Steamy Dorm

by Kristine Robinson

  I slide down incrementally in my seat, until I have more reach. Using my left foot, I catch the heel of my right shoe and slide my right foot free. Then I stretch my leg forward under the table until my foot finds his foot, then his ankle. His eyes widen when I rub my foot along his ankle, dipping up and under his pant leg for a prolonged moment before continuing the migration. He’s having trouble maintaining his end of the conversation as my wandering foot travels up, inching along his inseam until I reach the inside of his thigh…Slouching in my seat as though completely relaxed, I’m tuned in to the tiniest vibrations in the charged air surrounding us as I work my foot onto the seat between his knees. Two can play at this game. Now I’m playing it cool and he’s struggling to maintain the pretense that we’re just having coffee. He’s breathing heavily and trying to restrain himself from escalating our interaction.

  Behind Ryan’s head, I can see a waitress approaching. Without alerting Ryan to her presence, I casually remove my foot from its harbor and sit up. When she asks if there’s anything else she can get for us, I respond politely, unfazed, but Ryan visibly jumps at the interruption. He had been completely absorbed and I suppress a laugh at his discomfiture. Perhaps it’s petty, but I feel like I’ve won our little contest of one-upmanship.

  The hour we set aside for interview prep, coopted by other distractions, has flown by and we both notice the time as though it had been suspended and now, suddenly reinstated. Just before 9 o’clock, we finish our coffees and walk the block and a half to the office, still chatting and flirting, finding excuses to touch. We part ways at the door, Ryan heading to his interview and me to accounting. I’m nervous as he walks away and hopeful that he’ll get the job. I got him the interview because I felt responsible for getting him fired but something has shifted over the course of the morning. He’s a real person now, not a stranger who inconvenienced me. I wish that I had been more understanding, or at least helpful, on Saturday when Ryan had come to collect William. No, it’s not just guilt motivating me anymore. I want him to get the job because I care about him and it would make him happy.

  I have trouble focusing on work and keep glancing at the clock. I wonder how the interview is going. It’s a quarter to 10; the interview is probably wrapping up. What if it was over a long time ago, didn’t go well, and Ryan just left without saying anything? I don’t know why I care so much, I just know that I do care.

  When Ryan finds me in accounting, I can’t suppress my grin. He seems exuberant and confides that the interview went well. It took a long time because Ryan really hit it off with the head security guard who was conducting the interview and so the interview segued into a tour of the building including security cameras and the operating room.

  “Hey, that’s great, Ryan. I’m so happy for you!”

  “Yeah, me too! This is a much better job than Annabelle’s was so, thank you for getting me fired! You broke it, yes, but you more than fixed it,” Ryan teased good-naturedly.

  “Yes yes, it’s all part of the service. And you are welcome,” I smiled back at him.

  The morning has flown by and my stomach is growling. I offer to buy Ryan Lunch. He hesitates and I see the good humor begin to evaporate as the mantle of responsibility begins to settle back onto his shoulders.

  “Come on, you’ve had a good morning. Let’s celebrate. Besides, I know you’re free because you would’ve had a shift at Annabelle’s right now if I hadn’t cleared your schedule for you.”

  I’m teasing myself now but it works. He can’t help smiling at the ridiculousness of our situation. He agrees to lunch with me.

  Chapter Eight

  Ryan:

  The interview high is starting to wear off as it dawns on me that I might soon be working days and nights while still minding Will and struggling to pass the bar. Despite that, I’m enjoying Dean’s company. He’s not just a ball of stress, after all. It seems like the executives at the office try to push him around a lot so he’s developed a thick skin and is quick to defend himself. When we clashed on Saturday, he had been in that angry, defensive frame of mind. But, when he opens up, he’s good company. He’s funny, warm, and listens attentively. Sometimes, when we’re talking, he touches my arm or puts his hand on my knee and gives it a squeeze. Hours later, I’m still thinking about his touch.

  He’s been an accountant and payroll specialist at BridgePoint for 5 years and is fed up with the corporate culture but the job is stable and the pay is decent. Dean’s tendency to not mince words, while off-putting in an irritable stranger, is refreshing in a friend. He’s very clear about who he is and what he wants out of life.

  “I’m just going to keep showing up. I’ll do the work, earn a pension, and retire. If I keep expenses low, I’ll be able to retire when I’m 50.”

  “And then what?”

  I’m expecting a shrug or the obvious ‘travel and have a good time’ response but, without hesitation, he says, “volunteer.”

  There’s a lot more to Dean than I imagined. Abrasive personality notwithstanding, he’s a true altruist, believing that his higher purpose is to help others. There’s no shortage of worthy causes and he’s just biding his time until he can fulfill his purpose. I’ve had my head to the grindstone for so long, it’s like a breath of fresh air to pick my head up and look around at the larger picture. Seeing life through his eyes, even for a little while, makes me feel optimistic about life and my fellow humans.

  Dean orders a salad with grilled chicken and I tease him about his healthy, calculating, corporate lifestyle. When I ask for a cheeseburger, he gives me a significant look.

  “What?” I ask pointedly. “I’m eating my stress. Don’t give me a hard time about it.”

  He laughs and spears a cherry tomato with his fork. He puts the tomato on my plate and follows it with a baby carrot and a piece of bel pepper. I hold the carrot between 2 fingers and take the end into my mouth. I hold it there for a few seconds, watching Dean’s rapt face, before snapping it with my teeth. He jumps visibly. Giving him a sideways smile, I eat the rest of the veggies.

  I’m halfway through my cholesterol sandwhich when I get a call from the office. I got the job! They want me to start immediately. Dean grins at me from across the table and I smile back but I can already feel my shoulders tightening under the weight. The next few weeks are going to be difficult as I adjust to this new commitment.

  Chapter Nine

  Dean:

  Hiring and firing are not in my job description but sometimes the higher ups pass the buck. I’ve had to fire people before; it doesn’t really get any easier with practice. Officially, they’re letting Jim go because of his “attitude,” meaning he isn’t enthusiastic enough about white-collar drudgery. Really, they’re firing him because he’s a baby boomer and can’t quite keep up with the latest technology. The last thing I want is to be the company spokesperson right now. My anxiety level is through the roof even before I pull Jim aside.

  “Jim, I’m sorry to have to tell you this but your client satisfaction rating is not where it should be. We’re looking for a little more ambition from our associates and an overall better attitude.”

  Jim’s face turns bright red. He’s taller than me and broader in the shoulders; being the larger and older man, he’s mortified at being dressed down at work but he tries to swallow his pride for the sake of his job.

  “I’ve been a little off my game this past couple of weeks. I’ll regroup and get my ratings up.”

  Jim doesn’t know that it was a done deal before I even opened my mouth. Besides, I lack any real authority to negotiate with him. I was sent to do just one thing.

  “I’m sorry, Jim, but we’re going to have to let you go.” I imagine that I hate myself saying these words almost as much as Jim hates me. But I underestimate how much Jim hates me.

  Jim’s face transforms from a polite, if uncomfortable, mask to reflect his real feelings as he realizes that he has nothing left to lose. He releases his pent-up shame and frustration by screaming at m
e. I am terrified. He’s yelling and waving his arms threateningly. I take a step back, and then another; Jim advances, looming over me. It looks like he’s about to punch me when Ryan appears out of nowhere and grabs his arm. Ryan, the security guard, to the rescue. Jim scowls at me but backs off.

  I stand rooted to the spot, still shaking, while Ryan escorts Jim out of the building. When he returns, he explains that he was a few minutes early for his shift and heard the commotion so he came over to see if he could help.

  “Are you okay, Dean? Here, let’s sit down for a minute. You look pretty freaked out.”

  Ryan leads me over to a chair near the window. We sit in silence for a minute in the afternoon sunshine. Ryan doesn’t try to rush me or pretend that nothing happened. He just sits with me while I collect my thoughts. After a moment, I lay my head on his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. He squeezes my shoulder once. It’s a small, comforting gesture. I don’t feel patronized or belittled by his concern. Ryan leaves to begin his shift and I make my way back to my desk, still feeling the warmth of his strong hand on my shoulder.

  Chapter Ten

  Ryan:

  Even hours after the incident with Jim, Dean seems shaken; he looks pale and preoccupied. I offer to buy him a drink to settle his nerves and he accepts my offer. We sit at the bar and he orders a whiskey, knocks it back, and immediately orders another one which he sips gratefully. I follow suit, keeping an eye on him. The whiskey works its magic and Dean seems stable, at least for the time being. I’m starting to realize that Dean talks tough not because he’s some slick, obtuse business guy but, rather, to cover the fact that he’s sensitive. Things affect him deeply and, in the business world, that’s considered a weakness. People will take advantage of you if you let yourself be vulnerable.

  “Feel better?” I ask after a respectful interval.

  “Yes. I’m not a heavy drinker, usually. I don’t want you to think I’m a lush, or anything.”

  I respond by downing my own drink and ordering another.

  “Right. Same here. So, what set ol’ Jim off on you like that?”

  Dean explains how the executives at Bridgepoint pass their dirty work on to him. Today, that meant firing a man who had worked there for years, was reliable, and, all things considered, had been doing a decent job.

  “I hate my job,” Dean shakes his head, as though this will make the despised job disappear. “I just want to earn enough money so that I can quit, settle down, and volunteer somewhere I can make a difference, somewhere I can be myself.”

  After thinking about Dean’s position for a moment, I ask why he doesn’t volunteer now, in his spare time, or find a non-profit to work for. I can see how important it is that his work is meaningful.

  “You wouldn’t earn as much, working for a non-profit, but it would be enough to live on and you could do something you were passionate about now instead of waiting until you can afford to retire. Live for the now, right?” I smile ironically at my own advice, thinking about how far away I am from living in the now. Still, it’s sound advice, I think.

  I can see the gears in Dean’s brain turning this over. He’s always had a singular vision for his life: a 20-year plan. It hadn’t occurred to him that he could skip ahead to the things he really cares about without enduring all the suffering and hard work first. After mulling it over for a few minutes, he says cautiously, “I’m going to look into some organizations.”

  The conversation turns to other topics and the lightheartedness I felt when we met at the café to prepare for my interview returns but now the feeling is accompanied by a nice buzz. Fortified with liquor and distance, we’re able to laugh about Jim’s terrifying outburst. I do an inebriated, ludicrous impression of Jim towering over Dean like a grizzly bear in that unlikely urban setting: the office. Dean folds over with laughter, pushing himself upright again with a hand on my thigh.

  I catch his hand and hold it there. He does not try to pull away. It seems like his whole being is poised, waiting to respond to me. My hand is larger and almost completely covers his. He catches his breath and seems mesmerized by the sight of his hand engulfed in mine. With my thumb, I gently stroke the soft v of his hand. My touch is feather light and I can feel the tension building between us. Our hands are somehow being mysteriously led up and over as though my thigh were a ouija board and the indicator points to “yes.” He licks his lips, watching our hands ascend and it seems that he can’t help glancing at the finish line. My eyes are on his face and, when the evidence of my arousal registers there, he swallows and licks his lips again.

  Seeing him turned on by my excitement makes me even more desperate to tear his clothes off. In the pregnant pause, while our hands hover so close to their goal but true satisfaction lies far beyond, my mind is flooded with images and desires. I imagine him unzipping my pants and kneeling right here on the sticky floor of the bar to take me in his mouth. Everything and everyone melts away, leaving us to devour each other in the dim light behind the counter. Alternatively, I see us pressed up against the counter, taking our pleasure with the red lager sign flashing above and the smell of beer and sweat permeating the haze of our passion. I imagine hustling him out to the car and into the backseat, taking him there in the parking lot with the black night covering the windows and the illusion of privacy setting us free. In reality, I’m aching with need and no closer to getting my hands on his bare skin than I was when we first sat down.

  In unspoken agreement, we close out our tab and head out of the bar. When we reach the sidewalk, we say ‘goodnight’ but linger, both of us completely disinclined to part. The heat from the bar has followed us outside and we stand close together, heads inclined. The moment feels right and I lean towards him. I’m about to finally take him in my arms and kiss him when my phone rings. Heart plunging, I answer; someone has found William again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dean:

  Frustrated at the untimely interruption, I accompany Ryan to the police station where William is being held. Every few minutes, I shoot a sideways glance in Ryan’s direction, hoping to reclaim his attention, but he’s completely focused on Will now. The moment outside the bar, when he leaned forward and almost kissed me…I feel like I stopped breathing, waiting for that kiss. Now I’m dizzy and feeling obscurely alone as Ryan obsesses over his brother’s situation. I stand close beside him, hoping to rekindle his passion, which I’m still feeling, but he barely acknowledges my presence.

  This is not how I thought our night would end. When we were inside the bar, the sexual tension was undeniable. I was insanely turned on and close to just pulling him into a bathroom stall. At least that’s one advantage to being gay; you can disappear with your paramour into the men’s room without creating a stir. It’s not the most romantic trysting spot, but I was aching to get my hands on him! The bulge in his pants – and my hand so close! - was telling me he felt the same way and it was all I could do not to just dive in. I could feel his heat radiating down his thigh and beckoning me closer. Maybe I should have taken the initiative back in the bar, when I still had the chance. If I had gotten Ryan in the stall with his pants down and Will had called while Ryan had me pressed up against the door, Ryan wouldn’t have still answered his phone…right? Right?

  I’m still uncomfortably turned on but, for Ryan, the moment appears to have passed. When we arrive at the police station, the officer on duty explains that William got into a bar fight; bail was set at $1500. Ryan looks like he’s barely holding it together. He shakes his head and tells the officer that he can’t make bail. William will have to stay overnight.

  As much as I want to help Ryan deal with this situation and provide emotional support, as he did for me earlier, I can’t help feeling like William’s incompetence is a self-fulfilled prophecy. Ryan thinks that his brother is incapable of taking responsibility for his actions, therefore treats him like a child, and William acts accordingly. I wonder why Ryan is so overprotective of William. It’s clear that
I’m missing some backstory but I can’t imagine anything that would excuse William’s complete lack of accountability. I know I should butt out but I can’t stop myself from saying the obvious:

  “You know, maybe it’s good for William to learn that there are consequences to his actions. We’ve all got to learn that one sometime.”

  Ryan turns, shocked. He’s looking at me like I just casually suggested cutting off William’s head to teach him a lesson. It seems an overreaction but I apologize anyway. Ryan’s under a lot of strain right now and I don’t want to alienate him.

  “Sorry, I mean, of course I feel for Will, having to spend the night in jail is horrible…Just trying to put it in perspective.”

  I don’t understand why Ryan is angry at me. Will’s the one he should be angry with! But Ryan starts arguing with me as though I’m the one who’s been causing him stress and grief for the past 10 years. He’s distraught and not making sense. And I’m exasperated, frustrated and incredibly disappointed; if he’s going to lash out at me while I’m trying to help, then I’m out.

  “Look, I’m sorry I interfered with your big brother responsibility complex. That’s your thing, which I clearly do not understand. All I’m saying is that there’s nothing wrong with William. He’s just spoiled because someone bails him out every time he gets into trouble.”

  Before Ryan can respond, I walk out, leaving him to wait alone at the jail.