Like a Love Story

by Abdi Nazemian

  “He’s married,” I whisper.

  “So were Rock Hudson and Cary Grant,” Art says. “That guy was cruising us hard.”

  We pass a group of men who Art says are probably going to the protest. One reads The Advocate magazine. John Waters is on the cover, gazing out at the reader as if he wants to tell them a secret. Another wears a SILENCE = DEATH T-shirt with a pink triangle on it. Art gives them a nod and keeps moving. As we make our way from one car to the next, he points out one man after another: a young college dude on the train with his buddies, a businessman using his briefcase as a pillow, an old man reading a tattered copy of Walt Whitman. He seems to know by instinct who is gay and who is not, and each time I question him, he tells me that his gaydar is impeccable.

  “Gaydar?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s how I knew about you.”

  What can I say to that? He did know about me, even when I did not want him to. When we get to the end of the last car, we make our way back to our seats.

  “I counted sixteen fags,” he says. “Which puts this train right in line with the world at large, if it’s actually true that ten percent of the world of gay.”

  “Eighteen,” I say.

  “Eighteen what?” he says.

  “You forgot to count us,” I say. “That makes eighteen. . . .”

  He smiles. “Oh, wow. You can’t say the word, but you’re counting yourself as a fag, huh?”

  He leans in close to me, licks my lips, then kisses me. I want to close my eyes, but I don’t. I’m too paranoid about all the eyes on us. I’m sure I see a woman with a bad perm shake her head at us in disgust, and two teenage girls giggling as they whisper in each other’s ears. But Art’s eyes are closed. He doesn’t care what these people think, and that’s what I love most about him. I wish I cared less about other people, and more about myself.

  When he pulls away from me, he holds my hand tight, and I don’t pull away. No one knows us here, and in any case, they all just saw us kiss. We stare into each other’s eyes. The train makes a stop.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask.

  “Not at all,” he says. “Let them arrest me if they want to. I’m ready.”

  “Not for the protest,” I say. “To see Judy.”

  His eyes flutter. He looks down, then out the window, so many trees outside, so many shades of green whizzing past us. “Judy . . . ,” he says. “Yeah . . .”

  “She wouldn’t have agreed to be there if she didn’t want to forgive you,” I say.

  “But she didn’t want to come with us,” he says. “I mean, she’s driving with her mom? Over taking a train with us? Her mom is probably going to play some self-help book-on-tape in the car and make Judy talk about self-improvement and the power of positive thinking.”

  “I love her mom,” I say. “When we were together . . .”

  Art quickly cuts me off. “You and Judy were never together. It wasn’t a real relationship.”

  “I know,” I say. I don’t fight him. I would never stand a chance. But I know in my heart that, despite my lies, Judy and I did have a real relationship. There was true affection there, and laughter, and understanding, and fish pins. I was going to say that when Judy and I were together, her mother was always so welcoming and kind to me, and that those qualities seemed to rub off on Judy. In this moment, I realize that Art’s parents are combative and reactionary, and that some of those qualities have rubbed off on Art.

  “Of course I’m scared,” Art says. “I don’t even know what to say to her anymore. I don’t want to see myself through her eyes. When I think about that, about how she must see me, I hate me too.”

  “I feel the same,” I say. “I hope she forgives me.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “She probably will. But you didn’t know her very long. My betrayal is so much worse.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say, though I can’t help feeling like he doesn’t understand that what I did to Judy, and what I felt for her, matters too.

  “You realize that we’re going be sharing a hotel room,” Art says. “Do you know what that means?”

  “Room service?” I ask, joking nervously.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Definitely room service. And sex. Hotel rooms are basically made for sex.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I read that in a story in some porno magazine once.” After thinking about it some more, he says, “Maybe it’s ’cause the maids change the sheets every day.”

  “Where did you . . .” I stop myself from asking the question on my mind.

  “What?” he says.

  “Where did you get a porno magazine?” I ask.

  Art laughs. He squeezes my thigh. “Oh, Reza. My innocent Reza. The first time I read a porn, I was twelve. I found my dad’s stash of Penthouse and Playboy magazines in the back of his closet. Playboy was pretty much useless to me. But Penthouse has these sex stories in them, and they were very hot because there were men in them.” I find myself getting hard, and he moves his hand to my crotch. “Just covering up the evidence,” he says with a smile.

  “Maybe you could . . . read those stories to me someday. You can’t get AIDS from story time.”

  He laughs. “Any day you want.” He squeezes my erection, and I find myself looking around, wondering who can tell what’s going on. “You’ve never bought a porno mag?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “The gay ones are always hidden at the newsstands. They’re amazing. There’s porn for all kinds of guys. Honcho. Inches. Black Inches. Latin Inches.”

  “What about Iranian guys?” I ask.

  “I think that might be a void in the gay porn market,” he says. “You could fill it by becoming a porn star.”

  “That would make all my mother’s dreams come true, wouldn’t it?” I smile sadly.

  “I can see it now,” he says. “The debut issue of Iranian Inches, with cover star Reza, photographed by me.”

  “Okay,” I say, smiling. As the train rumbles toward Union Station in Washington, I think about our hotel bed. I see me and Art in that bed, taking turns invading each other, helping each other figure out if we are tops or bottoms or both. But then I think . . . what if the maids are lazy and don’t change the sheets? What if the sheets we will be sleeping in have other men’s semen on them, possibly infected? This thought stays with me as we take a cab to the hotel we are staying in, and as we check in, and as we enter the room.

  Art dives onto the bed like it’s a pool, and I have a moment of panic. I want to put those sheets under a microscope and make sure they are clean. But there’s no time for my paranoia to build, because Art leaps back up, takes my hand, and then pulls me onto the bed with him. He kisses me, his tongue exploring every inch of my mouth, his body grinding against mine, sweaty and hot. He’s hard, and I am too. He turns me over onto my back, positioning himself on top of me so that his hardness rubs up against mine. He whispers my name into my ear, and I whisper his name in his, until our names cease to have a meaning, sounding more like moans than anything else. He thrusts faster and faster, until my name becomes more scream than moan, and then he rolls over to the side of me.

  “Wow,” he says. “Guess I won’t be wearing these pants tonight.”

  I notice the gooey stain on his black jeans, and the wetness on my own blue jeans. “Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know that you . . .” I leap off the bed and go to the bathroom. I squeeze some shampoo from a tiny bottle onto a washcloth, get it all wet, and then rub the wetness off my pants. I wash my hands, perhaps too aggressively. I look at myself in the mirror. I tell myself I am okay, that nothing risky happened.

  “You okay in there?” Art asks. “You do realize having two pairs of jeans and two pairs of underwear between us is, like, as safe as abstinence, right?”

  “I know,” I say. And then, closing the door, I add, “I’m going to shower before we meet everyone downstairs.”

  I turn on the shower, take off my clothes, and
get inside. As I touch myself, I imagine Art thrusting on top of me, screaming my name. I close my eyes and let the hot water wash all evidence of my passion away.

  The lobby of the hotel we are staying at looks like it has not been redecorated in a few decades, which gives it an eclectic charm. Art touches everything in the lobby nervously, commenting on the ugly paintings and dirty lampshades. Anything to distract him from how scared he is to see Judy. And then . . . her voice.

  “Art,” she says hesitantly. “Hi, Reza.”

  We both turn at the same time. She wears tight tie-dye leggings with a flowy pink dress over it. A thin black belt, black leather boots, and a black choker complete the look, which is fantastic. She looks incredible. Her mother stands by her side and says hello to us.

  “Thank you for coming,” Art says after we have said our hellos. There’s a humility in his voice I’ve never heard before.

  “I came for Uncle Stephen,” Judy says curtly. “Not for you.”

  Mrs. Bowman flinches when Judy says this. She holds her daughter’s hand for support.

  “I know that,” Art says, masking his hurt. “But we’re still here together.”

  “We’re not together,” Judy says. “I’m here with my mom, and you’re here with Reza.”

  “I know,” Art says. “I just mean, well . . .” If he expected immediate forgiveness, he’s not getting it.

  “You look great, Judy,” I say, and already I want to wipe the stupid smile off my face. I’m trying too hard.

  “Thanks,” Judy says, but she doesn’t sound thankful. She sounds like she hates me. “Though the last time you told me that, you weren’t exactly being honest.”

  “Boys,” Mrs. Bowman says, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Do you know anything about this surprise Stephen told us about? I hate surprises.”

  “He didn’t mention a surprise to us,” Art says, relieved for the change in subject. “What kind of surprise is it?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Mrs. Bowman says. “Because if it’s something like throwing grenades or lying down in front of traffic . . .”

  “It has nothing to do with the protest,” a voice says. It’s Jimmy. We all turn to see him behind us, in a maroon velvet jacket over a T-shirt and jeans. Jimmy gives each of us a big hug, and then he addresses the surprise again. “Stephen worked hard to arrange something for us to do tonight that he thought would be meaningful and, perhaps, would bring back happier days.”

  “For us?” Mrs. Bowman asks. “Isn’t he joining us?”

  “Stephen couldn’t make it,” Jimmy says sadly. “And trust me, I was going to stay behind with him, but he insisted I be here. He said if I don’t storm the NIH for him, he would never forgive me, and you all know that he is a very hard man to say no to.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Bowman says. “Why couldn’t he make it? The doctor said he could go back home.”

  “Is he okay?” Judy asks, her voice trembling.

  Jimmy can’t answer that question without his eyes welling up with tears. He turns away from us for a moment, and then he says, “Look, he’s been better, but he’ll bounce back. He has before. And he wants photos of tonight. I promised him that, Art, so you better snap the hell out of all the glamour, girl.”

  “What glamour?” Art asks. “We’re in Bethesda.”

  Jimmy reaches into the inside pocket of his velvet jacket and pulls out an envelope. He hands it to me, of all people. “He thought you should open it, Reza.”

  My hand shakes as I hold the envelope. “Me?” I ask. Why did he want me to open it? I’m the least important person here, the one with the weakest connection to Stephen. Why me?

  “Well, go ahead, Reza,” Mrs. Bowman says. “You’d think my brother would know that surprises just give me knots in my stomach.”

  I tear open the envelope and tickets fall out onto the floor. Six of them. I pick them up and stare at them, and my eyes zero in on a single word: Madonna. And then: Blond Ambition Tour. Capital Centre. Landover, Maryland. My heart races.

  “Oh. My. God,” I say in disbelief.

  “And by God, you mean Madonna,” Art says, wrapping his arms around me with excitement. “Holy shit, holy shit!” he adds for emphasis.

  “Bartholomew, language,” Mrs. Bowman scolds him.

  “I can’t believe it,” Judy says, beaming. I can see her fighting against her excitement, not wanting to seem too happy in front of us. “We’re going to see Madonna. Live. In person. Like, she’ll be in front of us.”

  “Breathing the same air,” Art adds.

  For a moment, we’re united in our joy. Then Mrs. Bowman looks over to Jimmy. “Is the show appropriate for children? Wasn’t she just arrested in Canada for . . .”

  “Mom,” Judy says, annoyed. “She masturbates on-stage, big deal.”

  Mrs. Bowman flinches. And then, with a shrug, she says, “Well, at least masturbation is safe sex.” I could not agree more.

  “Guess that means we’re all going to see Madonna!” Judy squeals.

  Art hugs me, jumping up and down with excitement. “We’re. Going. To. See. Madonna.” He says each word like it deserves its very own punctuation mark.

  Art, Judy, and I start singing, We’re going to see Madonna, we’re going to see Madonna . . .

  Jimmy, amused, takes the tickets back and hands one to each of us. We realize that the sixth ticket won’t be used. It’s Stephen’s ticket, and Jimmy suggests that we find a nice queen to give the ticket to outside the show.

  The venue is mobbed when we get there. So many people, mostly women and gay men. Madonna T-shirts everywhere. Jelly bracelets. Girls with their bras on over their T-shirts. Boys in blond wigs with a long ponytail reaching down their spines. Desperate fans asking anyone if they have an extra ticket. As we try to decide who to give the ticket to, Art says, “Imagine playing Count the Fags here. The game would never end.”

  “What did you say, Bartholomew?” Mrs. Bowman asks.

  “Oh, nothing, it’s just a game that we . . .”

  “There’s nothing funny about using a word like that,” she snaps back before Art can finish. The edge in her voice reminds me that Mrs. Bowman is as angry at me and Art as Judy is. She is Judy’s mother, her protector.

  “I’m reclaiming the . . .”

  Again, she doesn’t let him finish. “You know what, Art? I heard that word hissed at my brother like a dagger throughout his childhood, and I don’t want to hear it ever again. So if you’re going to reclaim it, wait until I’m not around.”

  I await Art’s know-it-all response, but to my surprise, he simply says, “Deal.”

  “That’s the one,” Jimmy says. “Look at him.” Jimmy points to a teenage boy, probably my age, wearing a white mohair sweater that swims on him like a dress. The sweater has a pink and yellow geometric design on it, and he pairs it with tight white pants and white platform boots. His black hair is pulled back in a long ponytail, and a crucifix dangles from his headband. I wish I had the confidence to dress like him. He clomps around, asking anyone if they have a ticket.

  “I approve of his fashion sense,” Judy says. “That sweater is like Saint Laurent meets a suburban Christmas party. It’s fabulous.”

  “Then you do the honors,” Jimmy says, handing Judy the extra ticket.

  We approach the boy together, and Judy puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, I’m Judy,” she says. “First of all, I’m obsessed with your style. But more importantly, would you like a ticket to the show?”

  “Yeah, but I only have fifty bucks,” he says.

  “It’s free,” Judy says.

  The boy’s eyes open wide in disbelief. He hugs Judy and practically yells out, “I think I’m in love with you.”

  “Just what she needs,” Jimmy says drolly. “Another queen in love with her.”

  We head in with our new sixth, whose name is Mario, and who was born in Mexico, and who has not spoken to his parents since they found him in his mother’s heels. He left home a
nd moved to Washington, DC, where he lives with a cousin of his who works at a newspaper there. Before he left home, he packed all his mom’s best clothes to take with him.

  We awkwardly circle around each other as we decide who will sit where. Jimmy goes in first, and then Mrs. Bowman enters, and then Mario enters. Judy goes in next, and then me, and then Art. I’m in between the two of them, feeling the tension.

  “Hey,” I say to Mario, leaning over. “What’s your favorite Madonna song?”

  “‘Gambler,’” he says. “It’s so underrated.”

  “Mine is the one that’s named after me,” Jimmy says.

  “Yeah, but ‘Jimmy, Jimmy’ is, like, her worst song,” Art says, with love.

  “Which still makes it better than everyone else’s best song,” Mario says.

  “Fair point,” Art concedes.

  Madonna is a safe topic of discussion, and so we talk about our favorite looks, hairdos, videos. Everyone seems engaged in the conversation except Mrs. Bowman, who confesses that despite liking that she’s a strong woman, she doesn’t “get Madonna.”

  And then the lights dim, and in an instant, the crowd goes wild, no one more than me. We scream in unison, like a tsunami of sound that we are sending over to the stage, which practically vibrates with energy like a mating call. We are calling our goddess to us. Lights flash. An electronic beat begins. An industrial stage is revealed. Male dancers with sculpted bodies appear onstage, chains around them. And then, SHE is in front of us. Singing “Express Yourself.” No, she’s in front of me, because there’s no one else in this room but me and Madonna. I cannot take my eyes off her for the first half of the song. But midway through, Judy bumps into me. She dances, feels the energy. And we look at each other, both singing along. A moment passes between us. Maybe she, like me, remembers wearing that “Express Yourself” lingerie, and how horribly that turned out for us. By the time the next song, “Open Your Heart,” begins, I can feel something in Judy thawing, like the song is literally opening her heart. Judy smiles at me, a smile of forgiveness and empathy, a smile full of history. Here in this stadium, we are dancing, we are singing, we are forgiven, we are glowing, we are understood.