The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart

by R. Zamora Linmark

  Ran is lying on his stomach, his face buried in my pillow.

  I am on my back with my eyes to the ceiling.

  The two of us catching our breath.

  Then he flops his arm across my chest, his hand gently pat-pat-patting my face.

  I turn to my side, tap him on his buzzed head, my palm bouncing lightly against the prickly ends of his day-old hair.

  He lies on his side, his eyes fixed on me while mine try to wander off. But, like a refrain to a song, they always return to his gaze. We lie there, face to face, our bodies barely touching, just lying very still and listening to our breathing that can’t seem to slow down, defying silence with the sound of two thousand hummingbird heartbeats.

  He smiles.

  I smile.

  He winks.

  I blink.

  He squeezes his face shut.

  I wrinkle mine.

  He closes his eyes. He lies there, very still, and with his shaven head, he looks like a newborn baby who wakes up to greet the world, then returns back to sleep.

  Eyes still shut, he takes my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine, then buries our clasp under his cheek.

  He pretends to be asleep, my hand pillowing his dream.

  He doesn’t let go.

  I don’t let him.

  The two of us waiting for the calm before a de-lovely storm.

  The First Certainty

  MONDAY, 7 MARCH. LATE NIGHT. MY BEDROOM.

  ME: I think I’m going…I don’t know…Am I…Is this how it’s supposed to…What…If I…Oh, forget it.

  OSCAR: Heavens to Betsy, Ken Z.

  ME: Who’s Betsy?

  OSCAR: Never mind—she’s dead. But, dear heart, why am I being summoned to the palace of your imagination at such an ungodly hour?

  ME: I can’t sleep, Oscar.

  OSCAR: Insomnia seems to track me down wherever I am.

  ME: It’s my mind, Oscar. It doesn’t want to stop thinking—about him! It doesn’t want to stop remembering.

  OSCAR: Ah! Do you want it to stop?

  ME: Not really. But I’m going hazy-dizzy-crazy. Am I?

  OSCAR: Passion makes one think in a circle, Ken Z.

  ME: Mine is a three-ring circus.

  OSCAR: Marvelous.

  ME: These past two nights felt like that: my mind twirling, my heart skipping, the hours speeding so fast, like I’m on a bullet train to the moon. Is this normal? Or is this the speed of madness?

  OSCAR: Such is the atmosphere of Desire, dear heart. It can be neither contained nor controlled. It doesn’t know how. It’s not meant to be still. It has to roam, drift, follow its whimsical and restless nature.

  ME: So I don’t have a choice?

  OSCAR: None, I’m afraid. No choice but to surrender and follow its moody and wild ways.

  ME: What if it stops?

  OSCAR: Think no such thoughts, dear boy. Desire cannot—and should not—be tampered with. Don’t mar this wonderful haziness, Ken Z. Roll and laugh and sing with it. I know you can. You are brilliant and imaginative and de-lovely. Enjoy these blissful moments of uncertainty.

  ME: Blissful? Uncertainty?

  OSCAR: Mais oui. Uncertainty is the very essence of romance. It makes the heart of your story more interesting, exhilarating, mysterious.

  ME: Terrifying.

  OSCAR: As it should! Elements that are richly lacking in literature nowadays. The Messy Room of Uncertainty traded off for the Royal Palace of Scripted Anxieties.

  ME: Uncertainty is the very essence of romance.

  OSCAR: Yes, dear heart. It is its very essence.

  ME: I’ll keep that in mind, Oscar. Merci beaucoup.

  OSCAR: My pleasure, dear boy.

  Seven Steps to Eternity

  Friday, 8 March

  Tonight is the night of firsts.

  It’s the first time I slick back my hair and put on my brand-new pair of ankle-length pants to go with my checkered polo shirt.

  It’s the first time I wear my shirt with the top button undone.

  It’s the first time I smile in front of the mirror and a stranger who looks like the spitting image of me smiles back.

  And if I want to, I can go back to Mirage and bunbury again—this time, with the confidence of a high-powered advertising executive.

  It’s the first time another guy stands beside me in front of the mirror and looks straight at my reflection.

  It’s the first time I feel the lightness of meaning.

  It’s the first time anyone has taken this much interest in me, not counting CaZZ and Estelle.

  It’s the first time a guy asks me if I’ve ever kissed someone.

  I want to run out of my room.

  Out of this world.

  I don’t.

  It’s the first time fear has worked in my favor.

  How can I possibly answer Ran’s question? What do I know about kissing, except from the Chet Baker song my mom plays late at night soon after she gets home from work? The one where Chet, in his raspy, love-tired voice, sings about lips that taste of kissing.

  The answer’s easy. Two-letter word, yet the most difficult one to say, and hear. Steering my eyes away from his gaze, my voice finally cracks a “no.” After that, all I want to do is dive deep into one of the underwater volcanoes that surround our island.

  And it’s right then that I finally realize his hand is folded over mine. He’s done it again. He’s taken my hand while my mind went wandering off, tightening his grasp as I’m about to pull away.

  “Just a little longer, Ken Z,” he says. “Please.”

  Then he gives me one of those nervous smiles you give to the person you like and you hope will like you back.

  “I only wished that it had been, you know…” He pauses as his voice starts to break. “That it mattered. That it began like this,” he continues.

  What mattered? What happened? I want him to tell me so I can understand the sadness in his eyes, and why, suddenly, he became very quiet, his grasp loosening as if he’s retreating into his own world. For a moment, I think he’s going to let go.

  He doesn’t.

  Instead, he unfolds my right hand and, like a web, spreads it over his face, until all I feel are his lips, like gills, pulsing against the cup of my palm. With his hand over mine, he guides them over his brows, his closed eyelids, his cheeks, his mouth breathing into my palm, his warm breath moistening my life lines.

  “Ken Z,” he says, taking my hand from his face and holding it between his hands. “Be random with me.”

  Be random? What does that mean? Be with him? Be spontaneous? Like a Ken Z list unraveling? Like being assaulted by ten thousand thought bubbles at once?

  My heart begins beating rapidly. Like a panther that upon waking from a deep sleep, finds itself trapped inside a cage and starts to grow wild with fury.

  Thank God Oscar Wilde shows up, all dressed up in his dandy outfit and green overcoat, the one with fur trimmings.

  ME: Oscar! Oh, my God, where have you been?

  OSCAR: At Père Lachaise, dear heart, attending to my daily pilgrims. Why, what’s the matter?

  ME: My heart.

  OSCAR: Ah! Temptation!

  ME: What should I do?

  OSCAR: The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it, dear boy. Resist it and your soul will grow sick with longing.

  ME: But I’m scared.

  OSCAR: Fear, Ken Z, is the godchild of beauty and danger. It is Youth being summoned to the witness stand of Experience. Youth—that brief but magnificent and utterly deceiving season in our lives. It doesn’t last very long, so waste it wisely.

  ME: I’m afraid, Oscar. What if—?

  OSCAR: My dear, nothing has to happen if
you don’t want it to. But you are in the midst of your own glorious unfolding. I say surrender and enjoy the pulse of a blossom. How I envy you, Ken Z.

  ME: Envy?

  OSCAR: To be right in the eye of desire.

  ME: It’s all terrifying and confusing.

  OSCAR: It’s all uncertainty and wonderment. And hummingbird heartbeats.

  ME: My heart is ready to jump out of my chest.

  OSCAR: You must let it, Ken Z. Be open to his affections. Such devotion and attention he bestows on you. Puts Zeus and Ganymede, his cupbearer, to shame. But let’s save our words for later. It’s time now for you to feast with panthers.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Be random for me, Ken Z,” Ran says.

  “For you?”

  “For us,” he says.

  “Us?”

  “YES. US.”

  “!!!???” (???!!!)

  My world is suddenly reduced to a fantastic blur.

  Like a cat, he nuzzles my cheek, my neck. He laughs. I laugh.

  The. End.

  Wrong.

  Because, without a warning, he plants a wet smack on my lips.

  And then another.

  I want to pull away, but I’m in too much shock. Totally unprepared. And embarrassed: my lips are chapped.

  I want the night to run away, for us to start all over.

  I can feel my insides turning. My legs weak and rubbery, my hands trembling. My face flushed from embarrassment.

  “Ken Z, it’s okay,” he says, and holds my face. He looks into my eyes and smiles the kind of smile that comforts you before you’re about to cry.

  “Hey, Ken Z—” He wraps his arms around me. I don’t know what to do with my hands, where they’re supposed to go. We stay there, in a one-sided embrace for I don’t know how long, until I realize we’re swaying with my hands resting lightly on his back.

  Then, releasing me from his arms, he tells me to close my eyes. I shut them tight. Lost as ever. This time, a little less terrified.

  With spotted kisses, he anoints my forehead, my closed lids, my cheeks, and, finally, my mouth; his rapid breathing letting me know that the fear and thrill are mutual.

  * * *

  • • •

  A kiss is a magical thing. This is the first lesson I learn about kissing. It turns fear into fantastic, danger into beauty, uncertainty into comfort.

  With his tongue, he tempts my mouth to open a little and play. Suddenly, our tongues collide. Or rather his tongue sweeps over mine. I freeze. It feels weird. He does it again. And again. Like he’s telling me something urgent, a secret code he wants me to learn fast. I don’t know what he wants. I try to pull away, but he tightens his hold around me, his face pressed against mine. As I slide my tongue out of his mouth, he scoops it back with his mouth as if he’s going to swallow it.

  * * *

  • • •

  The second lesson: In French, langue means “tongue,” “language.” Tonight, language is a hunger playing with fire.

  A strange feeling, kissing is. But I’m glad for the blur. Glad that it’s happening with Ran, who steadies me firmly with his embrace, until he feels my arms wrapped tight around him.

  Like a student eager to learn more, I replay the night’s first lesson for him.

  Back and forth, our tongues send each other messages, speaking to each other in our own codes for Give and Need. Hunger and Fire.

  * * *

  • • •

  The third lesson: kiss like you’re telling a story with another person, in a language that’s completely yours, with the two of you making it up as you go along.

  Ran changes the tempo. I quickly follow. Seconds later, it’s his turn to surrender to my lead. Time ticks to our tongues taking turns flicking, rushing, exploring to feed the craving. Round and round our tongues go, coaxing and chasing each other. His hands cradling my face; my fingers caressing his back.

  * * *

  • • •

  The fourth lesson: Kissing is like jazz. It, too, has its glorious rough spots.

  Curious to see what he looks like kissing me, I open my eyes and am surprised to see a pained expression on his face. He looks like a lost child. He stops because I must’ve stopped, too puzzled and sad to continue. He smiles to ask me what’s wrong. I smile back to say I’m not sure. Then he releases me from his grasp.

  I thought the lessons for the night have come to an end, when, suddenly, he takes my face in his hands and blows a blast of air into my mouth. I taste it. Warm, sweet, crave-able.

  * * *

  • • •

  The fifth lesson: kissing is a mirror, watching and being watched.

  Before I know it, we’re tasting each other’s lips again, swallowing each other’s breaths again, getting lost, then found, then lost in each other’s sigh again, our tongues going in circles, chasing and teasing and changing the speed of our want again. All for a beauty that once caused so much fear and unease and nervousness. And in the end, it turns out to be a magnificent blossoming. This dangerously delicious jazz called kissing.

  * * *

  • • •

  The sixth lesson: kissing is like playing a crazy game of conquest and surrender.

  Tonight, we kiss for what seems like forever, until the heart, like the panther it is, returns to its cage.

  * * *

  • • •

  The seventh—and final—lesson: kiss as if it’s the end of eternity.

  Skyrocketing

  Saturday evening, 9 March

  I, Ken Z, am now a big question mark. Did I just kiss a boy? Yes, and it felt like a hundred million volts of electricity surging through my body.

  I didn’t know a kiss could be this powerful. That it could send my heart skyrocketing to the moon.

  Prior to Ran, I thought the power of a kiss only existed in fairy tales about frogs and poisoned princesses.

  So does this mean I’m gay now?

  Am I the B in the LGBTQ?

  But which B? Bisexual? Bicurious? Bromancer?

  Should I kiss a girl just to be sure?

  Maybe I’m the Q in “queer,” but most definitely not “queen” since I cannot picture myself donning a tinfoil tiara.

  Maybe I’m the D in the Multiple Choice of Sexuality, as in (D) All of the above.

  Or (E) A new category.

  Yes, E.

  I, Ken Z, as my own category.

  The Am I or Am I Not? Checklist

  I’m fashion-unconscious.

  I don’t go to school looking like Miss Universe or Universal Show Queen.

  I don’t wear a gigantic flower behind one ear.

  I’m actually allergic to pollen.

  I don’t sashay on sidewalks, crosswalks, and broken boulevards like a runway model.

  I don’t have a closet I can run to and hide.

  I don’t cover my arms with thick, rubbery friendship bracelets.

  I think figure skating outfits are atrocious.

  I can’t disco-dance to save the ’70s.

  My sandal heels are less than a quarter inch.

  It doesn’t take me all morning to style my bedhead.

  I’m a gay men’s chorus’s nightmare.

  I’m too shy to pee in public urinals.

  I prefer watching tennis over gymnastics and synchronized swimming.

  Nude sketches, male or female, do nothing to my pulse.

  Underwear ads don’t turn me on.

  Sweaty jocks give me hives.

  All I know is I like Ran.

  A lot.

  The Secret to a Brighter Universe

  SATURDAY, 9 MARCH. LATE NIGHT. MY BEDROOM.

  ME: Oscar, can you keep a secret?
<
br />   OSCAR: You’ve come to the perfect person.

  ME: It’s about Ran.

  OSCAR: Oh dear.

  ME: Yeah.

  OSCAR: Go on.

  ME: I think I like him, Oscar.

  OSCAR: You think?

  ME: Yeah, I think so.

  OSCAR: You sound unsure.

  ME: Do I? How can I be sure?

  OSCAR: Let’s start with the symptoms.

  ME: Well, at night, I toss and turn because of him. During the day, I’m walking around in a daze; the world around me is hazy. I daydream more now because of him. When he crashes into my thoughts, my bad days are no longer gloomy. It’s like that when I’m with him. But more intense, more magnificent.

  OSCAR: I believe, my dear child, that you’re afflicted with the marvelous malady called Love.

  ME: Love?

  OSCAR: When you speak of nights endlessly tossing and turning, and days swinging and dancing, and all because of one person, the very same one who governs your moods and brightens your dismal days, that, my dear boy, is due to love. It makes us feel good about ourselves. We become wiser because of it. We become better individuals because of it. We become nobler because of it.

  ME: So I’m in love?

  OSCAR: Is your heart a lively cage of hummingbirds?

  ME: Yes.

  OSCAR: Recurring daydreams and head rushes?

  ME: Yes.

  OSCAR: Then you are indeed, most definitely, with utmost certainty, in love.

  ME: Actually, it feels good to have another person in my small universe.

  OSCAR: Your world, Ken Z, is larger than you thought. It has always been. And now, with Ran, it’s become even larger.

  ME: Because of him?

  OSCAR: Because of love, dear heart. Because of love.

  SURFACING

  With his hands and breath,

  I draw closer and closer

  To another me.