[Posted:
March 7, 2005]
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In
the Quiet of This Chair
Kevin
settled back in his seat as the seat-belt sign chimed
off.
He
turned on his BrazChill House mega-file on his i-Pod,
and closed his eyes. Another successful trip was behind
him, although the implications of this one were larger
than almost any others before it.
He
was in range of closing two of the largest deals in
his career, and while either one could end up not materializing,
if they did -- well, life wouldn't be the same for years
to come. In terms of time, money -- and living.
He
thought about the things he'd be doing, the people he'd
be working with, the greater focus of all his client
activity to easy-to-pick priorities. The excitement
that might be.
And
the possible toll it would have on his life.
****
Matt
settled back in his seat as the plane rose higher over
Florida, speeding back to snow-plagued Washington. His
hand was wrapped around Christopher's, and he looked
out over the blue skies and the wide open sea.
And
he thought about the whirl of change about to storm
ashore in his life.
He
thought about his condo -- the symbol of his new life.
About the huge career change looming - one that was
on the verge of being sealed. He thought about all his
friends -- the people, the places. The good times.
He
thought about Washington. And he thought about Manhattan.
And
as he looked out, and squeezed his hand gently, he thought
about Christopher.
****
Sean
leaned back in his chair and looked out over Vermont
Avenue as the snow avalanched out of the sky all over
Logan Circle.
The
wind howled through the giant trees lining the wide
street in front of him, and Pongo curled up on his lap
as he typed on his keyboard, finishing another part
of a constantly growing project. At least he could work
from home on days like this.
He
thought about the snow - and he thought about the summer.
About Heather House, and about 5 Prospect -- where Kevin,
David, Sasha and he would be setting up shop for the
coming beach season with Mark and (other) David.
And
Sean thought about his friends, and how much they meant
to him. How much the sun meant to him, and the freedom
and expansive options he now had ever since he'd moved
to Logan Circle.
Through
the dense, white noise of the blizzard outside, everything
seemed so much clearer.
[Posted: March 8, 2005]
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Let
It All Go
Another Friday. Another plane.
Kevin
stretched his legs far in front of the bank of chairs
at the front of Economy Plus, having made the mistake
of booking a westbound flight at noon on a Friday and,
despite being a 1K, obviating any hope of an upgrade.
But
like most of such experiences -- reaching far out of
the cramped, confining moment, perhaps to bend the rules
for that added dose of comfort -- he always reminded
himself it was temporary.
The
flight was only five hours, after all.
But
it was all too easy to sink down into the chair as the
Rocky Mountains whizzed by underneath him. The air was
no more or less smooth. The service no better or worse
than any other of the endless series of flights he was
starting to feel like he lived his life upon. Sinking
-- deep -- into the chair, headphones on. His iPod whirling,
perhaps breathing its last after a work-out on the flight
home from São Paulo only days earlier -- and
no re-charge, the chaos of the landing/rushing/working/sleeping/rising/running/taking
off all too much for practical things.
And
in the sunken place - the place high above the peaks
of so much introspection, so much isolation - the music
was taking him back.
Back
to almost everywhere fun. Back to Paris
- to Rio
- to São
Paulo on less enervating trips. To his first jaunt
to "1984" in old downtown New York. To the
last day of his second trip to Bali five years before,
and the awful cabaret show he guffawed his way through
with Dena, his oldest friend in Washington who had been
sort of subsumed by suburban Alexandria and an off-ramp
of adulthood, the heterosexual kind - marriage, children....Zig-zagging
to La
Demence -- which was about to happen again, just
one day before his 37th birthday. And while he might
have been able to go, no one else could, and this he
had no plans at all to celebrate.
Nor
did he want to make any plans. Nor did he want to celebrate.
He
just sunk further into the music playing in his head.
Into the cramped, uncomfortable seat. Into the long
list of steadily more complicated, disappointing, unexpected-yet-expected
set backs over just the past three days in his business.
The yo-yoing of so much in his business -- the nature
of it all. The price of his freedom. The price of the
life he chose to live. And it began melting and slushing
together with a broader set of people who were dicking
him around in his life -- one after the other, lunch
after breakfast after late afternoon meeting. Phone
call after phone call.
Friend
after friend. And stirring next to him was Dane, who
he barely saw, barely spoke to anymore.
And
he clenched his teeth. And he just wanted to get the
fuck away from it all.
Maybe
even once at for all.
****
Roy
stretched his arms and legs out as far as he could stand,
spread long on the mat at Results,
over in the far corner of the second floor. His abs
pulled apart, and he could feel molecules tearing away
from each other as he pulled every bit of air inside
him far up into his chest.
And
let it all out in one big breath, folding his hands
and knees back together slowly.
Almost
reflexively, he closed his eyes. He didn't want to see
anyone there. Didn't want to have his eye catch anyone
walking past.
He
just wanted to breathe. Just breathe.
And
slowly, he took in another breath and stretched out.
It was a comforting repetitiveness, slow and easy. Monotonous.
Trustworthy.
And
as the sound around him reduced to a middling buzz,
he began to picture his tension - his frustration -
as a pile. A pile....
A
pile of hay.
It
was in a barn. A big, urine-stinking barn.
And
he just wanted to strap on gloves, a set of raggedly
clothes, and get in there and clean it all out.
Breathe
in. Stretch. Hold...
It
was piled high and low, in all parts of the inside.
But the barn doors were almost completely open now,
and there was plenty of room to start pitching huge
wads and chucking them out in all directions.
His
paycheck would arrive as always that night, into his
bank account.
His vacation was coming up.
His laundry was all done for the weekend.
Exhale........
He'd
get tested on Tuesday.
He'd get tested on Tuesday.
He'd go shopping for new shoes on Sunday.
He'd go running in the morning on Sunday, then maybe
see who was around for brunch.
He'd get tested on Tuesday.
He'd call Elaine
or Sean
or maybe Chuck and
Dirty after his workout to see about Sunday.
He'd email Ben
and
Frederic
tonight.
He'd get tested on Tuesday.
Breathe
in......
And
just as his chest filled, and his abs pulled apart again,
and he was stretched to his limit -- right on the edge
of that self-created precipice -- Roy felt the rush
hit him.
What
-- with this giant, pushing-out of everything he was
about to ride -- what was he going to let go?
Is
this the
moment in Paris, at La Scène-Bastille --
whatever he let go of there?
Is
this
the moment he let go of PrepGuy8
once and for all on P Street, right outside Halo?
Is
this the
moment he cried, finally, on Ben and Frederic's
pillow?
Is
this the
moment he spread himself over the bed and let Jack
Finney inside of him?
What
now? What was Roy going to let go of now?
And,
just like a reflex, the air burst out of him, his body
collapsed in on itself and he let out a sound. Like
a sort of moan that turned into...a wail.
[Posted:
March 11, 2005]
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The
Fog Lifts
Kevin's alarm rang, and he sat straight up in bed. His
own bed.
His
bags, still unpacked, lay on the floor next to him.
His
plane from San Francisco had landed late, and he'd missed
French class the night before. He didn't have the energy
to unpack before falling asleep.
So
he got out of bed, and started unpacking.
The
air in the bedroom was crisp and cold. He'd forgotten
to raise the thermostat when he got home. And unlike
where he'd slept the night before last, the sun was
shining in a blue sky, and the mist and clouds were
all gone.
He
looked at all the balled up, dirty clothes in his Travelpro
case. And just across the room, a huge pile of dry cleaning
was waiting from his business trips to Brazil and Mexico
the past weeks. And there was that night at Landsdowne.
The long work days in between, as things stacked up,
with more work to do that day. And the thick layer of
dust over the desk. The book shelves. The top of the
television. And the bills to be paid. Taxes to be done.
And
he knew what he had to do. He could see clearly this
morning for some reason, after months of see-sawing.
After weeks of increasing doubt and endless hoping,
endless waiting for something to break, something to
change.
It
was time to admit to himself that it wasn't working
anymore. It wasn't what he'd planned. It wasn't what
he wanted. It was time to face facts and do something
about it.
Reaching
into the bag, he pulled out his shoes, the cell phone
charger, and the new bottles of conditioner
he'd picked up in the Castro. Then he dumped all the
clothes onto the floor. And stared at everything, not
knowing where to begin.
****
shoot on my face - 28 (dupont)
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Looking for a masculine guy under 40 yo - 40 (DC)
group action: young, straight
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Reply to: anon-63984817@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-03-16, 12:46AM EST
see it in the porns all the time
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63984817
From:
LoganSmooth30
Sent: Tuesday, March 16, 2005 08:09 AM
To: anon-63984817@craigslist.org
Subject: RE: group action: young, straight jocks
- 22 (arlington)
sounds
hot i fit the bill too, live in logan, work in arlington,
free any nite, some days can get away too. pic attached.
have more - yrs?
ME: Bi, 30yrs, 5-11 169 good shape, blnd/brn. mostly
btm. uninhibited, submissive. hot. lets do it. u
on manhunt?
****
Fit2betied:
hey elaine
LaineyB4U: hi
john! how r u?
Fit2betied: good.
havent seen you in a while.
LaineyB4U: i
know! not since paris i think. how are you?
Fit2betied: im ok.
you're friends with that guy Jack who works for United
right?
LaineyB4U: yes
i know him....
Fit2betied: is he
ok? i heard he OD'ed last week
LaineyB4U:
i didnt hear that
Fit2betied: i mentioned
he lives in my building right?
LaineyB4U: i
think so
Fit2betied: i saw
it happening. they took him away in an ambulance at
8 in the morning last mon
LaineyB4U: omg...thats
not good.
Fit2betied: he's
not back, and i haven't seen the roommates either.
LaineyB4U: what
did you see?
Fit2betied: they
were rushing him. they bagged him, i guess he stopped
breathing.
LaineyB4U: damn.
too much G. he got sick in paris a couple of times.
he was such a bore.
Fit2betied: they
were probably partying too hard
LaineyB4U:
i think we all are to be honest
Fit2betied: lol
- i cant believe im hearing that from you!
LaineyB4U: and
jack finney especially. hes hit the end of the line
i think.
LaineyB4U:
thx for filling me in - for a lot of reasons i needed
to know this...
****
Kevin
was done.
He
finished separating all the clothes from all the trips
and now had three very large piles -- dry cleaning,
whites and everything else.
It
was something he'd done since college. When he was emotionally
wound up and couldn't concentrate, he'd just clean.
Something about the simplicity of it that opened up
all the channels in his mind, made him feel like something
was being accomplished. Something without the usual
strenuous mental energy he'd expend for his work...or
his relationships.
And
as he began picking up the first batch of laundry for
the machine, he noticed something was missing.
The
Andrew Christian t-shirt.
One of his favorites. One he'd worn to Ultralounge in
São Paulo a week or so back.
Sure,
it had shrunk a little, but it was a great shirt and
still probably had two or three more nights left in
it. He went through every pile. Nothing.
He
went into his suitcases again. And into the empty laundry
bin. The bathroom floor. The living room. The hall closet.
No shirt.
His
eyes bugged. He went back to the piles again. Went through
all of it again. Pulling socks out of pant legs, and
shaking crumpled suit jackets and dog-hair-laden slacks
and button-downs on the floor where Clancy regularly
slept.
No
shirt.
He
clenched his fists. Where the fuck is it?
He
went over his steps, back through San Francisco (he
didn't bring it - there was no clubbing on the agenda,
it was Dane's Christmas gift, a return to his last hometown,
and they had fun, but they didn't even kiss once)
and then Landsdowne (he only had an overnight bag
with a sweater and underwear and socks when he and Dane
went for a spa day that ended in a very uncomfortable
bed because a King Room wasn't available, and he spent
the night staring into the dark emptiness of the room).
It
had to be the São Paulo trip. It was the last
time he'd seen it.
He
tried to remember packing to leave that Sunday afternoon.
Before he checked out of the hotel
at 3, and went out to Suplicy to hook into their wi-fi
and get some work done. Trying to remember packing.
It was too long ago...
Then
he remembered -- HE HAD A PICTURE OF THE BED. He remembered
seeing it on the plane home the night before when he
was thumbing through the pictures from San Francisco.
He'd
taken a picture of the bed at Emiliano. When he was
packing. The last day in São Paulo. He'd just
bought a digital camera, and had forgotten the charger,
so it was dead by the time he got to Brazil. Mission
to get tons of pictures thwarted. But the last day,
when he was packing, he checked it. It had a drop of
juice left and he took a picture of the bed. All of
the clothes were laid out, getting ready to be packed.
Then it died again.
He
grabbed the camera out of his laptop case. It was now
loaded with pictures from San Francisco. From Bodega
Bay and Port Reyes up the coast. He scrolled through
the cache to the beginning.
There
was the bed! There were all the clothes. No shirt.
Then
-- he remembered. He'd taken the shirt off that Saturday
morning.
He'd
taken it off in the bathroom, right inside the door
of the hotel room.
He'd
put it on the sink basin while he brushed his teeth,
and climbed out of the rest of his clothes, leaving
them on the floor.
Then
he'd taken the shirt with him into the bedroom, and...put
it in a drawer. It stank of cigarette smoke. He wanted
to keep it separate from the clean clothes in the closet.
He
was pie-eyed that morning, not thinking straight. Half
asleep.
He'd
left the shirt in São Paulo.
It
was gone.
He
stood there, holding the camera. Looking at the picture
of the clothes on that bed. Remembering the moment he
was finished packing and not remembering the drawer.
He clenched the camera tightly.
The
scroll button activated and flipped back to some of
the last pictures of San Francisco.
He
looked at the shots of
Pacific Heights on that sunny afternoon. He snapped
pictures quietly as they walked. Of the city scapes,
and of faces on the streets.
And
then at the end of the roll, before the shots of San
Francisco disappearing off the wing of the plane, there
was a shot of himself in the mirror of their room at
the Jackson Court as they were packing the previous
morning. He'd
turned off the flash, and tried to hold his hand steady.
But it was blurry, like all his self portraits. The
flash would obliterate the mirror. There was no way
to see himself other than blurred. Not until he figured
out how to use the damn thing. If he ever would.
And
like the club shirt, and the pair of sunglasses he'd
left on a table in Mexico City. And his appointment
book that slipped out of his notebook on the walk home
from a client meeting in late February.
Then
he backed up to a shot of Dane on Chimney Rock in Port
Reyes, with the mad ocean and the setting sun behind
him. Not looking at the camera. Not smiling.
Suddenly
the phone rang, and he answered it immediately, without
even looking at the display.
"Hello??"
"Kevin?"
(Roy)
"Uh...hey.
Hi Roy, how are you?"
"I'm
okay. How are you doing?"
Silence.
"I'm...okay."
Another
silence.
"Are
you crying?"
"Yes."
"Sure
you're okay?"
"Um...."
"Are
you home?"
"Yes..."
"Need
to talk?"
"Um.....I......"
"Want
to have lunch in a little bit? I can bring some food
by. Seriously..."
Kevin
thought of Roy coming all the way in from Rosslyn.
"Oh,
no...no...it's...."
"Seriously,
I'll be there at one, okay?"
****
From:
str8jockaction
Sent: Tuesday, March 16, 2005 11:26 AM
To: LoganSmooth30
Subject: RE: RE: group action: young, straight jocks
- 22 (arlington)
dude
i think we know each other. ;)
>sounds
hot i fit the bill too, live in logan, work in arlington,
free any nite, >some days can get away too. pic
attached. have more - yrs?
>
>ME: Bi, 30yrs, 5-11 169 good shape, blnd/brn.
mostly btm. uninhibited, >submissive. hot. lets
do it. u on manhunt?
[Posted:
March 16, 2005]
FEEDBACK
PERMALINK
Dorme
com os anjos,
Sonha comigo
Roy was dreaming about the 80s again. That was always
a bad sign.
He
was wearing a Joy Division t-shirt, black baggie Bugle
Boy pants and Converse hi-tops -- he was on the Metro
in D.C., heading north on the red line, and everyone
on the train was naked. Including the conductor. He
was dressed.
And
the whole ride, people were looking at him like he had
the plague. Who is this guy with clothes on?
And to just turn further inward - like he always did
- he turned the volume up to the max on his Walkman,
and the
music
was
blaring.
Suddenly,
in the dream, he got a page. It was his friend Luigi
-- the gay Italian friend who was going to school in
Marburg, (West) Germany who he'd met backpacking through
Europe in the summer of 1987. It was a reminder:
"Tell
them to fuck off!"
He
wanted to laugh, but he didn't, in the dream. Then suddenly
he felt someone standing very close next to him on the
train. It was this guy who was bending over, about to
kiss him.
And
Roy awoke to Clancy licking his face.
It
startled him, and as his eyes tried to focus without
his glasses, he could see Clancy looking intently at
him -- ears sort of pineappled back, glistening eyes,
tail wagging slightly.
"Good
morning, dear." (Kevin, from the kitchen. Coffee
was brewing.)
Roy
was waking up on Kevin's couch.
It
was that strange moment when you don't know where you
are, or why, or if the dream was over yet.
"Are
you awake?" (Kevin)
"Uhh....."
Roy
reached out and petted Clancy -- who was still trying
to get at his face -- and reached for his glasses. Then
he could see Kevin, in his robe, standing in the kitchen
washing dishes.
"Wakey
wakey..."
"What
time is it?"
"It's
8 o'clock, so you're fine..."
Am
I fine? What day is it? OMG it's Wednesday...I have
to work. Where are my things....?
"Want
some coffee?" (Kevin)
Roy
sat straight up. He was in his underwear, and all of
Kevin's shades were wide open, facing out not only on
the circular "piazza" of his all-too-voyeuristic
building, but on everything west of 13th street in downtown
Washington.
"Uhh....I
gotta get outta here..."
"You
said last night that you weren't going in until 10 today..."
Fuck!
I was going to get tested and go in late!
"Um,
yeah..."
"...So
don't worry. You got time."
And
in a whirl of panic and hangover pain and gastric nausea
and exhaustion and dehydration, Roy then took a quick
breath. And didn't react.
He
just decided to look around for a moment. Waking up
in Kevin's living room. He hadn't done it in years.
"Hey,
it's funny waking up here." (Roy)
"Yeah,
it is. Clancy was wondering where you've been."
(Handing him a cup of coffee.)
"How
long has it been anyway?"
"Since
you moved into the city. This might be the first time
you've stayed here. I think the last time was in Dupont.
You haven't had a need to crash around here since you
got your place, so..."
"That's
right."
He
took a sip -- it was that really good Brazilian coffee
Kevin always made.
"And
you're in luck. I picked up all my dry cleaning yesterday
afternoon."
It
dawned on him again why he liked staying at Kevin's
over the other available places in Logan Circle, back
when he was a resident of the Hinterlands. Kevin and
Roy were the same height, and had the same waist and
neck sizes. As long as Roy wore a belt and a pair of
dress shoes out the night before, he'd be fresh and
dressed for work the next day without a doubt.
"You
will not believe the dream I was having..."
"Really?
Was Mike Kansen's throat involved?"
Roy
laughed. That was Mike Kansen on the dancefloor at Cobalt
the previous night. The 28 year-old nuclear analyst
at the Pentagon with the most insatiable mouth in town.
Kevin brought out a plate of toast and jam.
"No,
although now I think I'll just daydream about Mike Kansen's
throat...."
"Hehe
well, he was looking big, hot, drunk and horny as always
last night..."
"No,
it was me, on a train of naked people, heading up to
Tenleytown on the Metro, and it was the 80s.."
"Oh
God, at least they were naked..." he munched
a piece of toast "...no leggins or ankle-warmers..."
"The
funny part, though, was this part that reminded me of
this friend I had in Europe, like, a million years ago.
This really funny guy named Luigi. I met him on a train
in Germany, we were heading back west from Berlin together,
and we met these other people who put us up in some
small college town for the night. And they took us to
this gym where we could work out. And three of us guys
went into the sauna part, which was like this huge,
elaborate spa inside the gym -- and it was all unisex.
Men, women, kids. Everyone stark naked."
"This
was the dream?"
"No,
this was real. This happened back when I was, like,
a freshman. When I took that summer trip."
"Oh
yeah.."
"So
Luigi was really shy and wouldn't get naked, so he walked
around in the spa wearing a bathing suit. And this German
woman -- middle aged, really ugly, big hairy bush and
armpits and everything, comes over and starts yelling
at him in German about how shameful it was that he wasn't
naked. How he was making everyone feel uncomfortable.
How he should respect people when he visits their country.
And he was going to school in Germany at the time, and
he looked really really Italian, you know. And so he
just tells this woman -- in English -- to fuck off!
And it was a riot!"
"Wow,
did she get madder?"
"No
actually, I think she suddenly had some grudging respect
for him and walked away."
"Yeah,
Germans respect snarling replies..."
"Hahah,
yeah.."
"So
was she in the dream?"
"Well,
you know, she coulda gotten on at Cleveland Park or
something, and I didn't notice..." (laughs)
"Were
you also mad that Luigi wasn't naked?"
"Oh
my God, yes. I wanted him so bad. And he was gay, it
turns out! I didn't know until we wrote each other letters
later that year. He was going to visit me in Philadelphia
that Christmas, but we lost touch and I never heard
from him again."
"Aww.."
"So,
no. Luigi sent me this text message or something in
the dream. I was looking around at the naked people,
and I felt so totally out of place being clothed. And
they were giving me these dirty looks. And the message
was - tell them to fuck off..."
(They
laughed.)
"That's
great..." (Kevin)
"Pass
the jam..."
"I'll
make more toast..."
Kevin
got up and realized he hadn't dreamed that night.
Maybe it was the booze, who knows. But he hadn't dreamed
in his sleep in a while. Probably for weeks. It seemed
as if when he'd start dreaming a lot, things were going
well in his life. When he wasn't, things were going
badly. Or he wasn't sleeping well enough.
It
was so great to have Roy there, he thought. He missed
those days when everyone was single, and everyone slept
over and woke up together and gossiped and chatted.
When they were all poor or struggling, and spent more
time in each other's personal spaces.
It's
funny how success seemed to put more distance out there.
Or maybe age. The desire to conquer more territory --
everyone living in their own places, having very different
styles and tastes, coming and going as they pleased
-- it was something Kevin worked hard to get. But it
was so damn lonely sometimes.
He
liked waking up with people around to talk to. Like
when he was doing the group house thing through a good
part of the 90s.
It
was better than boyfriends, too. More honesty. Less
awkward silences.
And
he thought about Roy coming over the previous week on
that awful afternoon, when he was crying over the stupid
shirt. And over his little business speed bumps. And
over Dane.
And
how long and far away that afternoon seemed. He'd already
begun feeling a sense of loss around Dane, who had been
pulling away from him emotionally for so many weeks
that when it dawned on him how distant they'd become,
it was as if it was already over before they'd even
talked about it.
Talking
about it was the right thing to do, of course. In particular
since Dane operated in a cocoon of silence as a general
principle, something long a custom in his life. But
when Kevin pulls in his oars, it usually meant that
the boat was heading quickly down river and he was done
fighting the current.
Roy
was there. He was always there, strangely enough, at
the crisis moments. Not that he wanted to be. He just
seemed to always stumble into them.
"Hey,
have you gotten a text message from Elaine this morning?"
(Kevin)
"Umm..."
he fumbled with his cell, pulling it out of the pockets
of his pants on the floor "...no."
"Wow,
Christopher really put her in her place last night,
poor dear."
Roy
wrinkled his brow. There was indeed a text message on
there -- from Matt.
3/23
2:06am
MESSAGE from
Matt
E & Co were on
crack 2nite
"Oh
no, what happened?" (Roy)
"You
don't remember, do you...?"
"I
think I do...I know she was there."
"Oh
she was there, all right..."
Then
it came back to Roy - the drunken haze was finally lifting.
Elaine showed up with two other girls on her way from
Cafe Milano, where she never goes. She'd imbibed a bit
more than normal for her -- and she never traveled in
a female pack. Perhaps the estrogen levels were raging,
but she'd had quite a mouth on her that night.
Christopher,
they'd all begun to learn as his romance with Matt deepened,
was very witty and economical with the put-downs. They
usually got whispered to Matt, provoking chuckles they
wouldn't share. But now he was loosening his belt a
little with the rest of the boys, and they were starting
to rip more publicly.
The
Christopher-Elaine bout of March 22nd was, perhaps,
his debut as a heavyweight champion. As none of the
rest of them had ever had the nerve to get in the ring
with her when she crossed a line (albeit - it was rare
for her, but no one is ever immune to it, certainly
not in this circle of people - and justice should be
blind...)
In
she flounced that night -- she didn't dance in, she
didn't march in. She didn't act like herself. She was
in full-scale bitch mode. In a black Zara number with
Seychelles sandals. Flouncing.
Then
she lit up a cigarette, which was very out of character,
and started complaining about the music and the crowd.
It was retro night, during Spring Break, so the music
was going to be bad without question, and the crowd
was going to be young, gay and stupid. She knew the
programming. What did she expect?
Kevin
and Roy could both tell that she was having an off night,
but Christopher didn't know Elaine well enough to tune
her out. And the strain was showing on his face. Matt
was off chatting with people from the neighborhood who
wanted to complain to him about trash pickup or something,
and get the ANC to do something about it, so poor Christopher
had no outlet to whisper-vent to.
"Gay
guys just settle for the lamest shit sometimes,"
she hissed to one of her unspeaking mannequin friends,
who were constantly checking their little cell phones
for messages from other outposts of the night around
town. "This whole neighborhood is going to hell."
Roy
remembered being really drunk, and downing another vodka
cranberry, giggling and nudging Kevin, who was trying
not to pay attention. And they both saw Christopher
wincing, his patience growing thinner and thinner.
"...There's
one.." (she pointed at Tyson, aka Ticen, this
silly blond kid who had quite a scandal sheet history
that everyone knew about) "..who could use
the Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset.."
Christopher's
eyes bugged out of his head. Not only had she said it
loud, but she'd insulted Paris Hilton. He wasn't very
tolerant of that. (And while they always ragged on poor
Tyson aka Ticen, they had the good sense to do it quietly.)
Then,
poor, dear Elaine stepped right in it.
One
of the mannequins then opened her mouth: "No, Lulu
has it first..." And Elaine laughed.
That
was it.
Christopher
turned on his heel.
"Look
who's talking, bitch," he said, without a moment's
pause. "What are you even doing here?"
The
mannequin displayed a look of shock, like she'd just
been shot, stuffed and taxidermied -- arms bent like
in a Bloomingdale's catalogue for gold-diggers.
"And
you," Christopher said to Elaine, "who are
you supposed to be tonight, Ken in drag?"
Kevin
and Roy had fun acting it out for the third time --
there in the living room amidst the coffee and the remnants
of toast. They laughed their heads off, trying to replicate
the look of utter shock -- indeed, approaching Bette
Davis heights -- that erupted across Elaine's face at
that moment she turned, blew out a lung full of smoke,
and flounced right out the door of Cobalt. Mannequins
in tow.
She'd
violated a tribal law of gaydom: don't ever allow a
member of your circle of friends to be trashed by heteros
in your presence. Ever.
You
could diss each other all you wanted among family, but
outside trashing -- particularly involving someone as
dear as Lulu -- was inexcusable. Those bitches had no
right to come into Cobalt like that and make trouble.
And Elaine was responsible. She should have known better.
"That
Christopher is a scream," Roy said.
"I
know, it was one for the books."
It
was 8:25 a.m.
Roy
would not make it to the clinic for the HIV test now,
not unless he hurried.
He
looked around at Kevin's living room. At Clancy sitting
out on the terrace by himself, looking out over Logan
Circle like a lion on a hill. And he looked at Kevin,
who was loading dishes and cups into the dishwasher.
Who was about to lend him a suit for the whole day.
His friend for the past nine years or more.
And
he opened his mouth. He wanted to say it.
"Kev.."
"What,
honey..?"
"I
have to tell you something."
"What
is it?"
"The
other day, when you were talking about you and Dane
and everything you had to deal with, I wanted to tell
you this so much."
"What?"
"I
was calling you that day, in fact, to ask you for a
favor."
"What?"
"I
need to get an HIV test. It's been a while. Will you
come with me?"
"Of
course I will. When?"
"Well,
there's a slot open this morning at 8:45, but we'll
never make that."
"OK,
when is the next one..."
"Listen...."
Silence.
"Are
you okay?"
"Well,
have you heard about Jack Finney?"
"About
his ODing? Sean told me that John saw it out in the
parking lot of his building."
"Yeah,
well, it wasn't the first time he'd OD'd."
"Oh?"
"He
OD'd on G at Confession
in Paris. And I took care of him."
"OK...."
(where is this going?)
"And
he took me back to the room and fucked my brains out
all day. He's why I missed flight home."
"Wow,
really? Well done, baby. Good reason..."
"No,
you don't have to high-five me..."
"Well...."
"Elaine
found out that he tested positive like almost a month
ago, and that it looks like he probably infected some
other people, who will probably be getting phone calls
from the people tracing his partners or whatever..."
"How
do they know that?"
"Cuz
he told them, he didn't use condoms."
"Did
you?"
Roy
swallowed really hard.
"No,
we didn't."
Kevin's
stomach turned over.
"Oh
my God..."
"I
haven't told anybody this. Not even Elaine. I lied to
her. I told her we used condoms."
"Holy
shit, Roy."
"Yeah.
Holy shit is right."
"Why?"
"We
were fucked up! He was fucked up. I wanted him, you
knew that. And you know how these things happen..."
Kevin
turned completely white. Roy was shaking.
"Get
your clothes on right now. We're going."
[Posted:
March 24, 2005]
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