by James Gregor
Gesturing toward the crowd, Toller screamed into Richard’s ear.
“I’m starting to think arranged marriages are the way to go!”
“Really?”
“They cut passion out, and someone else does all the work!”
“But don’t some people find passion in them as well? If they’re lucky?”
“That’s not the point! If you’re more friends, but just have sex to reproduce, you’re less likely to break up.”
They danced for a few songs, and then went up to the roof to smoke. Across the river, the skyline of Manhattan shone persuasively. Richard wondered where Anne was, in among the archaic computer bank of the gathered buildings. He imagined her on a sofa, in childish patterned pajamas, watching Netflix; naked, floating in a bathtub, her pelvis rising toward the air with the longing of a bubble as it bursts, eyes closed and the dull immensity of silence in her ears.
“Someone slipped this into my pocket,” Amir said, holding up a gum wrapper on which was written, in a spidery blue script, I DON’T CARE and a phone number.
“It’s what you call meeting in person,” Barrett said.
“It could be true love,” said Toller.
When they went back down to the dance floor, Richard was promptly waylaid by a group of large, hairy, gregarious men. As the group disintegrated and he made his way toward the bar, someone grabbed his shoulder. The grip was provoking, like a declaration of commitment in that room where an alert neutrality prevailed.
He turned around. The hand on his shoulder was attached to Blake, his erstwhile date from the High Line. Looking stoutly appealing in a white T-shirt and black jeans, Blake stood there with a grin on his face that was disarming in the sea of impervious faces.
“How are you?” he screamed in Richard’s ear.
Richard didn’t immediately register the question, but he felt a leap in his skin.
“How are you?” Blake repeated.
“I’m good!” Richard said, smiling. The room abruptly glimmered. “I thought nobody came here anymore!”
Blake wrapped his arms around Richard’s torso, and Richard responded in kind. They were knocked back and forth by passing bodies.
“Have you ever Eskimo-kissed?” Blake asked.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his nose against Richard’s nose, then stepped back, his hand brushing across Richard’s crotch. Richard felt a rotation in his mind, as though he was being turned away from everything that had recently been happening in his life and, from what he could see in Blake’s eyes, toward the uncomplicated chemistry of two men in a state of happy horniness.
“I was hoping I’d see you again.”
“Me too!” Blake said. “Yurrrr hot!”
Then you should have texted me back, Richard thought. But in that scatterbrained age of utter flakiness, what was the sense of pointing that out?
The song changed and the beat turned frenetic and aggressive, like a bucket of rocks thrown over the crowd. The crowd threw their arms in the air, beating back the assault. Blake dragged Richard in among the bodies and they dug out a small, airless pocket. It was comforting, and not unsexy somehow, that Blake, with his earnest and spirited moves, was an even worse dancer than Richard. His arms and legs swung out in spastic arcs, like a primitive android imitating its clumsy human progenitors. A tall, beautiful Asian guy in a ball cap gave them a nasty look. Then an impish white guy with a jutting disc of brown hair leered close and screamed “Husband material!” at Blake before dancing off.
“We’re not very good dancers,” Richard said when the music briefly lulled.
“That’s okay,” Blake said, his hands upturned and fingers spread apart, beckoning Richard toward him. Richard stepped forward and found himself in a quick damp embrace, their stubbly cheeks roughly stuck, the hard lump of Blake’s crotch against his leg. For a second their belt buckles caught, and then scraped apart.
Richard wondered where Patrick was. Had Patrick noticed that someone had chosen Richard, if perhaps just for a moment?
“I’m wearing a jockstrap tonight,” Blake said into Richard’s ear, which struck Richard as both hilarious and seductive. “It’s not as comfortable as I’d hoped.”
“Are you really wearing a jockstrap?”
“Yup.”
“Planning on some football later?”
They hugged again, and Richard reached a finger down under Blake’s belt and caught one of the thin pieces of fabric that cupped Blake’s buttocks. He tugged and Blake grunted.
All of a sudden Richard felt their blended desire to fuck like a clenched fist that needed to smash through an obstacle before it could rest. He smiled to himself, his lips grazing Blake’s earlobe, as he imagined them trying to leave the club with their crotches stuck together, four-legged, conjoined at that place that in the moment seemed to matter most.
He was so drunk, the music was so loud; he felt they might dissolve into the pandemonium. He caught sight of a few men standing alone, flummoxed outsiders engaged in a restless audit of the fringes, a longing scrutiny. He felt sympathy for them; he felt like they should just go for it.
The music decelerated and grew quiet.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Blake said.
Their first, seemingly discarded date appeared now like a prolonged case of mistaken identity. It had been two other people, or Blake behaved as if it had. Or maybe this was the night they would have spent together, time had cycled back on itself, and tomorrow would shimmer with déjà vu.
The interregnum was part of the choreography; the teasing absence was the out-of-body prelude to this warm, thumping, in-body resolution.
“Yes,” Richard said, as if he could never answer quickly enough.
Blake took his hand and led him out of the crowd.
“Bye-bye!” Amir said with a wink as he saw them brush past.
The end of the night—leaving the club, waiting for a car, climbing the stairs to Blake’s apartment—would be a flickering shade, Richard imagined. In his recollection there would be enjoyable, outlandish blurring. As they broke free of the crowd and made their way to the door, he thought he was saying goodbye to Patrick when he waved at someone tall and blond. There was a brief spark of nasty pleasure at this confusion and neglect. He told himself it might have been anyone and he didn’t care, though of course he wanted it to be Patrick, a witness to the confirmation that he was leaving and he wasn’t alone.
* * *
THEY WENT BACK TO Blake’s apartment, their knees touching in the car, heavy and quiet with expectation. The night had turned cool. There was a garland of mist around the streetlights.
In Blake’s apartment, they walked and then blundered through the kitchen and into his bedroom. Blake dove to kiss with a lunging, arcing tongue, which is what Richard liked; he was disappointed by dainty kissers, guys who paused to say “not so much tongue” or made similar protests. Once Richard had even burped in a screenwriter’s face in the aftermath of such a comment. It wasn’t intentional, but there had been a willed and Freudian quality about it.
They were standing by the bed, kissing, and now Richard was kneeling in front of Blake, and Blake had his fingers in Richard’s hair.
Richard always paused—it was probably too quick for anyone else to notice—before he undid a zipper and a cock rose to meet him. It always took on the cliff-edge, indulged, spoiled aspect of waking up on a holiday when you were poised for gifts or at least a different kind of attention. When a final compatibility was established—Richard was versatile but preferred to top—he could settle or launch into what was happening. But it was the question of how to do it without talking, which he preferred.
He liked to be a little forceful, and this had confused him with Anne; he hadn’t known how forceful he should be. The literal mechanics were of course not mysterious but the qualities of the symbiosis they were trying to achieve, because it had felt like they were groping toward something beyond the mere thudding contact of their two bodies, had remained
perceptible but out of reach. It was more complicated than this.
They struggled, as if arresting each other, into Blake’s big, comfortable, fresh-smelling bed, which felt like an island of hygiene in the messy room. Part of Richard just wanted to hug Blake all night, to squeeze him, and to maintain contact with his every warm inch, not even to bother with artful mechanics. The intensity of the feeling surprised him.
The next morning when he woke up painfully early, as he usually did after a night of drinking, Richard was horribly thirsty. He propped himself up on an elbow and surveyed the room. In the previous night’s darkness, he’d had a vague but strong sense of its disorder. The morning light revealed a topsoil of clothing and documents covering the floor. On the dresser, deodorants, shampoos, and empty coffee cups formed a dim, rippling horizon.
Blake slid into the declivity between them. He appeared profoundly asleep, with the waxy perspiring tint of a body struggling to process large quantities of alcohol. A drop of saliva fluttered at one corner of his mouth. Two symmetrical rings of black hair swirled out on his soft pectorals.
Richard nestled his fingers in the hair of Blake’s chest. Blake shifted and swallowed. He opened one eye.
“Oh God, why are you awake?”
His voice was gravelly.
“Can I say something?” Richard said.
“You’re already talking,” Blake replied, his eye closing again.
“That was fun,” Richard said, fondling Blake’s nipple.
Blake exhaled audibly through his nose.
“Go back to sleep,” he said, his face settling into a still, bearded mask.
Staring at the ceiling, Richard lay down beside him again. He knew he would be unable to fall back asleep in that unfamiliar bed, his body touchy and resentful after the stew of beer and cocktails he’d consumed only a few hours earlier.
Anyway, it was better to leave early than late. He rolled over and looked at Blake.
One of Blake’s pectorals twitched, likely at the beginning of a dream. Richard softly poked it.
“On your profile, the gym was high on your list of favorite things.”
Blake groaned.
“Everyone’s profile says that.”
“I’m going to give you your space back, okay?”
Blake opened both eyes. “You’re welcome to stay.”
“I have to go.”
“Okay.”
Blake slid his hand around Richard’s waist, rolled over, and kissed his belly. Then he groaned again and swung out of bed. He put on some clothes, while Richard did the same.
They walked to the front door.
“Can I say something else?” Richard said.
“You really like talking early in the morning, I take it?”
“I thought you weren’t interested after our first date.” Worried that he was being too candid, Richard nevertheless pressed on. “When I didn’t hear from you.”
“It wasn’t you.”
Blake rubbed his eyes.
“That’s good to hear,” Richard said.
Blake slid his hand around Richard’s waist.
“It was work.”
“Oh, work.”
“And then, I’d left it so long, I felt sheepish,” Blake said, more alert now. “I was afraid you wouldn’t write back. I don’t like rejection.”
He smiled as he said this.
“Nobody does,” Richard said.
“Are you getting an Uber?” Blake asked.
“The subway.”
“You’re taking the subway? That’s brave. I couldn’t face the subway right now.”
Blake told him the quickest route, and they hugged for a long moment.
“See you?” Blake said.
“See you soon,” Richard said.
Words in these moments were full of a hunger to be away. Whether to eventually return, it was not clear.
Richard stepped out of the apartment and Blake closed the door gently behind him.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER RICHARD arrived back at his apartment, his eyes fizzing and dry with fatigue. When he opened the door he was startled to find Courtney, the barista from Sloppy, perched on the sofa, wearing a green flannel button-down shirt that was too big for her.
“Hey, Richard.”
“Hi, Courtney.” He closed the door behind him, speaking quietly. The sun was beginning to rise over the buildings across the street. “What are you doing here?”
They stared at each other, and Richard abruptly noticed that it was Leslie’s shirt Courtney was wearing. Possibly his socks too.
“I’m meditating. Where are you coming from so early?”
“Why is it so hot in here?” he said, ignoring her question.
“Not sure. Oh, we made muffins, if you want one.” Richard’s nerves pulsed with irritation at the word “muffins.” “Long trip?”
“Um, yeah. The train stopped for like ten minutes between each station.”
“Leslie and I spent all yesterday baking together.”
“That’s nice, Courtney. Well, I’m going to bed.”
“We’ll be cooking breakfast soon if you want to join.”
“Maybe I will, maybe. Depends on when I get up. Thanks for the offer.”
“Sure thing. Sweet dreams, Richard!”
Richard went into his room and closed the door. Almost immediately, Courtney and Leslie started clattering around the kitchen, laughing and dropping things on the floor. He undressed and slid into bed, the specters of Anne, Patrick, and Blake scampering away in the brambles of his fatigued mind, like lost, big-eyed does. It was comforting to have them all there. Trying to hold them in place, he closed his eyes and lay still.
ELEVEN
WHERE ARE YOU?
Richard texted Anne when he woke up, feeling like someone in the aftermath of a hurricane who had declined to heed the evacuation order.
So recently sticky and sweaty, his body had dried into a state of fusty peacefulness and ache. It would be nice to maintain this feeling, the olfactory and muscular evidence of his time with Blake, he thought. But he was desperate to shower. And his head throbbed.
Having sent the text, he hid his phone for a moment in the folds of the blankets, as if he could forget that it was there. Several impressions vied with each other. There was the familiar, mundane guilt of a wasted morning, which Richard had become used to since the appearance of his writer’s block. There was the excitement of having slept with Blake, the residual static of value granted to his limbs by the devoted attention of another person. And underlying all this, a startling current of guilt, mixed with a desire to know immediately where Anne was, a need to make contact.
The phone quivered in the blankets. He fished it out.
I’M AT HOME, Anne wrote. WHAT’S UP?
DON’T BE COY.
I’M NOT BEING COY.
WHY HAVEN’T YOU TEXTED BACK? he asked with some hesitation.
There was a pause. No answer. She was better at these games than he would have predicted.
He waited a moment, then asked:
WHAT ARE YOU UP TO TONIGHT?
She was busy having dinner with her father that evening, but the following night, she said, Richard should accompany her to the opera.
The next day and a half passed in an unfocused blur of his romantic prospects. Richard was relieved when it was time to go into the city and meet Anne at Lincoln Center.
It was a production of Mussorgsky’s Eugene Onegin. They met in the plaza and went inside. In her black sheath dress and red patent-leather pumps, Anne looked like a threatening young lawyer. Wearing a blazer and jeans, Richard made a more earnest impression.
They walked down the aisle toward their seats, and then turned their bodies sideways to preserve the knees of the elderly, early-arrived spectators who made up the majority of the audience.
“I love a capricious nobleman,” Anne said with an air of satisfaction.
Taking his seat, Richard surveyed the space. The backgrou
nd was a lush purple forest. A quilt of fallen gold leaves covered the stage.
“Thanks for inviting me,” he said. Then he paused. “Honestly, I thought I might not hear from you.”
Anne looked surprised.
“Of course you were going to hear from me.”
“You don’t usually go so long without being in touch.”
“I was busy,” she said. “I had things to do. My father was here.”
He smiled. “You were just trying to string me along.”
“Oh, sure. I do have a life, you know.”
“Of course I know.”
“I wanted to give you space,” she said, with an air of reflection. “I wanted you to have time to process.”
“It didn’t feel like space. Well, okay, it felt like empty space.”
She squeezed his arm. “You could have written too.”
“I did.”
“Eventually,” she said, with a slight exhale.
He sighed.
“Is this a stupid text standoff thing?” he asked.
“I guess it is. Let’s not fall into that.”
The lights dimmed and puffy figures ran around the stage in heavy costumes. Richard was still unable to summon an enthusiasm that, through years of trying to appreciate opera, had always eluded him. Soon Anne was snoring. Why did she want to go to the opera if she found it dull? She could be so strange, Richard thought, getting annoyed. Maybe she had been up all night working.
At one point she opened her eyes and they stared at each other, then she closed them again. A whiskered man in a navy blazer sighed haughtily beside her, draping one leg over the other. When the lights came on for first intermission, she woke up and sat bolt upright.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“It’s only the first intermission,” Richard protested.
“I want to walk around. I love Midtown at night.”
“But it’s so humid.”
She got to her feet.
“Let’s have a drink—maybe at Petrossian. I’m not responding to this production.”
“I can tell.”
“We can come back another time.”
“Fine,” he said, shaking his head.