by Wade Lake
Aware that he has captured his audience's undivided attention, Jim pinches a thumb and forefinger and holds the pose to indicate it's time for the moral to his rambling tale: "Growing up in a society that doesn't admit you exist is a frightening experience, yes, but not a wholly unpleasant one. You see, the same culture that forced my generation—your predecessors—into the shadows, also liberated us. Sexually. It freed us from thinking of sex as a commitment.”
What? Mack isn’t sure he heard that right.
Jim must notice Mack’s skepticism because he looks at Mack and winks before adding, “In my youth, relationships were simple. Expectations were simple. There were no angst-filled gay romance novels to make us long for true love. Our sex lives were a stack of loose-leaf, single-sentence erotica."
Chase chuckles. “You could be right.”
Jim is speaking to Chase now: "Men of your generation can take a lifetime to even decide whether they're gay. My generation didn't waste our time. Life happened fast. We acted as soon as an opportunity presented itself. We could pack a lifetime's worth of debauchery into minutes." He smiles. "And we did."
"Wow," Chase says.
Bullshit, Mack thinks to himself.
Jim's tongue skims his lower lip slowly. "The closet, despite its negative stereotypes, was a magical place," he says. "It transformed us."
"Transformed?" Chase asks. He leans forward in his chair. He seems genuinely curious.
"From bashful, stuttering young men," Jim explains, "into filthy, bawdy, gluttonous little pigs."
"Little pigs, little pigs," Jeremy says. "Oink, oink."
Chase laughs uncomfortably and pours himself another drink. "I never know when you're being serious, Jim."
"Oh, I wouldn't joke about the best days of my life," Jim says, sliding his own glass forward for a refill.
Mack looks down at his chicken and potatoes. He doesn't want to be here.
"In my youth," Jim continues, "after a brief but truly raunchy party—" He places his hand over his heart for dramatic effect. "For days afterward, I'd catch whiffs of the orgy off the suits of random businessmen walking past me on Canal Street—"
"Probably not all you caught," Mack mumbles.
"Their round bellies sloshing like full buckets, the scent of a hundred men working its way out their pores, saturating their undershirts and suit jackets."
Mack feels suddenly sick.
"Enjoy what's left of your youth, boys," Jim says, his eyes rolling upward in reminiscence. "I remember freedom like it was yesterday."
"Well," Mack cuts in, clears his throat, "I believe that being in a committed relationship is a kind of freedom."
"You can believe that, but it's naïve," Jim says flatly. "Freedom is nobody asking for a ring. Nobody asking for a name. Freedom is what you feel when the only thing anybody wants from you is a taste—just enough to compare your flavor to that of the man next in line."
"Wow,” Mack says. "I, uh, disagree.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
“Well … either way, it’s not really dinner talk, sir."
Chase hits Mack with a scowl. "Don't be rude, babe."
"I like to pet the pig who lives at the zoo," Jeremy says.
"Not being rude," Mack defends. "I just don't want to hear about certain graphic subjects when I'm eating—"
"Sorry," Jeremy says quickly. He looks like he's about to cry.
"No, no, Jeremy, it wasn't you," Mack stokes the back of Jeremy’s hand to console him.
Jim laughs. "I'm sorry, too."
"You got nothing to be sorry about," Chase cuts in.
"No, Mack's right," Jim says, still chuckling. "Orgies aren't polite dinner talk. Not these days."
"Fuck politeness," Chase says. He's clearly a bit tipsy. "I love your stories, Jim. Know why? Because I can appreciate the lessons of history.” He thumps his chest and squares his shoulders sanctimoniously. “As gay men,” he explains, "knowing our history is important."
"Kinda ironic you would say that," Mack says.
Ignoring Mack, Chase leans toward Jim. "Never let someone stop you from telling your story."
"You spent time in the closet, yourself," Jim says to Chase. "I'm sure you have a story or two."
"Nothing like yours. Don't get me wrong, I was pretty wild. You saw me on the prowl a time or two, but—"
"How are the potatoes?" Mack asks Chase.
Chase pauses, irritation narrowing his eyes. "Not your best work," he says and shovels another spoonful into his mouth. "Too dry. Like shredded paper." He points to the potatoes on Jim's plate. "Don’t feel obligated to eat those."
Jim shakes his head. "Don't worry. I only put them on my plate to be polite."
Mack glares at Jim. "That's so well-mannered of you."
"Please, don't be offended. I follow a very strict diet. No carbs, no sugar—except alcohol, of course."
"If you had told me that beforehand—"
"I didn't want you to alter your routine."
"I could have boiled you some swamp eggs."
"Oh, but those are for you,” Jim says. Honestly, I can't stand their taste—reminds me of a long-haired Cajun I used to wrestle with in high school. Bad news. Anyway, I only buy the eggs because Widower George—the fellow who sells them at Farmer's Market—he’s so pretty.”
“You’ve told us.”
“I used to just throw them straight into the compost bin, but Chase told me how fast you go through them, so I keep sending them home with him. You’re welcome."
Chase makes a croaking noise.
Mack looks over.
Chase's eyes are wide open. Too wide. His face is red and turning blue.
Mack jumps out of his chair, ready to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
Before Mack can get to him, a wet cough bursts from Chase's open mouth, and a lump of potatoes shoots onto his plate.
Mack begins rubbing Chase’s back in small circles as one does to calm an infant. "You okay?"
"I'm fine!" he snaps, clearly embarrassed. "Stop touching me."
Mack sits back down.
"What happened?" Jim asks, his face wrinkled with amusement.
Chase begins digging through the lump of potatoes and saliva with his fingers—pulls out a misshapen ball about the diameter of a quarter.
"What is that?" Mack asks.
Chase digs his thumbs into the ball. It opens like a wad of paper.
It is paper.
A sheet of paper.
He continues unrolling it, lays it on the table, and smooths it out with his fist. "What the fuck, Mack?" It's the last page of his detective novel.
Mack looks at Jim. "What the fuck, Jim?"
Chase is only looking at Mack. "I could'ave choked to death! I could'ave died!"
"He could have choked to death!" Mack shouts at Jim. "He could have died!"
Jim looks thoroughly confused. Or is he just trying not to laugh?
Jeremy is laughing. He puts a fist to his nose to mimic a snout. "Oink! Oink!"
Chase quickly balls the page back up with both fists and throws it at Mack—
It misses—
Zips over his shoulder and is sucked through the grate of the box fan; it pops a couple times against the plastic blades before passing through to the outside.
“What the fuck, Chase?”
“What the fuck, Mack?”
They snarl at each other for a second then, remembering they are not alone, Chase looks to Jim in horror. "I'm so embarrassed," he says, covering his plate with his paper towel.
"Don't be," Jim says, enjoying the moment. "Jeremy and I prank each other all the time. He gets so mad."
"Sometimes Jim teases me, and I get so frustrated because I don't like it," Jeremy says.
Jim shrugs. "Makes for great sex afterward."
Chase looks at Mack. Their eyes lock. If looks could kill, they'd both be dead. "Maybe so," Chase says, "but it won't be with him."
He didn't mumble it.
&
nbsp; Mack didn't imagine it.
Chase said it in a full, clear voice.
It's not the most unkind thing Chase has ever said, but it's the most unkind thing he's ever said for an audience.
Jim roars with laughter.
Mack shifts in his chair. He doesn't dare show it, but he's in pain. Worse than if Chase had hit him. His whole soul aches. He knew these people would be a bad influence on Chase. He just wasn't prepared for just how bad it would be. He lifts his spoon, scoops up a bit of potato, tries to bring it to his mouth, but his hands are shaking. He sets down his spoon and hides his hands in his lap. Time is either speeding up or slowing down. Mack's not sure which. Everyone but Mack is laughing, so Mack joins in. He's no idea what he's laughing about.
Doesn't matter.
Now everyone is talking. Slowly. Now quickly. Gesturing with their arms. Shaking and nodding their heads. Elton John is spinning round and round on the turntable. Mack imagines him sitting cross-legged atop the vinyl disc, wearing a Stars-and-Stripes top hat and over-sized sunglasses. Indistinct voices whirl around the room. Mack couldn't care less what any of them are saying. Scooting his chair from the table and standing up abruptly, he asks, "Anybody need more wine?"
"Would love another glass," Jim says.
"Grab a couple bottles," Chase says.
Mack still hasn't eaten much, but he’s downed three full mugs of wine. The others have drunk more. How much? He's lost count. He's lost count of everything. As he rises from his chair and heads toward the kitchen, the walls seem to lean in towards him. The floor seems to sink a little with every step.
When he returns to the table with two new bottles, Chase is showing Jim and Jeremy a picture on his phone. They're all snickering.
"You slept with him, too?" Jim asks.
"I got the picture, don't I?"
"I can't believe you kept that."
"I didn't even know I had it 'til today. I'm tectonically illiterate—technologically illiterate. But Mack showed me how to find archived pictures from the cloud."
Jim feigns concern. "Hope he didn't see this one?"
"Fuck him. He knows I was single once."
Mack sets the bottles in front of Chase. "Who's dick we looking at?"
"Just a guy," Chase says without looking up.
Jim touches Mack's arm as if to soothe the sting of Chase's response. "A fellow who used to hang out at Jerks Bar and Grill bar," Jim explains. "I thought he was straight. He told me I was the only man he'd ever been with."
Mack pulls away from Jim's touch.
"Told me that, too," Chase snickers. "I knew he was lying."
"How?" Jim asks.
"Because that's what I told guys," Chase laughs. "I would say, 'Man, I shouldn't be doing this, I've never been with a man, never even curious … but I'm so horny right now, dude, I could fuck the tailpipe of every truck in the parking lot—‘cept Chevies, I ain’t gonna fuck no Chevies—but line up the ass ends of a couple F-150s with dual performance exhaust, son, I'm dropping trou and runnin' a train.'” Chase pauses abruptly, placing a hand to his ear as if listening for something.
Jim and Jeremy look concerned.
“Hear that?” Chase says.
Mack doesn’t hear anything. Thankfully.
“That’s the sound of uncomfortable laughter. The sound of a straight boy who knows what’s coming, but isn’t sure he wants to go there.”
Jim nods, impressed.
“So I wait until the guy’s laugh runs out,” Chase explains. “I let a little silence go by, I let him roll it over in his mind for a minute, sometimes longer, I let it get real uncomfortable, then, finally, I say, 'Man, I feel like I can trust you. Can I? Can I trust you to take this big cock and never tell a living soul?"
"Oh, baby," Jim says in a breathy voice, "my lips are sealed, and my tailgate is open."
Chase slaps Jim's shoulder. "That doesn't make even make sense, but you're hilarious."
Mack feels like he’s back in high school. Actually, this is way worse than high school.
Noticing the fresh wine bottles in front of him now, Chase grabs the closest bottle and, using both hands, attempts to twist off the cork.
Mack takes the bottle from Chase and picks up the corkscrew.
"Did your girl ever find out?" Jim asks
"Which one?" Chase giggles.
"Any of them."
Mack pierces the cork with the corkscrew. Begins twisting.
"Most of them, yeah. I was never good at hiding shit. Not with women, at least."
Mack twists the corkscrew faster, deeper.
"Women are scary smart about that kind of thing. I was dating a girl named—fuck, I don't remember her name, we weren't serious. Anyway, I went over to see her after work one time. Just so happens, I'd let a guy at the worksite blow men in the porta john that day—nothing more than that, I mean the whole hookup took maybe five minutes. Anyway, soon as I get to my girl’s place, soon as I step through the door, she’s cravin’ some dick. I mean, really wanting it. I barely got the door shut, and she’s all up in my business. So I'm like, 'fine,' and drop my gear right there. I drop m'pants an' underpants, and she drops to her knees and jams her face right up in there, and I'm leaning back against the wall, ready for her to make it worth my time, right? That's when she just stands up, eyes on fire, and tells me my bush smells like cheap aftershave."
"Busted!" Jim laughs.
Chase smirks. "I run my hand down there, bring it up, take a sniff. I say, 'That shit's Tom Ford, that ain't cheap.'"
"Hilarious."
"I thought so. She didn't. Bitch fuckin' slapped me."
Mack pushes the screw levers downward, and the cork rises.
“What happened next?” Jim asks.
“Well, I told her she was crazy. She was imagining things. Didn't work though. Not that time. Like I said, bitches can be scary smart. Somehow, she knew what I'd done 'fore I even walked in the door. I think she just pretended to be horny as an excuse to get down there and give me the smell test.”
“That’s not fair,” Jim sympathizes.
“Total setup."
The cork pops from the bottle's mouth.
Jim finishes his drink with a gulp. "That's a great story."
"Sounds like abuse," Mack says and sets the cork on the table.
"Nawl, she didn't hurt me that bad."
"I meant you playing with her head, telling her she's imagining things."
Chase grabs the bottle from Mack's hands. "Lighten up, Mack. We were young and dumb."
Mack grabs the bottle back. "Still kinda cruel," he says.
Chase seems confused by the loss of the bottle but quickly forgets he ever had it. "You're crazy, too," he tells Mack.
Mack shrugs. Refills Jim and Jeremy's glasses, then his own mug. He refills Chase's glass last.
"She and I weren't serious," Chase defends, unwilling to let the subject drop. "Would have been different if we'd been serious."
"So," Mack says casually, "you've never cheated when it’s serious?"
"Never," Chase says as if it's an obvious answer to a stupid question.
"Good to know."
"Of course, it wasn't serious," Jim jumps in. "Men like us are never serious with women."
"Weeehhhllll," Chase rolls out the word comically. "Never say never." His lips are stained red. His face is glowing. He’s definitely drunk now. Mack can't help but think back to that first time he saw Chase drunk—in that bar in Bywater known for its half-priced appetizers. Just like back then, Chase's voice is getting loud enough to make everything he says sound more important than it is. His gestures are broad and sweeping. His whole personality is amplified. Mack knows what's next. He'll become overly confident, spontaneous, sentimental … He might even cry.
Mack takes his seat. Takes a sip from his mug, eyes fixed on Chase as if watching a TV screen. This could be entertaining. Chase is definitely going to embarrass himself. Twenty-four hours ago, Mack wouldn't have let him do it. It was Mack's jo
b to watch out for Chase. Keep him from making a fool of himself. Now, he's okay with watching it happen.
Chase's clumsy right hand reaches for Jim and lands on his shoulder. Chase pulls Jim towards him and leans in his chair as if to make sure the words that pass between them don't have far to travel. "There's a reason I never say never."
"Oh, do tell," Jim encourages.
Chase strokes his beard thoughtfully. Seductively. "You see, I've always considered myself a world-class lover."
"Oh, my."
"I have the gift," Chase says proudly. "But it's also a curse. You see, when I fall, I fall deeply. And it can happen with just about anyone. It crosses all the lines. Age, gender, race—even politics."
"Really?"
"I'm not bragging. It's just part of being an emotional magnifying glass, an empath. You see, I feel what people need, and I can't help but want to provide them with whatever that is—of course, usually a good dose of dick does the trick, 'cause who don' nee' dat?" Chase laughs hard at his own joke, and the rising vibrato between syllables makes him sound like he's about to cum. It reminds Mack of the cookout in City Park when Chase and Mack made love in the horseshoe pit surrounded by 800-year-old live oaks. Mack wraps his arms around himself and squeezes. He imagines the live oak out in the yard doing the same.
"So you've been serious with a woman?" Jim asks, clearly unconvinced.
"I have," Chase says. "But … I'd rather talk about guys. Let me show you some mo' these dick pics, and you tell me if you recognize any of 'em."
"Angel," Mack interrupts.
Chase and Jim look up as if they had forgotten anyone else was in the room.
"The girl who used to live in this house," Mack says. "Chase was pretty serious with her."
"The girl I used to see you walking with?" Jim asks. His mouth twists into a dirty smile. "She lived here? How deliciously awkward."
Chase shrugs. "Not awkward."
"He's lying," Mack says. "It's very awkward. He didn't tell me he dated someone who used to live here until yesterday."
"Oh, dear." Jim pantomimes a frown. "That definitely qualifies as awkward—I need a top-off for this." He slides his glass forward.
Jeremy slides his glass forward, too.
Mack tops them off. His hands are barely shaking now.