The Art of Breathing

by T. J. Klune

  He turns to me. “Little Twinkie Tyson!” he says, and he wraps me in a hug as well. “You look even more delicious in person.” He peeks over my shoulder. “God, if I had that ass when I was your age, I probably would have done porn. You ever think of doing porn? Pretty sure you’d make a buck or two. People would be jerking off to you left and right. Probably already do.”

  I flush furiously. “Uh… no. No porn. Not yet.”

  He tosses his head back and laughs. It’s a sweet sound. “‘Not yet,’ he says. Well, honey, if that’s what you’re looking for, I’m sure I could hook you up.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Somehow, I don’t think it’d fly back home if I were in porn. I’m pretty sure Otter and Bear would shit themselves. And what if they like porn (gross!) and somehow stumble across it and see me getting my ass—

  Wow. I need to stop that train of thought right now. I blame Tucson. There has to be something in the air that makes you think really dirty things.

  Sandy does a double take as Dom climbs out of the backseat. Dom stretches and his shirt rises up slightly, a thin strip of skin showing through, and I can almost hear Helena Handbasket roaring forward. Gone is the blandly handsome Sandy with a sweet smile. Gone, too, apparently, are any bones, judging by the way he’s able to slink and slide his way over to Dom. Dom has a small grin on his face, as if this man already amuses him greatly.

  “Well, well, well,” Sandy purrs. “What do we have here?” He presses up against Dom’s side, laying his head on his shoulder. “Where, my large luscious piece of man cake, have you been all my life? I bet you could bench-press three of me without breaking a sweat, but lucky you, there’s only one of me and trust me when I say I’m more than enough man for you to handle.”

  Uh. Wait. What?

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Dom says, patting Sandy on the top of the head.

  “That voice!” Sandy squeaks. “Please tell me that you’ve done porn and where I can buy it. Take my money. Take all my money.”

  “I haven’t done porn,” Dom says, much to the detriment of the entire world, I’m sure. “I don’t know how well that’d go over with the department.”

  Sandy’s eyes go dramatically wide. “You’re the police officer? Honey, I don’t think that’s a problem for your department. Haven’t you ever seen C.O.P.S: Cum On Perverted Suspects? Those cops had no problem shoving their nightsticks up each other’s asses.”

  “I must have missed that one,” Dom says. “And I don’t quite know if they were real cops.”

  “It’s all about the fantasy, baby doll,” Sandy says. “And you are eight feet of living, breathing, ridiculously ripped fantasy. I simply must make you part of my show tomorrow night at the club. Tell me, are you comfortable enough in your heterosexuality to take off your shirt and pants on stage and be completely and salaciously objectified by dozens of screaming homos? I’m pretty sure I have a sparkly pair of boy panties you can wear. Though I will say, if your cock is as big as the rest of you, you’ll probably be poking out. But, incentives, of course. I’ll make sure you’re in for a cut of the tips, which will probably amount to six dollars and forty-two cents.”

  “That much, huh?” he asks with a smile. “How could I say no to that?”

  “You filthy whore,” I hiss before I’m able to stop myself. And there’s the image of the sparkly boy-panty thing that needed to go away, like, yesterday. I’m not into that sort of thing. Well, at least my mind isn’t. My penis thinks it’s a grand idea. Stupid fucking penis.

  Everyone stares at me, but not before Sandy and Kori exchange a look that makes me want to kick out their kneecaps. “Um. I said let’s go indoors. Isn’t it too hot out? It feels too hot.”

  “Of course,” Sandy says coyly, like the evil host that he is. “I’m so used to it, I didn’t even notice. You poor little twinkie. I’m going to take such good care of you in Casa de Helena that you won’t ever want to leave.” He winks at me knowingly, and I almost run screaming in the opposite direction.

  Knowing my luck, I’d trip and fall into a cactus.

  THE INSIDE of Sandy’s house is delightfully kitschy, yet surprisingly tasteful (I know, I know. I just thought there’d be piles of wigs all over and a three-foot black dildo on the coffee table or something—apparently I don’t know many drag queens). There are splashes of colors everywhere, from the green couch to the blue-and-red walls. The floors are hardwood, covered here and there with thick white rugs. There’s a stain on one, hidden back toward the corner of the living room.

  “Yes,” Sandy says with a frown. “That.”

  “What’s it from?” Kori asks.

  “The hellhound known as Wheels,” he says with a look of extreme distaste. “Paul’s dog. I love the little mutt to death, but he is not normal. I’m quite certain he vomited there on purpose, because I wouldn’t let him go outside when it was raining. Trust me when I say that Wheels is a vindictive creature with malice in his heart.”

  “Why Wheels?” I ask. “That’s an odd name.”

  “He was hit by a car when he was a puppy,” Sandy says. “Lost both back legs and his tail. He has a little cart hooked up to his butt so he can run around. Paul adopted him that way and gave him the name.”

  “A two-legged dog?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “Named Wheels.”

  “Right.”

  “I need to meet Paul,” I tell Kori. “Like, now. Any man that picks a disabled dog on purpose has to be an amazing human being.”

  “Oh,” Sandy says, “that’s right! Kori told me you were a hippie.”

  “I don’t think I said it quite like that,” Kori says hurriedly.

  “Yes, you did,” Sandy says. “What was it you said? I truly enjoyed it. Ah, yes! You said Tyson was a left-wing vegetarian hippie twink one step away from blowing up animal-testing labs and SeaWorld all for the sake of saving what he calls his animal companions.” He squints his eyes at me. “He doesn’t look like a hippie, though. He looks like he should be on some college gay-for-pay site.”

  “Oh no,” Kori groans, covering her face.

  “Hippie?” I exclaim angrily. “I’m not a goddamn hippie! And the orcas at SeaWorld are forced into tiny tanks and brutally beaten and underfed to teach them tricks to perform for some obese family from Ohio on vacation who eat deep-fried Oreos covered in bacon gravy while not even concerned that their entertainment is being tortured!”

  “Tyson’s a little… vocal… when it comes to his convictions,” Dom says.

  “That’s an understatement, sex giant,” Sandy says, eyes wide. “Holy PETA brainwash, Batman.”

  “I’m not a hippie,” I mutter.

  “Kind of a hippie,” Kori says. “But in a good way.”

  “There’s no good way to be a hippie,” I tell her. “Especially beach hippies.”

  “We had some problems with beach hippies,” Kori tells Sandy. “They didn’t know how to chant and threw rocks into windows.”

  “Goddamn beach hippies!” Apparently, I’m still not over that.

  “I had to arrest these two,” Dom tells Sandy.

  “Did you?” Helena Handbasket purrs. “In uniform and with handcuffs? Those lucky little bastards.”

  “It wasn’t as much fun as it sounds,” I point out. “The cuffs hurt.”

  “That’s how you know you’re having a little fun,” Dom says with a wink, and I can do nothing but gape at him, because I want to know who this man is and what he’s done with my big, silent, stoic Dominic.

  “You’ll meet Paul and Vince tomorrow for Saturday brunch,” Sandy says. “We figured we’d give you a bit to get settled in.”

  “You have enough rooms?” Dom asks. “We can get a hotel.”

  “A hotel?” Sandy asks. “Of course not. We’ll just have to bunk up a bit. But since we’re all such good friends, I don’t think that’s an issue, do you?” He smiles at Kori. “You’ll be in my bed, darling, but don’t get any ideas. I’ve given my heart to Jesus.�
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  “Poor Jesus,” Kori says.

  “Mouthy little bitch,” Sandy says. “And as for you two, you’ll be in the spare bedroom. It’s really small, but the Realtor described it to me as cozy when I bought the place, and since I was trying to get in his pants, I didn’t mind.”

  “Both of us?” I ask, my voice high-pitched. “Are there two beds?”

  He laughs. “No, dear. It’s not 1950 and you’re not a housewife. One bed. It’s a queen, natch. But given Officer Hands-on here’s size, it’s still going to be tight. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it? Kori tells me you two are old friends. Usually, I use that room for guests who somehow end up drunk at my house after the bar closes and feel slightly amorous. But don’t worry, it’s totally clean and ready for your enjoyment. I aim to please.” He says this all with a completely innocent look on his face. And even though I’ve only known him for fifteen minutes, I can still tell it’s complete and utter bullshit. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That bright fire in his eyes is all Helena.

  Dom shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “That’s fine with me.”

  “You snore,” I accuse him weakly, as if this will be any justification for when I end up sleeping on the couch. Or in the car. Or running back to Bear so he can hide me in the bathtub.

  “How would you know?” he fires back. “You haven’t been around to find out.”

  Yowza. And just what in God’s name is that supposed to mean?

  “Well, this is just peachy,” Sandy beams. “Sounds like everything will work out just fine. Oh my, I just adore having houseguests! Kori, shall we retire to powder our noses before the evening’s festivities? We can have some girl time.” He glances at Dom and me. “Boys, your bedroom is at the end of the hall. There’s a bathroom next door with towels all fluffed and ready for your enjoyment. Feel free to get a little wet. I promise, there’re no cameras set up in the shower.”

  With that, he grabs Kori by the arm and drags her out of the room.

  Motherfucker.

  COZY MY goddamn ass.

  This room is fucking tiny.

  There’s a queen bed, all right, but it takes up most of the space with hardly any room to move around. A small window lets in the burning sunlight that promises to scorch my skin off. The only other furniture in the room is a small nightstand on the far side of the bed. Atop the nightstand is a fishbowl filled with condoms. Littered next to the bowl are at least ten different kinds of lube called such ridiculous names as “Butt Butter” and “Boy-Ease” (one makes me never want to eat popcorn again, the other wants me to make sure this isn’t actually an episode of To Catch A Predator). A tassel of something leathery hangs out from one of the drawers on the nightstand. I’m pretty sure cows didn’t evolve to have their hides used on an ass filled with butt butter.

  “Well, this is certainly new,” Dom says, looking up.

  I follow his gaze. Above the bed, attached to the ceiling, is a row of mirrors. Because, you know, that’s what normal people have.

  “This isn’t a bedroom,” I groan. “It’s a sex dungeon!”

  Dom cocks his head at the mirrors. “I don’t think it’s quite a sex dungeon. I don’t see a swing or a Saint Andrew’s Cross with a mean and surly Dungeon Master waiting to flog you.”

  “I don’t know what any of that stuff means!” It’s come to my attention that I’m either a prude or I really need to bone up on my studies of all things sex. Ha. Bone up. That’s funny, in an “I’m about to freak out hysterically” kind of way.

  “I’d be worried if you did,” he assures me.

  “How do you know what that stuff is?”

  “I got strapped to the cross once,” he said. “Whipped within an inch of my life.”

  My mouth drops open. “You what?” Who in the hell is this masochistic stranger standing in front of me, and what has he done with my friend? (And, as a random side note that I can’t quite push away, what exactly does one wear when one is strapped to a cross and whipped?)

  He rolls his eyes. “It was a joke, Tyson. I’ve busted some kinky people, that’s all.”

  “I knew that was a joke!” I most certainly did not and am lying through my teeth.

  He sets his bag on the bed. I, for some reason, look up at the mirrors again. There are three of them, all pressed flush against each other. I guess I’ve never really thought about how such a thing could be good for sex, but now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure you could see absolutely everything if, as a hypothetical, someone was on his back and another someone was going to town on him from above. I mean, I guess I can sort of see the benefits of such an angle, and it’d be all fast and hard and dirty and—

  Nope! No, sir! I do not need to be thinking about such things, because they will most likely lead to inappropriate erections. And if there’s one thing that ruins a platonic sharing of what is possibly the smallest bed in the world between two friends who used to be like brothers, it’s an inappropriate erection. Well, not that I know that for a fact, but I can pretty much make the assumption here. I don’t want to have to wake up in the middle of the night and explain to my heterosexual bedmate why I’m sporting wood and staring at him in the mirrors above the bed. That is not a conversation conducive to a lasting friendship.

  “If you want,” Dom says without turning around, “we can get a hotel. I saw a couple just right down the road.”

  Well, that would be the easy way out, wouldn’t it? Say yes and then we’d be in a generic-looking room with scratchy sheets that smell like clinical detergent and oversized pillows that have some stranger’s long black hair on them. But isn’t that what they’re expecting? Of course it is. I’m now utterly convinced that this is part of some master scheme by the psychotic villain known as Kori and her sidekick, Sandy. She may look innocent, and she may play the part well enough for most everyone around her to be convinced, but I see right through her. She obviously called ahead and coerced the drag queen (either by blackmail or brainwashing) into changing what was probably a tea- and sunroom or library or storage area for wigs and feather boas (of which I have to see evidence of any—is she really even a drag queen?) into a guest room. If that’s the case, then Sandy/Helena Handbasket is against me and already a lost cause.

  And if Kori is the villain I believe her to be, then I’m obviously the hero of this story and will need to rise up against her in a battle of wit and wills. At the first sign of weakness, she’ll go for the jugular. I need to make sure she believes nothing is amiss. I have to last these next couple of days until I can leave this place known as Tucson behind and return to the land that is my home and begin to plot my revenge.

  And why is she doing this?

  It’s obvious.

  She’s trying to get me to fuck up around Dominic somehow so he’ll learn the true nature of my feelings (rather, how I used to feel, I correct myself pointedly). In doing so, Dominic will be forced to look at me with pity and sadness (Poor little twinkie boy, he’ll say to himself. Poor little Tyson with his crush on the straight guy) and then will let me down in a way that’s gentle but will still be mortifying in ways I can’t even begin to understand (keeping in mind that this won’t happen because I most certainly don’t feel that way about him anymore).

  And she’s doing all of this not because she thinks Dominic and I are going to end up together (ha-ha, now there’s a random and stupid and out-of-my-mind thought!), but because she’s actually heartbroken about how our relationship ended, even though she’s the one who broke up with me (I haven’t quite figured out how that makes sense, but trust me, it has to be right). She knows how I feel (used to feel, I chide myself) about Dominic and wants to make a mockery of me.

  This whole thing has been planned from the beginning.

  “Uh-oh,” Dominic says.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “It’s that same look you get when you see a story on the news about a rich guy posting
pictures of himself big-game hunting and standing over the corpse of an elephant. Like you want to murder someone.”

  “Why would you kill such a magnificent creature and then post a picture of it for everyone to see?” I exclaim. “You have to know everyone is going to think you’re nothing but a gigantic dick who should be strung up and pelted with rotting pumpkins!”

  “The most gigantic of all dicks,” Dom agrees. “But since I haven’t seen any dead elephants since we got here, who is it you want to murder? And you may want to reconsider. I may be on vacation, but I’m still a cop. Don’t make me get the handcuffs out again.”

  My mouth goes instantly dry at such an image, and I wonder (traitorous fucking brain!) just how that would look in the mirrors above the bed.

  “I don’t want to murder anyone,” I mutter. “We don’t need a hotel. We can just stay here in the sex dungeon.”

  “I really don’t think you know what a sex dungeon is,” he sighs.

  “I do so,” I say. Wow, that sounded lame. And not like the truth at all. I pick up my bag and go to the other side of the bed as my face burns. I open the bag and begin rifling through it, trying to see if there is a chastity belt and a Bible somewhere inside, because apparently I’ve changed my name to Prudence McVanilla Prude.

  “Is that what the kids call it these days?”

  “I’m hip,” I tell him. “I’m down with it.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize probably no one on the earth says they’re hip and down with it anymore. My life could use a pause button, a rewind button, and most likely a volume control.

  There’s a rustling of clothes, and I look up right at the exact moment I’m pretty sure that God and Jesus decide I’m a lost cause and forsake my mortal soul. That’s the only explanation for what’s happening right in front of me.

  Dominic is lifting his shirt up and over his head, and while I know it’s physically impossible, I’m convinced he is moving in slow motion and that his torso goes on for miles. Life becomes positively unfair when I see the bulky muscles of his chest covered in a smattering of dark hair. His arms catch in the shirt, and the collar is on his chin, and I do believe I am three point six seconds away from tackling him and motorboating his chest.