s looks irrelevant, but I still refused to gaze into the mirror when alone.<\/p>\n I stroked myself during his replies. Should he join me, he wondered. I insisted he slip off the mask. After all, neither of us had mentioned condoms. Why fret over one virus if you won\u2019t at least feign fear over its predecessor. It didn\u2019t matter if he complied. Nothing whores did mattered.<\/p>\n \u201cStay to the left!\u201d The jogger voices his dismay. He scurries past as Cecil and I concede the dirt-and-gravel path. Somehow, we\u2019ve wandered back into the park proper.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s always gratifying to hear etiquette known and respected.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, yes,\u201d I say. \u201cOnly Grindr offers more gentlemen and chivalry.\u201d<\/p>\n Actually, I adore Cecil\u2019s high regard for civility. I also don\u2019t wish to be anywhere near when it dawns on him that he\u2019s alone in his affections.<\/p>\n \u201cAt least we won\u2019t make that mistake again,\u201d Cecil offers.<\/p>\n \u201cUntil our next walk.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSpeak for yourself, Boomer.\u201d<\/p>\n I want to believe the niceties and pleasantries Cecil embodies somehow grease the gears as souls pass from this world to the next. I have no trouble envisioning my friends\u2019 friction-free ascent to the heavens. But myself? Isn\u2019t the whole point of pandemics to thin the herd?<\/p>\n \u201cYou know\u2026\u201d I don\u2019t know why I\u2019m voicing my observation. Perhaps because I know Cecil will listen. \u201cSix months ago, if you mentioned\u00a0the virus<\/em>, people assumed you meant AIDS.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEnglish is a language. Languages update.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey evolve.\u201d I\u2019m so deeply desperate to keep pace.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy don\u2019t\u00a0you<\/em>\u00a0write?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe best writers reveal their souls.\u201d<\/p>\n He smirks. \u201cYou can do that in the rooms three times a day, every day.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s much easier when you\u2019re speaking to men whose stories are the same damn sad as yours.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA gross oversimplification.\u201d<\/p>\n He believes\u2014he believes in the rooms. I believe in whatever room includes him.<\/p>\n We both know I\u2019m in love.<\/p>\n \u201cI dunno.\u201d He walks backward, facing me. To no one\u2019s surprise, we\u2019ve again drifted to the path\u2019s right perimeter. \u201cMaybe it\u2019s for the best another virus has bumped us from the spotlight.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI go days without thinking about my status.\u201d Sadly, I sometimes fuck on those days.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m glad to know someone who\u2019s lived with the virus as long as you.\u201d He smiles, and it quakes with a rare vulnerability. \u201cYou give me hope.\u201d<\/p>\n I want to depart then disappear then die.<\/p>\n \u201cTo the left, pretty boys!\u201d<\/p>\n Obviously, once Mayor Turner ordered a city-wide shutdown, His House was forced to shift its many twelve-step meetings to cyberspace. The tweakers emerged every night at eight. I preferred to view these gatherings via a grid of members, like the tiers of singing puppets at the end of\u00a0The Muppet Show\u2019s<\/em>\u00a0opening number.<\/p>\n The facilitator each night expressly forbade members from recording our confessions. Zoom, of course, featured a dainty red dot at the bottom of the screen, allowing our tortured tales eternal life.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve amassed at least thirty complete meetings.<\/p>\n Simon, a young dude, perhaps even younger than Cecil, edited each confession I most wished to conserve into a Mobius strip of helplessness and hope. In return, I kept a few boxes of his shit. The dealer, who had taken him in after his parents tossed him out, didn\u2019t want Simon to mistake his apartment for home.<\/p>\n Last week, he messaged me on Facebook. Someone had robbed him at gunpoint. My alarmed response, insisting on details, went unanswered.<\/p>\n \u201cYou have a thing for Cecil, too.\u201d<\/p>\n This was months ago. We\u2019d just met, Simon and I. Unveiling my recordings to him, I\u2019d already confirmed he\u2019d severed ties with everyone from His House. He\u2019d always aspired to be a film editor, he said. It was a dark pleasure when a strange man offered to indulge your worst impulses.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t be daft.\u201d I wouldn\u2019t look at him. I kept my gaze trained to the screen. \u201cI\u2019m old enough to be his father.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat didn\u2019t stop us.\u201d<\/p>\n Simon fucked me his second visit because of course he did. His parents were about to kick him to the curb. My compassion, I wasn\u2019t proud of it. An orgasm, I\u2019d always felt, was a gift easily given\u2014however easily forgotten.<\/p>\n \u201cBack when I was still dating Marlon,\u201d he began, \u201cwe went out to dinner after a meeting.\u201d His fingers tickled the keyboard, slowly assigning shape to my obsession. This had been early last year, he noted, before the pandemic. \u201cI was sitting across from him, from Cecil. And I remember thinking, if I could just get my shit together, maybe I could land a guy like that.\u201d<\/p>\n I smiled. \u201cOr maybe even Cecil himself.\u201d<\/p>\n Simon grimaced, lifted an eyebrow. He was tweaked. I didn\u2019t think I\u2019d ever encountered him sober. He implored me to tell no one from His House about our encounters, and especially his swan dive back into active addiction.<\/p>\n I can\u2019t recall the specifics I gave Simon when he asked me to detail my attraction to Cecil. I told him the truth because I knew it would die with him. It\u2019s simple to open your heart when the operating theater stands empty.<\/p>\n Cecil continues treading backwards, like a mutt determined to remind his master he hasn\u2019t been left behind. I\u2019m smiling. I\u2019m listening. I don\u2019t know where we are. We travel alongside a wide creek bed.<\/p>\n \u201cI have an idea for a story. You could write it, Boomer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t write books, bud. I edit them.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTomato, to-mah-to.\u201d<\/p>\n He works at a restaurant, part of a local chain that serves basic American cuisine but not at basic prices. Cecil dubs it Denny\u2019s in Denial. He makes nine bucks an hour but insists the tips more than compensate. I wonder how he reconciles his jones for nice rides with his refusal to relinquish a dead-end, downtown distraction. Early on, before the shutdown, I asked if he came from money. He answered honestly, not even thinking to apologize. I can\u2019t imagine a life I don\u2019t forever attempt to redeem.<\/p>\n Another barista had come down with the virus, he tells me. Their manager sent the whole staff to one of the pitifully few testing sites in Harris County. Even antibody tests, it seemed, would do.<\/p>\n \u201cI was sitting there in my car. A\/C blasting, smooth jazz on the dial. The nurse was tricked out\u2014mask, face shield, some unholy cross between scrubs and a Hazmat suit.\u201d<\/p>\n At work, I\u2019m known for my skill in dissecting a narrative. I know when a story works. I know when a story doesn\u2019t. Whichever the case, I can always articulate why. But this is Cecil\u2019s story, and I\u2019ve forgotten myself. I am so goddamn grateful for this respite.<\/p>\n He\u2019s grinning. The good part, here it comes. \u201cShe jams the cotton swab up my nostril, and I feel her twist round and round. Slowly, though. Like a seduction, almost.\u201d<\/p>\n I\u2019m keeping pace with him now. I imagine his face descending toward mine. He and I, still but hardly stagnant, upon this gravelly path that starts somewhere and ends somewhere else. I imagine that kiss denied me almost seven months. I imagine his thick torso, square hips in motion. I imagine waking next to him, his first words that day intended for no one but me.<\/p>\n \u201cI was thinking, You\u2019re inside me. You\u2019re\u00a0deep<\/em>\u00a0inside me. No matter what happens next, nothing can unravel that bond. It\u2019s erotic, right?\u201d<\/p>\n I smirk. I must break the spell. \u201cSurely, the several hundred others she swabbed left with happy pants, too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re a cheap date.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat test costs a hundred and thirty bucks,\u201d I say. \u201cFifth Ward hookers don\u2019t charge half that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy boss reimbursed me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s the cheap date now?\u201d<\/p>\n Cecil is a sex addict. His tweaking dovetailed perfectly into the predilection. Earlier during our walk, he let loose another nugget from his doper days: while at a water park with his older brother and some friend, he snuck off to the men\u2019s room. There, he forced a shard of crystal up his butthole. I found the image so unbearably carnal, so craven, part of me knew it was damn fortunate he refused to fuck any addict before his first year of sobriety.<\/p>\n At least, that\u2019s his story. Perhaps it\u2019s true. Or perhaps he wishes to spare my feelings. I\u2019m not sure which abyss into which I\u2019d rather tumble on the drive home.<\/p>\n I\u2019d kill for the nicotine beneath someone\u2019s fingernails at the moment.<\/p>\n It was sometime in May, in yet another park, that I showed Cecil my heart. We\u2019d embarked on the trail, he already deep into some anecdote I was too terrified to follow. His jovial tone turned earnest. I seemed down, he said. I always tell myself that as long as a man can read the emotions on my face, all else is negotiable. That\u2019s not the only lie I tell myself.<\/p>\n My words left me in a torrent. I knew this would short-circuit his sponsorship of me, but I\u2019d developed feelings for him. I expected nothing in return, I insisted. I did not mention the word love. After all, the phrase \u201cI love you\u201d was really a question. We pressed onward in silence for a moment, ten moments, a lifetime.<\/p>\n \u201cHow does it feel to be vulnerable in front of someone?\u201d he finally asked. I wasn\u2019t looking at him, but I knew he was looking at me. Cecil wasn\u2019t one for emotional displays. His crass response to my confession was not, I assured myself, a show of disregard.<\/p>\n But I bolted anyway. Calling out over my shoulder, I didn\u2019t bother with excuses. I said I simply could not walk another step. I glimpsed his face, him still rooted to the place where I\u2019d abandoned him. Was he hurt, confused, shocked\u2014that was one roulette wheel I had no wish to spin.<\/p>\n Inside my shitcan Nissan, I cried. Four days later, when I summoned the courage to call, he made no reference to our last encounter. In the rooms, gratitude is the most vaunted emotion. Perhaps that\u2019s what I felt as we began to speak like the friends we\u2019d never ceased being.<\/p>\n \u201cLimit yourself to nightly network news,\u201d Cecil advises. \u201cIt\u2019s easier than you think.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNothing kills my buzz like scrolling through Facebook\u2019s newsfeed.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPoor choice of metaphor.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShove it up your ass.\u201d I\u2019m so happy to be alive and coherent. \u201cProvided there\u2019s room.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou go for the jugular, Boomer. Are you this ferocious when seducing a dude?\u201d<\/p>\n He\u2019s looking at me. He hasn\u2019t forgotten. My desire has become part of our lore, our schtick. I could tell him anything, I think. But then he might respond in kind. I\u2019m not convinced I can truly know a man and still love him\u2014and I suspect no man who walks this planet can claim otherwise.<\/p>\n \u201cSooner or later, my friend, it\u2019ll be your turn to tell a story\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n I don\u2019t respond. I don\u2019t engage. I don\u2019t exist.<\/p>\n We\u2019ve reached the ramshackle parking lot. Its fifty or sixty slots seem deeply na\u00efve this year. His Civic rests inside the slot bordering my car. I arrived first. He knows what I drive. Parking beside me, amid a sea of other spaces, couldn\u2019t have been chance. We always embraced hello and goodbye before His House was forced into hiatus. To be honest, the pandemic has done little to hinder this. The last couple of times, though, he insisted on elbow bumps. I hold out my arms.<\/p>\n He chuckles. \u201cYou know better than that, Boomer.\u201d<\/p>\n We\u2019re standing three feet apart. Neither of us donned a mask at any point during our stroll.<\/p>\n \u201cCecil, I\u2019m going to hug you. You\u2019re going to let me. We\u2019re gonna live to be wise old queers.\u201d<\/p>\n He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time.<\/p>\n \u201cWell-played, sir,\u201d he replies. \u201cLet\u2019s hug it out.\u201d<\/p>\n I\u2019m smaller than Cecil, my scalp reaching no higher than his chin. He exudes, beneath his clothes, a warm fleshiness. I promise him we\u2019ll survive this. He scoffs, convinced he\u2019s young, rich and invincible. His naivete touches my heart so directly, I wonder when that last happened. He feels safe, and I once again imagine how I\u2019d bear the weight of him as we drifted toward sleep. I\u2019m not the first to end our embrace.<\/p>\n Once inside my car, I grab my pack of Camels. I make it a point to never smoke around Cecil. Still, I feel his arms around me. Before I know it, I\u2019m puffing a cigarette. Not wanting to leave quite yet, I turn the ignition so that the radio ripples to life without disturbing my engine\u2019s slumber. Depeche Mode\u2019s \u201cPersonal Jesus\u201d clomps and shimmies from my speakers. I was in junior high when this hit the radio. Cecil would greet the world not for another six years.<\/p>\n Maybe he needed to know how hard I\u2019d fight for him to hold me.<\/p>\n Pick up the receiver, I\u2019ll make you a believer.<\/em><\/p>\n The sudden bleat of a car horn jolts me, and my Camel snaps in two between my fingers. Dammit. I glance out my passenger window as I reach over the seat and fish out another smoke. There\u2019s Cecil, wagging his finger and treating me to the constipated schoolmarm expression I might love more than his smile.<\/p>\n He rolls down his window, gestures for me to do the same. The twinkling tunes favored by his smooth jazz posse get stomped by my sinister synth-pop goosestep. Neither of us speak for at least thirty seconds.<\/p>\n \u201cSeems like an Eighties artifact,\u201d he observes.<\/p>\n \u201cFresh from the time capsule.\u201d<\/p>\n I\u2019ve lit another cigarette. These two smokes, the broken one and the one clenched between my lips, must surely count only as a single infraction. Cecil quit smoking a year ago. The last fuck he told me about was in April. I need to know\u2014what man did his mouth last call home?<\/p>\n The smoke drifts through the passenger window and into his Civic. He playfully waves an open hand close to his face.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll see you at the meeting,\u201d I call out.<\/p>\n \u201cYour ass better show up at birthday night.\u201d<\/p>\n He\u2019s rolling up his window. I\u2019m rolling up mine. Maybe my words will not survive the journey, but if they remain unspoken, I fear\u2014I know\u2014I will not survive mine.<\/p>\n \u201cLove you, Cecil. Be good.\u201d<\/p>\n That instant, I peel out of the parking lot and hope I won\u2019t need GPS to relocate Forty-third Street. My cheeks ache, I\u2019m grinning so hard and wide. My heart thunders like raging bison across a pasture. I\u2019m evolving, like a virus. I\u2019m frightened. I want nothing but for him to know he is loved.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Gay sex, by definition, is transgressive. We fuck until we die, and if we\u2019re lucky, the sex will be our protest, the one too loud to ignore.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":21657,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[2306,1093,1353],"class_list":["post-21655","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-covid","tag-gay","tag-lgbtq","writer-thomas-kearnes"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21655","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=21655"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21655\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21656,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21655\/revisions\/21656"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21657"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21655"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21655"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21655"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}