The Desperates

by Greg Kearney

  6

  IT’S THE NICEST HOUSE JOEL has ever seen. Much nicer than the Wallis’s big house in Kenora; their house looked a little bit like a truck stop. This house, Edmund’s house, is an old mansion mostly hidden by huge trees. The doorbell makes a stately sound that seems to come from the top of the building. Could there be a bell tower? Are there bell towers in Toronto?

  Edmund has big, dazed eyes, grey skin, a small chin. His shirt is partly unbuttoned, revealing a hairless chest. He appears to be a thin man with a slight paunch, but it’s hard to tell with the billowy black shirt and soft lighting. He welcomes Joel inside with a kind, narcotic voice.

  Joel compliments Edmund on his lovely home. Edmund looks around like he has never seen the place before. He apologizes for Miguel’s sloppy paint job. Joel smiles. He doesn’t know what Edmund is talking about but he speaks so gently about everything that Joel can’t help but be wooed.

  “I’d show you the rest of the house,” Edmund says, “but the rest of the house is being renovated. Or it will be, soon. Really I just don’t want to do all that walking, and showing. Do you want a drink? I’m a recovering alcoholic but I keep a full bar. Which probably isn’t shrewd, I know.”

  “I don’t know very much about mixed drinks. Umm. What did you drink, when you were drinking?”

  “That’s not a good question to ask an alcoholic who’s about to pour a drink.”

  “Really? Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

  “I was kidding. How about a Stella?”

  Joel nods.

  Edmund pries the cap off, hands Joel the beer. They move into the living room.

  “What do you do when you’re not indulging horrible men like me on the phone?”

  “I —” Joel stops. “Wait. Can I put my hand on, like, your shoulder?”

  “Do you feel unsteady?”

  “No. I just wanted to make contact to, like, get that out of the way. Is that dumb?”

  “Not at all. That’s very charming. Why don’t you put your hand on my shoulder, and I’ll put my hand on your shoulder?”

  “Really? That would be great.”

  Edmund puts his right hand on Joel’s left shoulder; Joel puts his right hand on Edmund’s left shoulder.

  “This feels slightly like a Girl Guide ritual,” Edmund says.

  “I know. Well, I don’t know; I wasn’t in Girl Guides. But I wanted to be. This is still really nice. I haven’t done a lot with men. Or women. I actually haven’t even gone all the way with someone yet. Does that make me a virgin?”

  “Do you feel like a virgin?”

  “Um. Which is the sexier answer?”

  “The honest one.”

  “Right. Yeah, I guess I do feel like a virgin. It’s so hard not to sing the whole song when I say ‘like a virgin’!”

  Edmund chuckles. Joel wishes his taste in music wasn’t so mainstream. He should’ve made a joke about Leonard Cohen or someone like that.

  “My arm is getting kind of tired,” Edmund says. “Let’s sit on the sofa.”

  They sit. Opposite the sofa is a painting of a younger-looking Edmund sitting on a log on a beach beside another guy, blond with big teeth. They look very happy. Joel sinks.

  “Is that your life partner? He’s very good-looking.”

  “Dean? Yes, my life partner. He’s been gone for many years now, unfortunately.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Can I — Did he pass away from, like, HIV/ AIDS?”

  “Just AIDS will suffice. Yes, he did. I very nearly did, myself.”

  Edmund is an AIDS survivor! He hasn’t met one before. The devastation he must have experienced … incalculable loss … Joel senses the ghost of his beautiful, brave, fallen forefather, Don. Dean.

  “Sorry,” Edmund says in the silence. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

  “What? No! Not at all! I’m just so blown away and moved by what you’ve been through. I can’t imagine. It was such a devastating chapter of gay history.”

  “Hmm. You sound like a tour guide! Progress has been made, definitely, but AIDS isn’t over.”

  “No! Yes, I totally agree. I just don’t have much first-hand knowledge. We rented Longtime Companion and I totally cried. My mom was like, ‘You must not get AIDS, that is not an option, if you do I will be super pissed, do you understand?’ And I was like, ‘Message totally delivered!’ But I’d love to hear your narrative from start to finish, if you feel like sharing.”

  Edmunds puts a hand on Joel’s head. “That’s sweet. It’s very difficult to talk about with someone who wasn’t there. At some point, in the future. Maybe.”

  “I love that you think we might have a future in some way. And I love your hand on my head.”

  Edmund strokes Joel’s thick, greasy hair. Why didn’t he wash his hair before he came over? Maybe Edmund will perceive the greasiness as silkiness.

  “Sometimes,” Joel says with heavy eyelids, “I think I’d be happy just being a housewife.”

  Edmund’s hand goes still. Joel regrets the housewife comment. He doesn’t want Edmund to think that he is unambitious, or that he is proposing marriage after ten minutes. “When I say ‘housewife,’” he qualifies, “I mean that I have a lot of domestic energy. I could see myself having, like, a house-cleaning business.”

  Edmund nods, still displeased. “You’re awfully young to resign yourself to being a scrubwoman. What is your dream for yourself?”

  “I don’t know. Fame? Or acclaim of some sort? We can, like, lie down together if you want.”

  Edmund laughs. “Your ardour is moving. It’s not necessary, though. I’m enjoying just sitting here chatting with you.”

  “Is it me? I know I’m hideous. My hair isn’t silky, it’s really greasy.”

  The hand falls from Joel’s head.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so gross. I’m getting better about hygiene. I’m sorry.”

  “Is it important to you that we lie down together?”

  “No! Yes. Kind of. I’m sorry I’m so needy.”

  “Please stop apologizing. If anything is hideous, it’s the constant apologizing, not you.” Clearly Edmund has no interest in intimacy with Joel, but he’s too tactful to kick him out. Or too tired, possibly. Joel should graciously remove himself. He puts his hand on Edmund’s knee instead. Edmund takes hold of Joel’s right index finger and stands.

  “Let’s go lie down then, dirty boy.”

  They climb the red-carpeted stairs. There is an onyx sculpture on a table at the top of the stairs, a seated woman with her severed head in her lap.

  The bedroom features more gorgeous furniture, big pieces the likes of which Joel has only seen in those Barbara Walters specials where she goes to famous people’s houses and makes them cry. Joel feels like a coarse intruder, the maid who sprays herself with fancy perfumes while the rich people are away on vacation. Edmund hoists himself onto his king-sized bed. He pats the spot beside him. Joel hesitates.

  “You’ve probably had a lot of lovers, I guess.”

  “A few.”

  “So you’re probably, like, a real student of male beauty.”

  “Ha. A student of male beauty. I suppose. Aren’t we all?”

  Joel smiles, not listening. “Where would you say I rank on your list?”

  “There is no list. You’re a very attractive boy.”

  “Thanks. I just haven’t had very much affirmation. Would you … would you say that I’m attractive enough to be, like, a prostitute?”

  Edmund is visibly tiring. Joel is even annoying himself, but he can’t stop. “Joe — Joel,” Edmund sighs. “First of all, beauty and prostitution do not invariably go hand-in-hand. There are some stunningly ugly hustlers out there, making a good living, too. And — you’ve really got to ease up on yourself. Life is too short … but it can also be too long. Either
way, you’ve got to … come on up on this bed now.”

  Joel draws breath to speak but stops. He shuffles toward the bed.

  “Let’s take our clothes off,” Edmund says, undoing his shirt. Joel steps out of his pants, hesitates with his shirt, pulls it off slowly. He scales the bed in socks and boxers.

  “All the way,” Edmund says, now naked. Joel quickly pulls off his underwear. Edmund points at Joel’s socks. Joel takes them off, cringing at the sight of his unkempt toenails. He throws himself on the bed. Edmund runs his hand up and down Joel’s torso, hovering just shy of contact, as though his hand were a metal detector. “See,” he says, “isn’t this nice?”

  “I’m so nervous. My face is numb. Have you ever had such good sex that you both start weeping?”

  “Not really. Good sex doesn’t tend to end in tears. Gay sex, anyway. I think you need to stop listening to Roberta Flack’s greatest hits.”

  “I don’t have Roberta Flack’s — oh! Ha ha! I have so much admiration for the really gritty humour of the longterm survivor. It’s so great.”

  Edmund puts his hand over Joel’s mouth. “Stroke your dick,” he says. This command is startling but not unsexy. Joel strokes his cock, which slowly hardens as he grows more turned on.

  “There we go,” says Edmund admiringly. “What a nice cock. How does that feel?”

  “Familiar. Nice. Can I touch your cock?”

  “You don’t have to, but yes.”

  Joel wraps his other hand around Edmund’s flaccid-but-massive cock. He pumps it feverishly. Edmund’s face doesn’t change. Nor does his cock. “That old thing!” Edmund laughs, waving at his dick dismissively.

  “It’s gigantic, Edmund. It’s so, so big. It’s like a dream, it’s dreamy. You must have so many guys clamouring for it.”

  “Not really. Not now, anyway. It’s more like an objet now. I’ve never been really connected to it. Let’s take a gander at your rosebud.” Edmund scooches down; only when his face is right in front of Joel’s ass does Joel realize what a rosebud is.

  “I don’t know if I can deal. I’ve never looked at my anus. It might be really unsightly.”

  “Impossible. I love ass. It’s my favourite thing. Spread for me, baby.”

  Joel splays his legs apart, and parts his lumpy buttocks warily.

  “I apologize for any residual feces you may encounter.”

  Edmund’s mouth falls open. He snorts with laughter. “You must be joking. You do not talk about feces when a guy is about to rim you.”

  “Right. I’m sorry. It’s just that you may encounter feces.”

  “You may also encounter vomit during a kiss, but it’s not something you announce. Not sexy.”

  “You’re so right. I’m sorry.” Why can’t he relax into inchoate sensuality? Here is a smart, kind man with an enormous penis, about to give him his first rim job, and he’s prattling on about dried shit! Shut up! Edmund’s tongue touches Joel’s hole. Joel gasps. Nice. Yes. Nice.

  “Oh my God you’re totally rimming me. It’s so great. Oh wow. Thank you so much.”

  His tongue goes deeper. Joel opens to him. Edmund starts sighing, all sexy.

  “Stroke your dick, boy,” he hisses into Joel’s ass. Joel obeys. Suddenly there’s not so much to say.

  When he comes his body seizes and releases — this is it! Here it is! This! — again and again, and his arms and legs start shaking like that lady with Parkinson’s who owns the thrift store in Kenora. Edmund comes up to kiss him. Joel puts a shaking hand to Edmund’s face.

  “That was, like, astonishing.”

  “I enjoyed it.”

  “You’re so nice. I’m so happy.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Can I sleep over?”

  Edmund hesitates. Joel wants to die. He has shown his hand, and it’s obviously a grasping hand. He braces for rejection.

  “I don’t know,” Edmund says finally. “Will there be feces in the night?”

  Joel needs a second to discern Edmund’s irony. These adult men with their intricate patter and subtly shaded emotions! Their ease of being, right in the middle of their long, lived lives!

  “I absolutely promise, there will be no feces in the night.”

  His shakes slowly subside. He sleeps in a man’s arms.

  JOEL IS AWAKENED by high morning light; the heavy bedroom drapes have been thrown open. Edmund is not in the room. Joel feels rested, sprightly. He pads around the top floor, looking for Edmund. He happens upon a room filled with armour and multicoloured marabou. It’s a delightful sight, a waking dream, and Joel wonders if the rest of his life will now be similarly delightful. He heads downstairs.

  Edmund is sitting on a small wooden stool in the living room. It looks uncomfortable; it’s something a folksinger would sit on to sing in a coffee house. Comfy couches everywhere, and he chooses to sit on this little stool?

  “I slept so soundly,” Joel says. “I feel great. How did you sleep?”

  “I didn’t, really. After you fell asleep I came down and watched TV. There was a Kate and Allie marathon. I love Jane Curtin. Then I ate a whole package of raw wieners. They were kind of disgusting, but I couldn’t stop myself.”

  Joel tilts his head adoringly. Someone else who sometimes binges on weird food! His head whirls with visions of shared fun.

  “Are we going to hang out today? What do you feel like doing?”

  “I can’t hang out today. No. I have errands to run.”

  “Cool. We can run them together?”

  “No. They’re personal. I need to fill prescriptions.”

  “Okay. No problem. Maybe tonight, then?”

  “Possible, but unlikely. I’m pretty ragged today.”

  Joel decides not to feel rebuffed. Adults have obligations, they get ragged when they don’t sleep well. It can’t all be armour and marabou. Speaking of which —

  “Hey, I went into a room upstairs that had all sorts of armour and marabou in it. What’s that all about?”

  “You went into the armour room. Please do not go snooping in my house.”

  “I wasn’t snooping, honestly. I was just looking for the bathroom.”

  “End of the hall. It’s the red door at the end of the hall.”

  “Got it. Won’t happen again.”

  They are both silent. What can Joel say? There are no inroads to be made; they barely know each other. He can only apologize profusely and hope that Edmund will forgive him in the name of romantic love.

  “I’m sorry,” Edmund offers at last. “That room is full of Dean’s stuff. My lover. He had obsessions. It was very cute. The attic is full of dollhouses. It’s all so beautiful. I’m not sure what to do with it.”

  “It must be impossibly difficult to sort through a loved one’s possessions after they’ve passed away. You know, I’m impartial and have been told I have a good eye — maybe we could sort through his stuff together?”

  Edmund wistfully scans Joel from left to right, as though he was a passing landscape seen from a car. “Thank you for the offer. I really do need to start my day now. Do you have all your belongings?

  “I just need to get dressed.”

  “So let’s do that, and we’ll both be on our way.”

  Edmund starts toward the staircase to indicate forward motion, no time to waste. Joel takes the hint and runs upstairs. How can Edmund be so brusque all of a sudden? He stands and shadows Joel as he gathers his clothes and shoes. Joel tries a final time to make conversation.

  “That lamp by the window — where did you get it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do you hate me suddenly?”

  “I didn’t say I hated you. We had a nice time, and now I have to start my day. I hope to see you again at some point.”

  At the door he gives Joel a bristly peck on the chee
k, presses a twenty into his hand for a taxi, and holds a phantom phone to his ear.

  “I will! I’ll call you tonight!” Joel says as the door closes in his face.

  A thrilling, transformative evening. Last night was the demarcation; there is only Before Last Night and After. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but — his hopes are up. Good gay sex is no longer some damp, unknowable Atlantis. He’s living for good gay sex now. He’s living for the mercurial man who just shooed him out of his house.

  The first pay phone he passes he calls Brenda at work. He gets her voicemail.

  “Hi, Brenda, it’s Joel. I won’t be coming in today. My circumstances have changed, and now the job is no longer compatible with my lifestyle. I can no longer perform sexy, now that real sexy is really real to me. Sorry for all the trouble. You’re a really nice woman. You need to stop relying on food for comfort and really strive for connection with people. If I can do it, you can do it! All the best. Thanks so much.”

  Joel gets home to find two letters slipped under his bedroom door (one of the roommates distributes the mail this way; Joel finds the practice slightly invasive, but he’d never say anything). One is from his mother: not unusual, she’s always mailing little notes and clippings from magazines. The other letter is from his father. He has not received a letter from his father before. The handwriting is unfamiliar; he doesn’t know his own father’s cursive.

  Joel,

  I’m writing to you because if I call, your mom will hear me and get upset. She’s not doing too good. She was coughing bad, bringing up blood, had a lot of pain, got really skinny. This was after Christmas. We got back from the oncologist in Winnipeg this morning. The lungs are full of cancer. It’s in her liver and a little bit in the brain, too. She didn’t want me to tell you. She said to tell you she just needed to get her female parts pulled out. But then what am I going to tell you when she really starts to go downhill?

  They put her on morphine. That’s really helped.

  I wrote to your brother, too. Him and Shary are busy getting ready for the baby. Now is not the time, but I can’t tell you how disappointed we both were that you dropped out of school. Your mom especially. I’m not blaming you for her sickness, but the timing of the two things does make you think. You should come home. I’ll put money in your chequing account for a bus ticket.