Fuck Buddy

by Scott Hildreth

  Luke was in pain; therefore, I was in pain. I had been awake for most of the night, certain the aching in my soul would become a permanent part of my being. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t make the images in my mind go away. Halfway through the sleepless night I decided I didn’t want to know what happened to him. I wanted him to take it back. I wanted the thoughts, the ideas, the images, and the lingering sickening feeling to all go away. When we woke the next day, the morning we shared was awkward – I didn’t know what to say, and apparently he had already said all he was capable of. He eventually left, seeking his comfort at the beach. I, in turn, called my office and explained I was far too sick to come in to work.

  No one on this earth could ever convince me what his mother did was done with the belief that it was constructive. She was a sickening woman committing a sickening act for sickening reasons of self-gratification. I wanted her to be in jail or dead and as much as I knew I should feel terrible for wishing that upon another person, I didn’t. I hated her and I hated what she did to Luke and Matthew.

  He assured me in the beginning that he would turn me into a ball of babbling flesh, and he did. For the majority of that morning after he was gone, I sat on my bed rolled into an emotional ball. I stared at the walls wondering just how – and if – we would ever completely recover. I didn’t necessarily agree with the way I felt, but I felt that way nonetheless. Luke’s sexual hang-ups began to make sense. His misaligned desires, the demands he barked while he choked me, even his fear of being in a relationship – it all became crystal clear. I felt helpless because I couldn’t fix everything.

  Frantically, I went through the house cleaning. Somehow convinced cleaning my home would clean up the mess, I scrubbed every inch of it until it was as sanitary as a hospital. I vacuumed the carpets until all of the lines from the vacuum’s path were perfectly aligned. Then, I scrubbed the floors until the entire house smelled like Pine-sol. The sinks, the shower, the tub, the crumbs underneath the couch cushions. All spotless.

  Like a woman possessed by cleaning demons I frantically searched for any remaining imperfections. I felt something was still out of place.

  And I realized it wasn’t my home that was dirty.

  It was me.

  I felt dirty, and it was the kind of dirty that couldn’t be washed away. The memories of my friendship with Luke as a child had always been carefree and innocent. We held hands, swung in swings, and chased each other along the beach. As adults we continued all of those things.

  We never stopped acting like we did when we were kids.

  A week prior I believed two innocent childhood friends who lived innocent lives developed into two innocent adults who had similar sexual tastes. The sex was kinky, wild, and on the cusp of violent, but because the desires were derived innocently, I was convinced there was nothing wrong with us or the sexual acts.

  After learning what happened to Luke, I no longer felt that we were innocent. I felt like the sex was a product of his mother’s sexual abuse.

  I wanted to find his mother. I wanted to find her and hurt her as much as she hurt my Luke. I felt a need to tell her that I knew what she had done, and that she was an evil woman who would be dealt with on judgement day.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I prayed. I prayed for Luke to find a way to forgive her and for me to accept that I couldn’t change a thing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  LUKE

  “If you eat them one at a time they won’t make you fat.”

  “They won’t?”

  He shook his head and grinned. “That’s what abuela said. She said ‘tell the surfer to don’t fear the tamale.’ ”

  I laughed. “Don’t fear the tamale, huh? Well, tell her I’m not scared.”

  Juan was well aware I was conscious of what I ate, and that I chose to avoid foods that may made me feel overweight or unhealthy. For whatever reason, his grandmother decided to send a dozen tamales with him as a gift for me. Contrary to what I suspected his beliefs were regarding his offering, I accepted the package eager to find time to enjoy his grandmother’s cooking.

  I nodded my head in appreciation. “Have you tried them?”

  He grinned. “They’re pork and Anaheim chilies. They’re my abuela’s specialty and they’re my favorite.”

  “You be sure to tell her I said thank you. And tell her if they’re her specialty, I don’t give a fuck if they’re going to make me fat.”

  “I’ll tell her, but I won’t say the ‘F’ word. She’d smack me so hard my grandkids will feel it. That’s what she tells me,” he said with a laugh as he swatted his hand through the air.

  I walked to the refrigerator, placed the tamales inside, and grabbed a bottle of orange soda.

  I sat down on the bench and set the bottle of soda down beside me. “Have a seat.”

  He sat on the opposite end of the bench. “I’ve never seen you drink one of the bottles of pop. Not one.”

  “I don’t drink soda.”

  “But you always have them in the cooler.”

  I had them there for one reason and one reason only. Juan liked them.

  “They’re for my guests.”

  He grinned and nodded as he opened the bottle on the end of the bench.

  “So, I’ve been thinking,” I said.

  He took a drink of the soda, glanced in my direction, and waited for me to continue.

  “You’re a pretty good artist,” I said.

  He raised one eyebrow slightly. “According to who?”

  “Well, when you were tagging all the buildings along the boardwalk, it was pretty apparent.”

  “Oh.” He chuckled. “Yeah, I like to draw and stuff.”

  “Have you ever seen an airbrush?”

  He nodded. “My uncle in Oceanside uses ‘em. He paints motorcycles.”

  “You ever use one?”

  He shook his head as he lifted the bottle of soda to his lips.

  “You interested in learning?”

  His eyes widened. “You gonna teach me?”

  “Well, here’s what I was thinking,” I said. “About half of the boards I make have custom paint on them. It takes me as much time to paint them as it does to make them. So, I could make twice as many in the same amount of time if I didn’t have to paint the fuckers.”

  He pursed his lips and gazed beyond me as if thinking. “Makes sense.”

  “I’ll teach you how to use the airbrush. I don’t think it’ll take long. Then, once you’ve learned, I’ll pay you to paint them.”

  His eyes widened slightly. He tipped the bottle of soda up and took another drink.

  “I’ll give you $200 a board. How’s that sound?” I asked.

  He jumped from the bench, coughed, and choked on the soda. Pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he nodded eagerly.

  “Sounds good,” he responded in a nasal tone.

  “You okay?”

  He released his nose and nodded eagerly. “Swallowed wrong.”

  I stood. “So, that sounds fair. $200 for each board?”

  He wiped the back of his hand against his nose. “Yes, Sir. So, when do you think you might be able to teach me?”

  “Well, right now is good for me. So whenever works for you, we’ll just make time to do it.”

  “Right now is good.” His eyes fell to the floor. “Well, after I mop the pop up off the floor.”

  During the period of time that I had the shop, I never made a board in advance or in anticipation of a customer’s desire or need. Instead, I chose to make them as customer’s placed their orders, not necessarily needing the money or even caring much to provide the service.

  In less than an hour, Juan had mastered the airbrushing technique, and was proving to be a natural at painting beach scenes.

  I pulled my mask from my mouth and rested it on my chin. “I’m thinking we should have a few boards on display. You know, for sale.”

  He pulled his mask down and furrowed his brow. “We?”

>   “Well,” I said. “If I’m making ‘em, and you’re painting ‘em, what does that make us? Hell, we’re damned near partners.”

  As the pride filled him he straightened his stance slightly. “Can I watch you? When you make them?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m not ready to give that part of it up. At least not yet. But you just as well learn.”

  He grinned and pulled his mask over his mouth.

  “One more thing,” I said.

  He turned toward me and raised his eyebrows.

  “No more Mr. Eagan. From here on out, I’m Luke,” I said.

  He pulled the mask down just long enough to respond. “Okay, Luke.”

  On that afternoon, Juan painted every piece of cardboard I had in the shop. By the end of the day the paint booth was filled murals of palm trees, sunsets, and beaches. One particular painting – a surfer riding the most perfect shaped wave – stood as a testament of Juan’s ability to imagine and to convey his imagination accurately with paint.

  We later shared a late lunch of tamales, and then he went home to tell his family the good news. I stuck around for a few more hours and fabricated a wooden frame for the picture of the surfer.

  I hung the picture on the wall, stood back, and imagined the small speck of a man on top of the wave was me.

  And for that short moment, my life was picture perfect.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  LIV

  “That was sure nice of you,” I said.

  He shrugged. “It gives me a little more time to do whatever. And, if I have a few boards in the shop for sale, whenever someone shows up, I won’t feel like they’re interfering with my schedule. I think it’s an all-around good deal.”

  Luke’s decision to let Juan paint the surfboards was obviously a way for him to deal with his feelings. I didn’t know for sure, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he had repressed the memories of what his mother did – only to remember them after she showed up at the hospital.

  Either way, he seemed to be almost unaffected by the tragedy. I, on the other hand, was nothing short of obsessed with it. I guessed he had a lifetime to accept it, and I had only two days. Nonetheless, I was consumed by it completely.

  When I looked at him I no longer saw my Luke. The man I had been in love with since childhood was gone. In his place a little boy whose innocence had been lost. A man with sexual desires developed at the hand of a sickening monster. He had become a childhood friend. A dinner companion. An associate.

  I didn’t want to touch him, and at least for the time being, I didn’t want him to touch me. I wanted to go to sleep, wake up, and have it all be a dream.

  As sickening as it made me feel to harbor the feelings, I couldn’t change how I felt. I didn’t blame him for anything that happened – and I accepted that he was the true victim – but it didn’t seem to matter. Somehow I was convinced his mother’s actions had developed his odd sexual appetite, and I felt my acceptance of his desires was in turn accepting his mother’s behavior. Nothing was further from the truth. I had evolved from wanting to hurt her to wanting to kill her, and I wasn’t a violent person.

  I tried my best to act as if nothing between us had changed, but I doubted I was very convincing.

  I forced a grin. “It sounds like a great plan.”

  He lowered his fork, peered over the table, and sighed. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I nodded. “Just tired. I’ve been feeling sick.”

  “Hopefully you’re not getting that shit that’s going around.”

  “Hope not.”

  “So, Matt’s going to go stay at dad’s when they let him out. Kind of goes without saying, but he’s going to be in a wheelchair for a while.”

  I continued to stare down at my plate. “That’s good.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded, glancing up this time when I did. “I just don’t feel good.”

  When we made eye contact, I smiled. I felt I had to. It seemed strange, but I didn’t want to look at him. At least at that particular moment, he didn’t interest me in the least. He was broken, and I felt I wasn’t. My sexual appetite was developed because someone dropped me on my head, or maybe my mother ate too much raw fish while she was pregnant. Maybe my diaper wasn’t changed often enough, who knows?

  But I wasn’t submissive because my father made me fondle his dick, or because my uncle played with my teenage twat. I was just the way I was because that’s the way things were.

  I wanted to hold Luke and provide him comfort – because I loved him. But at that moment I didn’t feel that I loved him in a romantic sense. It was more of a feeling of obligation as his friend than anything else.

  “Maybe we should just eat and go to bed,” he said.

  “I think it would be a good idea if you stayed at your place tonight. “I’d hate to get you sick,” I said.

  “If that’s what you want,” he said.

  “It’s not what I want, but I think it’d be best.”

  He finished his food, rinsed his plate, and placed it in the dishwasher. I continued to pick at my plate, hoping he would just leave. I felt like crying, screaming, and punching him in the chest all at the same time.

  I felt confused, angry, lied to, cheated, and deceived. I rearranged the pieces of avocado in my salad trying to make myself believe that nothing was his fault, and that he was the same person regardless of what happened to him as a child, but nothing seemed to work.

  As I became frustrated and pushed my salad to the side, his voice startled me slightly.

  “I guess I’ll go ahead and go.”

  “Okay,” I said over my shoulder.

  I heard the door close behind him, and instead of feeling sad or lonely, I felt relieved.

  After I dumped my half-eaten plate of food into the trash, I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The skin underneath my eyes was black from lack of sleep. I didn’t have on any makeup. I realized the clothes I was wearing were the same clothes I wore the day before. I stood and stared at myself wondering if I even remembered to take a shower.

  My hair was flat.

  I looked like death.

  Everything inside of me was coming unraveled, and I knew it.

  I realized I needed to address everything, and I knew the sooner I did so, the better I would feel about it. Instead of addressing it, I walked into my bedroom, climbed into bed, and went to sleep.

  When my entire night’s sleep was repeatedly interrupted by nightmares, I knew something needed to change.

  And the thought of it made me sick.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  LUKE

  Point Loma was located due west of San Diego, where the land literally fell off into the depth of the ocean below. A great location to meditate, and as beautiful of a piece of land as God ever offered the inhabitants of the earth to enjoy, it was a place I frequented when I needed time to think.

  Long before we began having sex I knew how I felt about her and chose not to act on my feelings for fear of losing her. I had spent a lifetime preserving something I held sacred, knowing no one or nothing could ever replace her. Now, it all seemed to be for not.

  Liv seemed different after we spoke about my mother, and I felt foolish for telling her what happened. She didn’t have to tell me how she felt, I could see it in her eyes. I had no idea if she was receding temporarily, or if something within her changed permanently. Either way I didn’t like what I was seeing.

  I sat on the edge of the cliff and watched the waves crash into the formation of rock below. Each and every one, be them slight or fierce, made an impact on the structural integrity of the earth beneath me. Over time, change would take place. Caverns would form, land would wash away, and more tide pools would develop.

  Small causes having a large effect.

  The butterfly effect.

  In theory, something as small as a butterfly flapping its wings in Argentina may cause a tornado to develop in Oklahoma. The butterfl
y doesn’t create the tornado, but the flapping of the wings at a particular time during certain weather conditions causes a change to the condition itself. Had the butterfly chosen to be still at that exact moment would the same thing have happened?

  I stared into the tide pool and wondered. A small fish darted from beneath one rock to another. My mind drifted to another scenario.

  Dropping a rock into the ocean creates ripples that cause the path of a swimming fish to be altered. Scheduled by nature to become a meal for a larger predator of the sea, the fish swims along a different path as a result of one ripple in the water. An alternate life begins, and over time the fish previously destined to die develops into the predator himself.

  Because a pebble was dropped into the ocean.

  My mother’s actions changed me. I chose to reveal my mother’s behavior to Liv, and in the end, my deepest fear seemed to be turning into reality.

  Change, it seemed, was as inevitable as the tide.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  LIV

  I finally decided that I felt uncomfortable. I wasn’t angry or embarrassed, I was simply uncomfortable with what happened to Luke. Convinced his childhood abuse created the sexual drive within him, I felt if I participated in the act of having sex with him that I was indirectly condoning what had happened.

  I hated myself for feeling the way I felt, but further felt if I didn’t make some changes and make them quickly, that in addition to losing Luke as a lover, I may lose him as a friend.

  The thought of losing him altogether was incomprehensible.

  I wished I could turn back the clock to a time where none of what seemed to consume me even existed.

  The distinct voice coming from the corner office made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Olivia, come here for a moment, please. Do you mind?”

  I paused, turned around, and sighed lightly. Out of the view of the doorway leading into his office, I asked a question – even though I knew the answer. “Were you talking to me?”