by John Goode
“Where are you going?” I asked as he headed toward the door.
“Why do you care?” he asked and slammed it after him.
He was coming back; he always came back. He would walk around the block or whatever, cool off, and then come back, and we could really talk about this.
Five minutes passed.
He was coming back. I knew it.
Ten minutes.
He always came back.
Fifteen, and I opened the door and looked down in the alley.
His car was gone.
He wasn’t coming back this time.
Brad
I CALLED Colt and got the name of the club where he worked. I followed Google’s directions until I reached the Foothills in Walnut Creek. A lone road led upward, and I could see lights flashing from somewhere on the top of the hill. I drove up, not sure what to expect. A parking guy stopped me and gestured for me to roll down my window.
“Parking’s ten bucks and….” He paused and actually looked at me. “You know this is a gay club?” I nodded. “Okay, then. There are some spots in the back.”
“Ten?” I asked, moving for my wallet.
“Sweetie, trust me. You aren’t going to pay for a thing tonight.” He grinned and waved me in. I rolled up my windows and found a spot in the back. The lot was lousy with cars; the club had to be packed. I was about to get out when I took a glance at myself in the mirror. I looked like shit; my clothes were destroyed like I had slept in them, mostly because about an hour ago I had been. I didn’t have any product in my hair, and I looked miserable.
I needed something to improve all that.
Popping the trunk, I got out and started digging through the box of stuff I hadn’t unpacked yet. All my sports stuff, trophies, uniforms—everything was in that box. I’d kept putting off bringing it upstairs because there was no real room in the apartment for it, and I wasn’t sure if Kyle wanted me to put it up. I grabbed my Foster High cap and found my letterman jacket folded up at the bottom. I slipped it on and felt a thrill go through me.
This was how I used to dress to go out on Fridays before I met Kyle. I pulled my boxer briefs up a little so the waist was showing over the top of my jeans, made sure the cap was on just right so you could see my eyes under the bill. Jennifer used to call it my jock camouflage.
I called it my suit of armor.
A small line straggled along the front of the club, and I waited to get in. When I got as far as the doorman, he paused and looked me up and down. I made sure not to smile. “You have got to be kidding,” he said rolling his eyes. “Do you know what kind of club this is?” I nodded. “And you want me to let you in why? So you can drag one of my friends in the back and beat the shit out of him? Bitch, please.”
“I’m meeting a friend here,” I tried to assure him.
“Does your friend know what kind of club this is?”
“His name is Colt; he works here.”
And just like that, the attitude vanished. “Oh, you’re one of Colt’s boys. Goddamn, I wish I knew where he finds you all.” He gestured to the door. “Well, go on, before they start coming out here to cruise you.”
“Cover?”
He just laughed and waved me through.
This could be fun.
The music was deafening, but it was upbeat and frantic and I could feel my heart start to beat faster just hearing it. The people around me took a couple of steps back, some in shock, a couple in fear, most with lewd smiles on their faces. I doubt anyone dressed like me had walked in here before; everyone had on tight shirts, if they were wearing them at all, leather pants or shorts, and a lot of body glitter.
A space cleared around me as I walked through the place, half looking for Colt, half just taking it in. I wasn’t a fan, but I can’t deny that the attention was making me feel good. These weren’t old guys like at the gym. They were young—well, older than me, but younger than thirty. Most were in good shape; the ones who weren’t were skinny as hell and looked like they needed a sandwich in a bad way. No one was dressed normal, no one was acting normal, they were all… so….
Gay.
Yeah, yeah, get off my back, I know what I am but I’m not this. Not that this was bad. It just wasn’t me at all. I was starting to think coming here was a mistake when someone grabbed my arm and pulled me around. My other hand curled into a fist, a reflex from being weirded out, not a sign of attack.
“Whoa, slugger,” Colt said, drawing back. “I come in peace.”
He was shirtless, of course, but it was his pants—or lack of pants—that stood out to me. He was wearing these leather—I mean to say, they were made out of leather, but… oh, fuck it. He looked like he was wearing a pair of leather diapers, the shorts were so small. They… it… they, I guess, showed off his body, which was nice and all, but it was just so over the top that it lost all sensuality for me. I liked the way Kyle’s shirts were too baggy and when you lifted them you found the flat stomach underneath, or the way his pants hid the fact he was….
Oh, while we’re at it, Colt was lying about being hung like a mule, unless that mule was maybe an infant. Because if Kyle was wearing those shorts, there would be more hanging out than in. I don’t say that to be mean; I’m just saying. If you’re going to brag about having a big dick, either have one or don’t wear leather diapers in public.
In fact, don’t ever wear leather diapers in public. Ever. Like ever, ever.
“I was looking for you,” I shouted over the music. He broke out into a grin, and I knew he had taken that the wrong way. “Because this place is freaking me out and I was about to leave.”
His smile lessened.
“What’s wrong with this place? It’s epic!”
“Yeah, if epic included a bunch of people trying way too hard to look pretty,” I shot back.
“Well, some of us weren’t born looking like you, so we have to try harder.” He was still smiling, but I could hear a slight change in his voice when he shouted. Or it could have been I was going deaf from the pounding bass and he sounded exactly normal. “The jacket makes you look way butch, man.”
“I didn’t know what to wear,” I admitted.
“That’s easy,” he said, pulling the jacket off me. “Nothing!”
I let him take the jacket off because it was hot as hell wearing it, but when he reached for my shirt, I grabbed his hands. “No.”
“Brad, that shirt looks like ass! You have a body people would pay money to eat off of and you’re too hot to be shy. Take the shirt off and see how the other half lives.”
I didn’t move my hands, but as I looked around, I could see more people were shirtless than weren’t and the ones that weren’t looked… well, kinda gross. If I didn’t take my shirt off, would they assume I had nothing under it? And why should I care? I mean, no one here knew me anyway.
“Fine, but the first guy who touches me gets a broken finger.” I pulled the shirt off, and there was a small cheer from the people around me. I looked around and saw there were maybe ten to fifteen people watching me tuck my shirt into my back pocket and openly admiring what they saw.
“See? You didn’t explode and no one is grabbing at you,” Colt said, nudging me. “I’ll put your coat behind the bar and we’ll have some fun. You like lollipops?”
Who the hell asks that?
“Um, sure, who doesn’t?” I answered.
“Awesome, be right back.”
I was about to tell him not to leave me, but he was gone in the crowd.
Glancing around, I nodded and smiled to the people who were still staring, wondering why I had agreed to this. I should have been freaked out, but instead it was oddly comforting. I couldn’t figure it out for a second, and then I realized the looks I was getting reminded me of the looks I got in Foster. Either on the baseball field or even just out, that look people gave you when they liked what they saw. I hadn’t had that admiration in a while, certainly not from Kyle.
It felt good.
I was ab
out to go find Colt when he appeared out of nowhere with two shots in his hand. “Here. Drink,” he said, putting the shot glass to my lips.
It burned as it went down, and I felt myself choke a little as the warmness filled my chest. “What was that?” I gasped.
“Patrón,” he said, laughing. “Same as this one,” and he did it again. This time I actually managed to swallow the drink instead of trying to breathe it and the warmness expanded. I suddenly wished I had eaten before leaving the house. His laughing got louder. “There we go. Let’s see if we can get that gigantic stick out of your ass.” He pulled me to the dance floor. “Or better yet, get a gigantic stick up your ass.”
For some reason that was funnier than hell and I burst out laughing, which was proof enough.
I was buzzed.
Kyle
WHEN IT was clear Brad wasn’t coming back, I sat down on the couch, stunned.
He always came back, always. I mean, sure, maybe I shouldn’t keep pushing him away, but still… he didn’t come back. I felt numb—no, that’s not true. If I was numb, it wouldn’t have hurt like that. It was like being immersed in freezing water. There’s a feeling of pain but your body is so overwhelmed that it doesn’t really connect to your brain. That was what this was like; my heart was just too stunned to acknowledge it was in pain.
For now.
How did we come to this? In my mind I traced the steps back and found I was way too close to the problem to be objective about it. I knew Brad needed a life too, but did he have to do it at a fucking gay gym? And I knew he needed friends, but couldn’t he find a normal-looking guy? Wow, saying it like that, the problem really sounded like it wasn’t him at all, but me.
I needed to talk to someone but had no idea who.
It was past midnight in Texas, which didn’t actually rule Jennifer out, but it made calling her this late problematic. It was even later in New York, which meant calling Robbie was out too. Was I so messed up that I was actually considering calling my mommy and crying?
Screw that.
I opened my laptop and checked Facebook. Maybe someone was still up and I could send them a message. Jennifer’s last post was a selfie of her on the couch in PJs with some ice cream in her hand and the caption: “While the boy is away, I get to spend time with my first love. Ice cream.” That was hours ago, which sucked. Robbie’s last post was three hours ago and all it said was, “Men suck. That is all.”
Seemed like a shitty night all around.
I was about to cry when Facebook made a beep at me. I looked down and saw that Teddy had messaged me.
Teddy B: Hey you on?
Kyle Stilleno: Yep.
I so didn’t want to tell him about this, but what choice did I have? I literally had no other friends in the world. Man, I thought life was supposed to get better once you got out of high school.
Teddy B: What you and your man doing?
I swear it was like he knew something was up.
Kyle: He went out with a friend.
Long pause.
Teddy B: Without you?
My eyes began to sting as I typed back.
Kyle: Yep.
Several seconds passed and it didn’t say he was typing anything. I waited because I had nowhere else to go. This was my life, alone in my apartment wondering where my boyfriend was. No, scratch that, wondering if I still had a boyfriend. Finally another message popped up.
Teddy B: Want to talk?
If I called him, then I lost all high ground when it came to defending Brad from him. In fact, by telling him what happened, it would justify everything he already thought about pretty people. I tried not to think about how much I was starting to agree with him.
I sent my number and closed the laptop, taking a deep breath.
I picked up on the first ring, and he didn’t even wait for a hello.
“So what happened?”
“He wanted to go out to a club where his workout partner works and I didn’t.” It was enough of the truth without getting into the ugly details.
“Workout partner? Let me guess, perfect body? Ripped, cute as hell, and gay, right?”
“They play softball together,” I said miserably.
He barked an ugly laugh. “Sounds like he has more in common with the meathead than you.”
There was a small spark of anger, and my impulse was to argue the point. To defend Brad. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was drowned by the overwhelming sorrow filling up my heart. Instead all I said was, “Yeah, probably.”
Neither of us said anything for a while. I was trying to find the strength to say something, and I’m sure he was looking for something sympathetic that might make me feel better.
“Well, he’s an asshole,” he finally stated.
“He’s not an asshole,” I said weakly.
“Yes he is, and it isn’t his fault. Look, Kyle, people like that are used to people falling over themselves for them. They live on the attention. It isn’t anything you did. It’s just his nature.”
“Brad isn’t like that,” I said, not even believing it myself.
“Really? So he didn’t spend most of high school being popular because of his looks and his ability to play… whatever sport he played?”
“Baseball,” I mumbled.
“So he wasn’t considered a god because of baseball? Really?”
I had no answer.
“I’m not trying to be a dick, man. I’m just saying. He’s reverting to type.”
“I’m going to go,” I said, the pain finally starting to sink in.
“I’m going to be up all night if you need to talk.”
“Okay,” I said with no emotion in my voice at all.
I think he said something else, but I had already hung up the phone and begun to cry.
Brad
WHEN I woke up….
Wait a minute, when did I fall asleep?
I sat up quickly and regretted that and every action I had taken since I was seven years old as my head exploded with pain. I had been hungover before—shit, I’ve played nine innings with a hangover—but this… this was different. I fell back onto the… couch? I was on a couch? Where the fuck was I?
Pushing past the pain the sunlight was bringing me, I looked around and realized I had no idea where I was. It was a guy’s place, from the ’Niners flag pinned up on one wall and the flatscreen that had an Xbox and PS4 hooked up to it. There were empty beer cans on the coffee table and scattered clothes on the floor. They weren’t mine, so that was a good sign. I had a ratty blanket over me, and I looked underneath, and yep.
I was naked.
Fuck! I hated waking up naked with no idea where I was. It hadn’t happened to me before, but I could tell no matter how many times it might happen, I was never going to be a fan. I rolled the blanket around my waist and got up, almost falling in the process because my body still seemed to think I was drunk. I stumbled past a small dining room table with more beer cans and two empty, days-old pizza boxes on it on my way to the kitchen and fumbled open the fridge, hoping that, wherever I was, they had water.
Instead I found two containers of mustard, more beer, and an almost empty gallon of milk. Nothing else. It looked like my parent’s fridge when they went on vacation and left me at the house for two weeks. By the end of those two weeks, I think I was actually eating ketchup out of the bottle.
“Fuck it,” I mumbled to myself and grabbed a beer. I needed something to get the taste of dead raccoon out of my mouth.
Now that I was up and mobile, I looked around again for my stuff. My wallet, car keys, and cell phone were on the coffee table between the beer cans, but still no clothes. I unlocked my phone and saw it was almost noon on Saturday. I had five missed calls and two voice mails from Kyle.
The first one was a standard, “Hey, it’s me. You didn’t come home last night. Just let me know you’re alive, okay?” and nothing else. He didn’t sound mad or upset; he was just checking on me. The next one was much worse.
> “Okay, stop playing games, Brad. You want to not talk to me, fine, but at least let me know you’re alive, for fuck’s sake. You owe me at least that.”
I dialed him back, no idea what I was going to say.
“Are you okay?” he said in lieu of hello.
“Yeah,” I answered, relieved as hell to hear his voice.
“Good.” And he hung up.
Fuck.
I called him back but got his voice mail this time.
“Come on, Kyle. I was passed out, not ignoring you. Call me back.”
“Oh hey, you’re up,” a voice said from behind me. I spun around and saw a black guy in his midtwenties standing in the hallway wearing a pair of A&F sweats and nothing else. “Everything okay?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but who the fuck are you?” I asked, my anger from Kyle, being naked, everything starting to bubble over.
“Oh, one of those nights,” he said, smiling. “Hold on.”
He walked back down the hallway and banged on one of the doors. “Colton, wake up. Your friend is awake and pissed.”
“Colt’s here?” I asked, more to myself than to the stranger.
“Yeah, I’m Bruce, his roommate. We met last night?”
I shook my head.
“We talked for, like, an hour?”
Another shake.
“I stripped you naked?”
“You did what?” I growled.
“You puked all over yourself and passed out,” he said quickly. “I had to strip you and throw the clothes in the washer. You didn’t want me to let you sleep in your own vomit, did you?”
I’m going to be honest, it was a toss-up.
“Where are my clothes?” I asked as calmly as possible.