FRISK
ALSO BY DENNIS COOPER
Guide
Try
Wrong
Closer
He Cried
Safe
The Missing Men
The Tenderness of the Wolves
Idols
Tiger Beat
FRISK
Dennis Cooper
for Mark Ewert
Contents
00 3
WILD 5
TENSE 24
TORN 41
SPACED 65
NUMB 89
WILDER 108
00 127
Put all the images in language in a place of safety and make use of them, for they are in the desert, and it's in the desert we must go and look for them.
-JEAN GENET
FRISK
He lies naked on a bed with his wrists bound, legs splayed, ankles secured to the corners. Striped sheet, tangled blanket. In the first shot his long, straight black hair's fallen over his face, covering everything but a greasy chin, which juts through the strands. He seems thirteen, fourteen. The genitals look like a weirdly shaped stone. His necktie is made out of a long piece of rope.
Two. Another medium shot. His hair curves sharply down either temple, sweeps back, and hooks over his ears like raised theater curtains. Longish face, pert nose. Dark eyes, glazed. Big mouth, too open. Otherwise he hasn't changed, I don't think. Same spindly legs, big feet tilting away from each other. Same crude necktie, bracelets, anklets.
Third shot's a close-up. His face, neck, tie, shoulders, armpits. His tongue's crumpled up in his mouth like a melted candle. His eyes could be parts of a doll. Each reflects the front of a camera. His necktie's tied too tight; the rope is the kind that hoists anchors. If his eyes weren't such clouds, he'd appear to find something or someone hilarious.
Four's a medium shot. He's facedown, wrists and ankles undone. His arms are bent into neat, mirror L's. His ass sports a squarish blotch, resembling ones that hide hard-core sexual acts, but more sloppily drawn. His back, hips, and legs are pale and forgettable by contrast. His haircut's a shambles. His shoulders are dotted with zits.
Five. Close-up. The blotch is actually the mouth of a shallow cave, like the sort ocean waves carve in cliffs. The uneven frame of ass skin is impeccably smooth. The inside of the cave is gray, chopped-up, mushy. At its center's a pit, or a small tunnel entrance, too out-of-focus to actually explore with one's eyes, but too mysterious not to want to try.
WILD
1974
"Wild." Henry knew it. His feelings, thoughts, etc., were the work of people around him. Men particularly. The first made a weirdly detached person out of his body and mind when he was thirteen or something. The next man corrected his predecessor's mistakes. The next changed other stuff. The last few had only tinkered because Henry was perfect, aside from some bad habits.
He raised his glass, sipped, and tried to think about one particular "ex."
He threw the empty glass into the cold black fireplace.
The other young guy in the room seemed unbelievably stoned, drunk ... something. He sat all the way across an ugly Indian rug, staring out or at a set of sliding glass doors. It sounded like it was raining. Henry couldn't see anything out there, even the rain.
"I'm so cold I'm a fucking ice sculpture, right?" Henry asked loudly. The guy had said so, Henry was virtually sure. Still, it was hours ago, if ever. They'd squealed at the time, but the sentence was bullshit. It made Henry sound arrogant, which he probably wasn't.
The guy just stared off at the rain, glass, hallucination, daydream, whatever.
"I'm splitting," Henry said, stood.
The guy swiveled his head. Crack. "Don't ... ouch." His head must have swiveled too quickly or something, because it started trembling like what's-her-name's ... Katharine Hepburn's. He had to grab it with both hands to get it to stop.
This part's a blur.
"You know, it's wild," Henry said. He was fondling his way down a hall behind what's-his-name. "... but I don't even remember where we met tonight. I keep thinking `party.' That's about it. Are you as totaled as I am?"
"Probably." The guy glared over his shoulder. He still looked cute enough to justify what was starting to happen, whatever that was. "Keep your hands down," he added. "I mean if you need to keep your balance, use the walls, not my father's African art collection."
"I am." Henry focused on the door at the end of the hall. He supposed they were aimed there, because it was open. No matter how low he reached on the walls he kept touching the limbs of wooden statues, so he gave up and clutched at the guy's untucked shirt.
"Don't fucking rip it."
"I'm not."
Henry flopped on the bed. It bounced around and squeaked for five, six seconds. The guy stripped. He had tiny red genitals, spider-webby blond pubic hair. Not that Henry cared about defects like that. He himself was a big waste of time from the neck down at this point, thanks to uncountable drugs.
"Get that stuff off," the guy mumbled.
"Oh, am I still dressed?" Henry toyed with a shirt button, twirling this way, that. Within a second or two he was spaced out. "Mm." He felt something sharp, fingernails, a hand, the guy's. It was yanking his underwear down. The pair got snagged around his feet. The guy left them dangling there. Henry's feet were huge. He raised up, peered down his chest. But blurry. "So, uh, I don't really know ... what you, like ... expect ... to, like, get out of that." He pointed at his cock and said "that" again, sort of ironically.
"We'll ... see ..." The guy's face made a rocky landing on Henry's crotch.
"Oh, okay, go ahead." Henry let his head drop.
The guy started painting the cock with his tongue. The room felt cozy. Or the pills Henry took that afternoon left him cozy, and the room was just there, a movie set. He shut his eyes, tried to restart a favorite porn daydream. "Shi-i-i-it." His history had been reduced to a simplistic blur, like the trails in the air left by people on fire.
Blur.
"You know what?" Henry whispered, digging his hand into the guy's Afro. "I was thinking about this a minute ago in the other room. How last weekend I slept with two bearded guys. One of them fucked me while the other guy blew me, I guess. They kept calling me `that.' One would ask, `What does that taste like?' and `What's the temperature inside that?' and the other would say, `Really great,' or whatever. It made me feel weird. It made me realize I'm important to certain people. I don't have to do anything. Being pretty or young or what- ever's enough. Sometimes ... I wish I could just sort of temporarily die. Guys could move me around, whatever. I wouldn't have a first name, just a surface. Like pillows. They don't have individual names. They don't mean anything, but people sleep with them. I think I'd feel a lot happier, though I despise that word, `happy.' It's such a lie. When your parents- Hey, wait!" He blinked a couple of times. The ceiling was totally in focus. "God, I'm sober." He propped himself up on his elbows. "What about you?"
The guy had quit blowing Henry earlier in the speech. His chin sat an inch deep in Henry's thigh. Henry's cock drooped down the other thigh, soft, brown, and extremely wet. "So," he mumbled, "does your not talking right now mean you agree with me, or that you're sleepy or something?"
"I think I'm sleepy," the guy said, staring. His face seemed the opposite of sleepy.
"Not me. But I'm infamous for my energy."
"So, you heading back to the party?" The guy's eyes actually pointed at Henry. They were pale blue. Like all eyes Henry had ever seen, but especially blue ones, they were sort of disappointing, apart from the color.
"I guess, yeah. You want to come?"
"Not really." The guy rolled onto his side, squashed the righ
t half of his face with a fist. There was a Rorschach blot of sweat on the sheet where his crotch had been pressing. Henry looked down at it, thought he saw a satanic silhouette.
"Okay, uh ..." Henry stood up, walked quickly around the room, bent over, collecting his clothes. "So, did you enjoy that?" He was missing a sock. "I mean was I ... okay?" He checked behind the desk chair once more. "I know that's a weird question."
"I can't tell yet." The guy's voice was distorted because of the fist, so Henry couldn't quite get what the "yet" meant.
"Mm." Henry made a face that the guy could interpret a hundred ways, or not at all. By that point Henry was fourfifths dressed. He sat on a chair across the room, tying his shoes. "Well, answer this," he said. "I always ask this question after I sleep with somebody, so don't get alarmed. If you could change one thing about the way I was acting a minute ago, what would that be?" He quit tying, grinned. "I guess that's dumb."
"You talk too much," the guy said.
"Yeah, I know." Henry winced. "Thanks. I'm working on that one." He made a fist and slugged his thigh.
"And you don't consider what you say before you say it. Or you don't sound like you do." The guy slid off the bed, stood. He strolled around the room, stabbing a hand at his own crumpled clothes, which were larger and blacker than Henry's. "I'll show you the way out. Because I was really interested in you at first." He knelt down and peered under the bed. "But when you tried to tell me about ... well, whatever you were saying when I started to get into you." He reached into the dark, pulled out an argyle sock, shook some dust off. "I can't be the only guy who's turned off by that kind of shit."
Henry cringed, nodded. The pills were wearing off to a slight degree. "No, no, no, you're right." He slugged his thigh again.
"Anyway ..." The guy held out the sock to Henry. "Get up.
They inched down the hall. This time it wasn't particularly treacherous. Henry picked out the floor, statues, their pedestals, the guy's back, etc. So he didn't need anyone or anything, though he wobbled around a lot.
Julian nodded. "I completely agree. It's ... just . . ." He leaned closer to Jennifer's ear, got a faint whiff of vomit. "Am I insane or is that guy-long black hair, faded work shirt, by the hors d'oeuvres table-staring at me?" Jennifer squinted. "Actually," she said, "I've been assuming it was me, but I think you're right." She asked some other drag queens in their vicinity to move, pointed his way "accusingly." When he noticed, she flipped him off. "Me?" he mouthed, looking around. "Yeah, you, asshole!"
Henry weaved through the room, sideswiping every fifth person en route. Their drinks sloshed around. One brunet threw a lit cigarette at his back, missed. Julian grabbed Jennifer's right biceps and squeezed. "Fucked up," he said with a grin, "but incredibly appealing, right?" Nod. By then Henry was near enough that they could pretty much tell which of them he'd been staring at. Julian flashed a little teeth in the corner of his sneer. "Leave," he mumbled. "You mind?" Her arm slid through his fingertips.
"Hi." Henry came to a kind of halt. His head turned violently to the right, left. Nice neck. "Where'd she go?" He had an out-of-town accent. "Who?" Julian asked. Henry winced. "Very funny. I mean that girl who was right ... Oh, it doesn't matter. Hi." Julian decided the face was too horsey. When it was saggier that'd be trouble, in terms of attracting guys. At the moment it made him seem rural or heterosexual.
"You from the South?" Julian asked. Henry rolled his eyes. They looked sketchy and smudged. "No, that's totally weird," he said. "Nothing against you. People always say that, but it's not true. They only say it when I'm stoned, which I am, obviously. No, I'm from here ... Oops." He slapped a hand over his mouth, opened his eyes so wide Julian had to think about the fact that they were balls. The balls sort of pleaded with Julian. "What?" he responded, not totally interested.
Henry said something, dismembered bits of which filtered through his fingers. "I decided," or maybe it was "I determined" (unintelligible) ... "talk too much." He wasn't as cute without his chin and mouth. "Really?" Julian eased his ass down on the windowsill. He started scanning the room for a less wiped-out type. Someone he vaguely liked walked in, hugged someone he'd fucked twice. "You're saying you talk too much?" he muttered, studying the hug. Henry nodded.
Julian was wondering about the subtext of that particular hug when he remembered Henry. "Oh, I'm thinking about them," Julian said, nodding, "over there. Follow my nod." Henry appeared to, then mumbled something about "near the door." "Exactly," Julian said, smiling. "Hey, want to try an experiment?" Henry shrugged. "Good. Hug me like you've known me forever but haven't seen me in years." Julian extended his arms, smirked. Henry blushed, took a baby step forward.
"Gotcha, as they say." Julian dragged Henry close. Henry opened his fingers a crack and pushed his big lips through. "Ouch. What do you mean?" "I mean," Julian said, peeling away Henry's hand, "now that we're old friends I can ask you for anything and you'll do it because we love each other." Henry wrenched back his head an inch or two, peered warily at Julian's mouth. "Is that a joke?" he asked. Henry looked sort of interesting cross-eyed. "Is what a joke?" "Is it a joke," Henry whispered, "that we love each other?"
"Christ," Julian groaned. "Are you one of those guys who think love's ... whatever, sacred?" Henry shook his head. "Good, because as far as I'm concerned, love's what you feel for someone you don't know very well, if at all. Maybe I was `in love' with your body when you were way over there studying Jennifer and me. Now I'm just, uh ... hungry, you could call it. You being my.. . meal, or ... what's the matter now?" Henry's face looked too attentive or something. "Yeah, yeah, I know!" he said loudly.
Heads turned. Julian let loose of Henry's ass. "No, don't let go! That's the point!" Henry picked up Julian's hands, hooked them over his hipbones. "Or wherever you had them. No, see, I've been figuring all this stuff out, and I agree! I'm like a thing, or like ... a meal, or ... whatever!" Everyone at the party was watching now, however furtively. Julian shielded his eyes, started chewing his bottom lip, mind whirling. The guy was wearing pink deck shoes. Cute. "Er, uh, let's go outside, okay?" Julian clutched Henry's hand. They zigzagged through their audience.
They pushed through a door clogged with drunken parents. The house had been built on a hillside. There were some steps carved in it that led up to a tilted vegetable garden. Julian dropped down on the third and fourth steps. Henry remained at their foot, smiling back at the house. Its windows were steamed. In the dirt below one was a puddle of purplish vomit, shaped exactly like Texas. "Now, what were we saying?" Julian yawned. Henry had started to teeter around pretty weirdly. "Oh ... I forget. I, uh, feel ... I guess, dizzy." He hiccupped, sat.
Julian reached out his hand, debated for a second or two, then let it penetrate Henry's long, slightly tangled black hair around the area of the nape. It was like a little cave under there. That gave Julian chills for some reason. He bunched his fingers and snaked them slowly along the narrow, curving tunnel, trying not to skim against the wall of hair on one side, or Henry's neck on the other. He managed to get about an inch and a half before Henry's left shoulder twitched, fucking everything up.
Julian traced the jagged part in Henry's hair with one fingertip. Back, forth, back, forth ... Henry rested his chin in his hands, blew some air through his lips. "You want to come over to my place and sleep off whatever you're on?" Julian asked. The head swiveled a little. "I've already slept with somebody tonight." "Well, then, give me your number at least." Henry's forehead scrunched up. "Three ... eight, five ... four, four-" "Wait." Julian yanked out a pen, pressed its nub to the back of his hand. "Again."
"So he said it again. You know, three-eight-five-whatever, and I wrote it on the back of my hand. You can still see it. Then we had a long, slow kiss with lots of tonguing and stuff, and I left." Julian glanced at his wristwatch. "Left? Left?!" I said, my voice tinny and sharp at the other end of the line. Julian held the receiver away from his ear. "Yeah, I had to see a client at two, unfortunately for everyone involved. Ugh." I started
to say something. "Gotta go," Julian said. "See you in ... about an hour?"
He traipsed into his bedroom, undressed, and stood in front of the full-length mirror. Over the past year or two he'd figured out how to look at himself with complete objectivity, at least in the nude. He squinted. His reflection fogged up, disconnected from him. Now he was a john-older, uglier, hornier. Was that cute kid in the mirror worth $100, $150? The cute kid smiled at Julian hopefully. Scratch, scratch, scratch. "What the ... ?" Julian peered over the cute kid's right shoulder, refocusing his eyes.
His brother, Kevin, was out in the hall, slumped on the door frame, watching. One hand pawed his knee with a spidery motion. "So," Julian said, "what do you think of your bro, Kev?" Kevin blinked. "You do realize you can barge right on in," Julian added. Kevin's mouth tilted a bit, but his eyes remained fixed on Julian's ass, or on that general vicinity. "Hey, are you stoned or something?" Kevin shook his head, stepped in, turned stiffly, and clicked the door shut.
"What, is Mom on the rampage?" Julian said the word "Mom" in italics. It was one of the two or three words that always woke Kevin up when he spaced out like this. The kid's shoulders contracted an inch. "Sort of, yeah." "Well, sit." Kevin eased himself down on the edge of the bed, squeezed his knees tightly together, and jammed his fists in between them. "But can we not talk about it, Julian? Can we talk about something ... I don't know?" He looked to his left. "About them?"
Kevin was looking painfully at the cover of the latest Black Sabbath LP. As usual, misery focused the kid in some way. Julian wanted to hug Kevin, or he didn't want to exactly, it just seemed appropriate. Still, he was naked, so that made it inappropriate for reasons too complicated to think about. "What about them?" Julian leaned back on the icy mirror. "Is it good?" Kevin asked. "Yeah, you want to borrow it?" The mirror felt great. "Sure." Kevin smiled weirdly.
Frisk: A Novel (Cooper, Dennis) Page 1