I Loved You More

by Tom Spanbauer

  Hank laughs up his chest, takes the beer.

  “I ain’t got no leather hats and chaps and shit,” Hank says. “Only got four shirts and two pair of Levi’s, and I’m wearing one of each.”

  Maybe I’m jealous of all that light is why I feel I need to cover it up.

  “You don’t understand,” I say.

  “You want to be the drama,” I say, “or watch the drama?”

  “Gruney,” Hank says, “for Christ’s sake, I’m in jeans and a blue shirt.”

  “You want to disappear, right?” I say. “Well, believe me, right now you look like.”

  “A straight guy,” Hank says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “So let me give you some homosexual leather bar fashion tips.”

  “But the way you’ve talked about it,” Hank says, “these guys don’t care about fashion.”

  “I’m just saying there’s a uniform,” I say, “with not a lot of variables.”

  “Plus,” I say, “you’re beautiful.”

  “Come on, Gruney,” Hank says.

  “And we need to put a lid on it,” I say, “Believe me, you walking into the Spike looking like a beautiful straight guy, every man in there is going to want a piece of you.”

  AT THE BACK end of my apartment, really only two steps from my writing desk, under my loft bed, just at the door to my bathroom, I have a little space only I ever go into. The only other place in my apartment where two can stand, but nobody ever makes it that far. On the wall by the bathroom door is a full length mirror, to the left there a bookcase and my stereo. On the other side, under the steps up to the loft bed, my closet and my chest of drawers. A space shaped like a horseshoe just long enough to lie down in, wide enough to turn around. How many nights I’ve danced in front of that mirror, the fluorescent light from the bathroom slanting down in, to Luther Vandross, Teddy Pendergrass, Barry White, Randy Crawford, The Reverend Al Green.

  That night that Hank steps into my place where only I ever go, when he stands in front of the mirror, what I’ve planned on doing is getting Hank out of that blue ironed Oxford shirt and into something less frat boy, more street.

  But when Hank walks into that private space of mine, there’s something in my chest like I can’t breathe. Propinquity. Hank’s just right there and he’s taking off his blue shirt and it’s for sure I’m going to fall over. I take his blue shirt and hang it up on a hanger. Then it’s his sparkling white T-shirt you can see his nipples through that’s got to come off. So the T-shirt comes off. And there I am standing in the tiny space holding onto Hank’s white T-shirt that smells like Mennen stick and Hank’s subway ride down from the Upper West Side. In order to get to my chest of drawers I got to move and there’s no way I can move and not touch Hank’s naked arm, or his naked back, or his naked chest, or all of the above. So I do what I always do when I don’t know what to do. Drop what I’m doing and grab whatever is nearest. Hank’s white T-shirt is on the floor and what I have in my hands is a Marvin Gaye album and I put it on the turntable. By then I’ve maybe touched Hank’s naked chest and back a hundred times. I stand there trying to find breath, watching the turntable arm lift up, watching the turntable arm move over onto the record, watching the turntable arm hit the record. That crackle.

  That quick, it’s magic the way things happened with Hank. “Got to Give It Up” starts playing. I’m rummaging through my chest of drawers looking for God knows what. “Got to Give It Up” is the best dance song ever. Sure enough, Hank starts dancing with himself in the mirror. The same way I dance when I am alone. In that same spot.

  “So how’m I supposed to look?” Hank says.

  Hank looks exactly the way he’s supposed to look and that’s the problem.

  “Incognito,” I say.

  “Latinate!” Hank says.

  Hank goes to the fridge and gets more beers. He wants to hear “Got to Give It Up” again. So I pick up the turntable arm – that loud record crush through the speakers – set the turntable arm back down, and it’s “Got to Give It Up” again. Hank hands me a beer, we touch glasses, do a toast, and before we know it, we’re fully involved. Hank and I are dancing and carrying on and shit, Vogue-posing in the mirror way before Madonna knew about it. Things go from bad to worse and instead of going to my extra-large dark T-shirt drawer, I go to my disco trunk. In no time at all Hank and I are deep into disco drag. I forget all about dressing down and we’re dressing up. In that tiny space, No more standing outside the wall / I done got myself together, baby, and I’m having a ball. Trying on outfits for the leather bar the way two high school girls try on dresses for the prom. Really, I wonder if I’ve ever laughed so hard.

  At one point, Hank is wearing the black platform shoes with green glitter on them I wore at Ursula Crohn’s, a pair of white silk boxer shorts with an embroidered snake coming out the fly, a black fishnet wifebeater, and a blue sequined skullcap.

  Me, I’m in a black leotard, a leopardskin T-shirt, and a bowler hat.

  Showing up like that at the Spike. Shit. We’d never get past the bouncer.

  WHEN HANK AND I finally get out of the apartment it’s past midnight. Hank’s wearing two or three old T-shirts of mine, black and extra-large that hang down over his ass. Big sleeves that go down past his elbows. A pair of my work boots – a size too big, and my old green expandable baseball cap that comes down to Hanks’ eyes and covers up his shiny black curls. An old thermal sweatshirt with a hood.

  I wear the same thing, only different.

  There we are, Hank and me, covered up, dressed down, anonymous males, going to the place that is the extreme of male, a homosexual leather bar, the Spike, and the around around macho pose the top the bottom do-si-do big hard cock staredown sex dance of the underworld. What life is like on Pluto.

  THERE’S A WAY you can be high. Back in those days it was two shots of tequila, a hit of San Simeon, and beers to nurse ‘til you drop. At the Spike that night I’m high that way. Hank isn’t far behind. Our backs lean against the bar, Hank’s elbow against my elbow, our ballcaps pulled down. Hank and I are sipping Buds, Hank and I are watching. Behind us, the bar back with its bottles, glowing green, glowing blue, clear, amber, glowing Wild Turkey dark brown. From underneath the bar, Judy lights from down low so the bartenders can see. Hank and I, our backs are to the bar. In front of us, three men deep. Beyond, the bar is dark. Smoky dark. A foggy night, an ocean of men, dark waves. They have a sound, the waves, here and there bursts of pirate laughter, then no laughter. And underneath, always underneath, the deep voices of men, their low sex chant, the sound just before the hurricane hits. Disco music so loud Hank and I can’t talk. We try at first but we have to yell.

  “Chthonian!” I yell.

  Hank cups his ear. “What?” he yells.

  “Chthonic!” I yell again.

  “What?”

  “Latinate!” I yell.

  “Sounds Greek to me!” Hank yells.

  Hank, the way laughter moves up through him. The men standing around us at the bar all turn, inspect our intrusion, lots of attitude. So we quit laughing, quit talking, just lean against the bar. Every now and then we smile, but mostly we’re overwhelmed, just taking in the whole huge Pluto Greek chthonic thing.

  Hank’s clearly out of his element, but as far as I can tell, he’s doing fine. Looks like every other guy there, except for those who want to stand out. We’ve both taken off our thermal hoodies and tied them around our waists. There’s a Bud in his fist, his ballcap is pulled down, he has that fuck-you, tough guy face.

  Looks like a real regular. Plus, his arm is against mine, and if anything goes wrong, I’ll know right off.

  An hour goes by, maybe two, more beers, more smoke, more men crowd in. When Hank and I first got to our spot at the bar, besides Hank’s elbow, my body could stand free without touching another body. I could see the bouncer at the door. There’s too much smoke to see much now. On the other side of Hank, there’s an especially tall guy facing the bar, but other than him, all I c
an see is Hank and the men in front of me. Beyond them, not three deep but five, the foggy night, Pluto, the swell of ocean, dark waves, the sound of the waves. Disco beat, you can feel it in the floorboards through your shoes, in your elbows from the bar. At times, when the men recognize a song, “We Are Family,” “Love Is In The Air,” “Bad Girls” – ten years we’ve been listening to these same fucking songs – the pirates whoop, they holler, shake their asses. Sometimes my feet can leave the floor.

  Two more guys squeeze in, order beers, then stay. They’re wearing only chaps, their bare asses hanging out. The one guy in front of Hank, his ass is smooth and hairless. The guy in front of me, a trail of dark brown hair up and out his ass crack. Only inches away. Hank raises an eyebrow, puckers his lips, points with his lips down at their asses, gives them a thumbs up. My buddy Hank.

  The circling crowd is a long slow snake eating its tail. As the night goes on, the bar is jammed. Bodies press right up against us. The heat of bodies. No room to move. Those bare asses right there. Propinquity. You’d think I’d be freaked out, but that night with Hank, because I’m worried about Hank freaking out, I realize something. Why I go there. Drunk enough, high enough, I am jostled, pushed, poked, and shoved. Just a normal guy. Another guy in the crowd. There’s no way I can’t be touched.

  Hank is keeping his hands high, but so far I get no sign from him he wants to go. Then there’s an elbow poking me in the side. It takes me a while to realize it’s Hank’s. He’s got something to say. The way we do it, the way we find to talk, Hank starts it off.

  He turns his ballcap backwards, dives his head down, puts his lips right up to my ear. He enunciates every syllable and keeps it short. Disco Speak.

  “So how do you get a cock up your ass?”

  Surprise. Surprised because the way Hank is looking at me he really wants to know. But it’s a question I can’t answer in Disco Speak. So I turn my ballcap around, dive my head down, put my lips at Hank’s ear, say the next best thing.

  “Carefully,” I say. “Or not.”

  Hank’s not satisfied. His head dives down, moves in to my neck, puts his lips in close.

  “Seriously.”

  Disco Speak in the middle of chaos. I turn to the bar, try to get a bartender to look at me. I have to wave my arms and yell. The place is so loud I can’t hear that I’m yelling. Really I don’t need another beer. But I need the time. Something to do while I decide how to answer Hank. What words to use. Just when is ass-fucking too much information. Plus I’ve never talked about getting fucked. To anyone. When shame is that close to you, when it’s a part of you like breathing, you don’t even know it’s shame.

  The three bartenders are pouring beer, popping bottle caps, pouring shots. They are gladiators in their bright arena, the crowd yelling for blood. On the mirror above the bar: no sissy drinks – Coke, Sprite, tonic, club soda mixes only.

  The bartender who finally looks at me, looks at me because of the five dollar tip I’ve left him last time. He has the kind of face that needs to shave twice a day. Sweat dripping off him. Big silver loops in his nipples I’m afraid he’ll catch on something. His eyes when they look into mine are surprisingly innocent.

  “Two Buds! A shot of tequila!”

  I give him a ten and a five, wave my hand so he knows to keep the change.

  Hank downs his beer and I hand him another. I down the tequila. My head is an airplane and Hank’s shoulder is the runway. The way we’re diving and bobbing, I’m thinking of cranes making love or maybe giraffes.

  “Ever sodomized a woman?” I say.

  The Judy lights from behind us light Hank’s face up from the bottom. Like when you were kids and you put a flashlight under your chin. Just as Hank’s about to dive in with some Disco Speak, in the crowd there’s a thrust, men are pushed and then push back. For a moment I’m third class on a bus in India. Thank God for the tequila shot. In no time at all, the two chap guys got Hank and me pinned to the bar. My chap guy’s got his ass pushed right into my crotch. Hank’s guy’s got him too. Hank’s arms are in the air and his head is pushed back. Hank’s face, for a moment, I think he’s going to split. Then, as I’m watching him, Hank looks over at me. I catch him checking me out to see if I’m getting off with this guy’s ass in my crotch.

  That’s when we turn, the both of us into the bar. Our backs to the chthonian hurricane, the marketplace, the waves. The extra tall guy next to Hank doesn’t move. We dig ourselves in there like a World War and it’s the trenches. Somewhere a high-pitched wail. Then suddenly, magic again. Hank Magic. And it’s just Hank and me heads down, the wet hardwood counter of the bar, our hands on the bar around the long neck Buds, the ice scoop and the glass-clink of the bartenders somewhere around the tops of our heads. We’re shoulder to shoulder to each other, and ass to ass with our chap buddies.

  “So,” Hank says, “sodomy.”

  “You like it?” I say.

  “Hell yeah,” Hank says. “You have to be rock hard to get in.”

  Hank lifts his bottle, takes a drink. I can feel the muscles in his arm move, we’re that close.

  “Secret’s in the preparation,” I say.

  “K-Y,” Hank says.

  “And your mouth,” I say.

  Hank’s beer bottle goes down hard. His arm, those muscles that were so close, now there’s space between us.

  “Seriously?” Hank says. “You put your mouth down there?”

  “In there,” I say. “My tongue.”

  I’m afraid a little for what Hank’s face does next. A look my father gave me when he caught me in a dress.

  “You eat ass?!” Hank says.

  A grossed-out frat boy now, Hank’s face. Shame is Deadly Nightshade blooming in my heart. But I’m determined. I move my body slow, back in again, just barely, my shoulder against his shoulder.

  “He’s got to be clean,” I say. “Fleet clean. Sometimes, before I go down on his ass, I spit in whiskey or tequila or whatever I got.”

  Hank stands up from leaning in on the bar. It takes me a while, but I stand up too. Tall as I can get. Which is taller than Hank by a half a head, but the tall guy on the other side of Hank is still a head taller. We take up less space standing. Nature fears a void and the bodies move in. Hank’s black eyes look inside my eyes, in deep.

  “You little ass-eater!” Hank says.

  Hank tips his bottle up, pours the beer down his throat.

  Then: “Yeh, I’ve et it too,” he says. “With a woman down there it all becomes just one big place, you know, asshole, cunt, clit. I just love eating pussy and sometimes I get so carried away, it ain’t just pussy I’m eating, it’s ass too, it’s everything. It’s the whole fucking world.

  “It’s all good,” Hank says.

  “I’m a good friend of Edith’s too,” I say. “Or used to be.”

  “Edith?” Hank says.

  “It’s a joke,” I say. “Edith gives good.”

  “Huh?” Hank says.

  “Head.” I say, “You know Edith Head.”

  Hank obviously wasn’t married to a feminist in the seventies. We go back into our huddle, crouch down, elbows on the bar. Men all around us push.

  “Olga said you were good at it,” Hank says. “Eating pussy.

  “And that’s a little confounding,” Hank says, “that Olga can know something like that.”

  “Psychic,” I say.

  “She’s a witch,” Hank says, “and you better not be eating her pussy.”

  Hank and me with the same woman. The way we laugh then has so much force, we push the bare-assed chap guys away. In fact, the whole fucking crowd has to step back. I’m stupid laughing so hard I start to cough. After a while, I don’t even know what I’m laughing at. I’m just trying to find breath.

  The good old days. When we didn’t know. If you laugh like that the gods will hear.

  Ruth Dearden.

  Got to go pal.

  For what no man doth believe / the gods can bring about.

  Hank a
nd I lean down, dive back in. Hank’s burp is long and extra loud. The burp bounces against the bar, comes up smelling beer piss.

  “Still though,” Hank says. “Going from women to men. And then back again. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “I touch them, but they don’t touch me,” I say. “No one touches me, so it doesn’t matter what sex they are.”

  Just as I speak these words, pirate laughter, a big burst, way too loud. Hank doesn’t hear a word I say.

  “This one time for a prostate check,” Hank says, “the doc had me hold onto a metal shelf. When he stuck his finger in, I pulled the fucking thing off the wall.”

  Still I try one more time: “It’s like required reading,” I say. “You read Virginia Woolf because everyone says you should. So you read her. But she doesn’t touch you.”

  “What?” Hank yells.

  I wave my hand, forget it. Hank dives his head down in again.

  “How you get it up there,” Hank says. “I can’t imagine.”

  Back to Disco Speak. This time I’m so close to Hank’s ear, my lips touch his fat ear lobe.

  “Your girlfriend got it up there.”

  “What?” Hank says.

  “That’s different,” Hank says.

  “What’s different?”

  “She’s a girl,” Hank says.

  “Assholes got no gender,” I say.

  “No,” Hank says. “Assholes are female. That’s why guys say I got your back.”

  My hand is high, my gesture broad and Judy lit, a sweep across the room.

  “Not all guys,” I say.

  Hank’s face looks drunk and in the drunk way I’ve only seen Hank look a couple other times. Something pissed off, maybe even mean. His black eyes look around the room.

  “You can see this anywhere,” Hank yells. “Men hitting on men is no different from men hitting on women. You don’t have to go to the Spike to see men act like assholes.”

  What I say next surprises me. Not that I say it, but how. Directly into Hank’s ear. It’s a challenge.

  “We can see a lot more if you’d like,” I say, “in the back room. Men fucking.”