50 Reasons to Say Goodbye

by Nick Alexander

  I try to speak. I actually open my mouth but nothing comes out.

  “Like a tap in a derelict house,” I think.

  He nods at me, his mouth also open, his eyes huge and brown in the shadow of the interior.

  I close my mouth; I smile.

  He’s nodding, encouraging me – but nothing comes, not a single sound.

  We stare at each other in silence.

  The tension is unbearable and at the same instant we are both overcome by it; he stands aside and I walk past.

  Owen gives up trying to talk to me and frowns at me in concern.

  Dejectedly I watch the man pay his bill, leave a tip, put on his baseball cap, and for the last time ever he walks past me.

  He looks sad, as if life has let him down. He walks to the car park, and then, with a final glance backwards he disappears behind the wall.

  And I think, “The universe never lets us down. We do that all on our own.”

  Any Friend Of The Egg Man …

  I stare at my computer screen – the image is terrifying: an over-inflated version of Sylvester Stallone in Speedos. I stare at it, try to decipher my own feelings. In a strange, contradictory way I find it sexually thrilling but physically repulsive at the same time. I imagine the look on the guy’s face when I take my kit off. “No!” I say to myself.

  I click on reply: … so really, if you’re looking for another guy like you, well I’m afraid it isn’t me …

  I sigh as I click on send – he sounded so nice in his first email, I had quite been looking forward to seeing his photo. Still, I tell myself, the ad will bring other replies.

  My phone rings almost immediately. “Hi it’s Alan,” says a self-assured voice.

  “Alan?” I say. “Sorry … I …” This doesn’t sound like the Alan I know.

  Alan laughs. “I sent you my photo, the body-builder …” His voice sounds polished and professional, like someone from TV, or a family doctor.

  I frown. “Oh, look … Alan … How did you get my number?”

  “It was at the bottom of your email,” he says. “Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have called?”

  “No, I’m sorry, it’s fine,” I say, already turning off the automatic signature in my email software. “I didn’t realise I’d left … Anyway …”

  “Look, I can call you back another time if you prefer.”

  “No it’s fine, really.”

  “I just wanted to explain, about the body building thing.”

  I grin. “So that really is you?”

  Alan laughs. “Yeah, I’m afraid so. It scares a lot of people off, which, as you can imagine wasn’t the idea at all. I just wanted to speak to you so you’d realise that I’m not some kind of dumb beefcake.”

  “I never thought you were,” I say. It’s a lie of course.

  We meet in a bar in Cannes.

  The sun is setting over the blue Mediterranean; the light is warm and orangey.

  Muscle man is already there when I arrive, only he’s tiny – he never mentioned his height: a sort of pocket-sized action man. He’s wearing a heavy sky-blue shirt; his physique is perceptible beneath it.

  He looks tanned and healthy.

  He grins when he recognises me and stands. He smiles broadly and shakes my hand – a firm, comfortable handshake, much like my doctor’s.

  I sit down and break into a grin.

  “What?” he asks, his eyes flashing in amusement.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Now that’s straight to the point.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, it’s not … I just have an idea. Since the second I heard your voice actually.”

  He smiles on one side of his mouth. “So, guess!” he says.

  “Doctor?”

  He laughs.

  “That far off then?”

  Alan shakes his head. “No exactly right, I’m a G.P.”

  I clap my hands together. “Huh!” I say. “I knew it.”

  “And you presumably work as a clairvoyant?” he laughs.

  We talk about bodybuilding, sport, the gay scene, Internet. He’s charming and intelligent and personable. We talk about holidays and camping and motorcycles. He smiles a lot and his eyes half close when he does – I like it.

  The waiters are stacking chairs so we move next door to the pizzeria. We order food and a carafe of rosé.

  We talk about religion and Alan tells me he was brought up as a Muslim. “But it seems to me, that anyone intelligent, well they’re going to realise that any religion claiming to be The Only Truth is almost certainly going to be wrong, I mean, just with the number of religions and the law of probability,” he says. He raises a finger to his lips. “I hope I’m not offending you,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Not at all,” I say. “I mean, I believe in something, but I can’t bear most religions. Being gay I can’t really see how anyone can … It just doesn’t strike me as compatible.”

  Alan gulps at his water. “Thank God!” he says.

  We laugh and talk about racism, about his childhood in Morocco. He tells me about his ex boyfriend. He says he has never loved anyone that much before.

  “I doubt I ever could again,” he admits. “We’re really close now though, it’s as though we were never anything but friends. Weird, after nine years as a couple.”

  I say, “Wow! Nine years.”

  I tell him that I have a friend at work who is also a bodybuilder. “Maybe I should introduce you two,” I say. “You never know.” I wiggle an eyebrow.

  Alan nods. “Oh,” he says. “So I wouldn’t … I mean … you wouldn’t, personally … ?” He shrugs.

  I blush slightly. “Oh, I don’t know, I mean …” What do I mean?

  “You’re nice, it’s maybe a bit early for me to know,” I say.

  Alan smiles at me, places a hand on my arm. “Sorry,” he says. “That was unnecessary. Of course.”

  “No, all I meant is that Xavier absolutes fantasises about going out with another muscle man. He’d definitely go for you.”

  “Personally,” says Alan, “I find you quite attractive, but introduce me to your friend by all means.”

  This time I really blush; I can feel it. I hate that about myself, it always strikes me as such a feminine trait.

  “You’re blushing!” he says, pointing at me.

  I love it even better when people point it out. Like I didn’t know.

  Our pizzas arrive and I am happy for the distraction. “Have you had many dates – by Internet I mean?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Maybe five. I mean I’ve gone to meet about five of them. I got lots of replies, but they were mostly weirdoes.”

  Alan nods, forks pizza into his mouth.

  “Actually some of the ones I did go and meet turned out to be pretty strange too.”

  Alan smiles at me. “Tell me. I need the warning. I’ve only just started.”

  I sip at my wine; I laugh. “Oh there are so many. I could tell you about the Egg Man! He was funny! But I’m not sure that you’d want to know. It’s a bit far out. And a bit gross.”

  I realise that I didn’t actually meet the Egg Man via Internet, but decide it’s not important; it’s a great story.

  “The who? Is it an S&M story or something?”

  I shake my head. “Might put you off your pizza though.” I glance at his pizza. It has egg on it.

  Alan laughs. “I’m a doctor. You can tell me!”

  And so I tell him the story. “Imagine!” I say, “Sliding an egg into your partner’s arse without asking! Jesus!”

  “And you didn’t like having an egg … You know?” He nods at me, wiggles his eyebrows. It’s not the reaction I was expecting.

  I frown. “Well, the actual experience of it was OK, because I didn’t know. It made up for his tiny dick anyway.” I raise a little finger to show him what I mean.

  He nods at me. “So you did like it.”

  “Well it couldn’t have worked anyway, I was lea
ving for Sydney the next day, he was moving to Paris, and anyway, anyone who does that has got to be a bit strange really, don’t you think?”

  Alan nods and gulps at his wine.

  I lean in towards him. “He actually said he couldn’t come otherwise,” I tell him.

  Alan shrugs.

  I grit my teeth. “Maybe Alan likes having an egg up his arse. Maybe it’s his favourite sexual practice,” I think.

  “Of course, that wasn’t the only problem,” I say, trying to worm my way out. “He was a bit of a jerk in other ways too.”

  Alan puts down his fork and scratches his head.

  “And he had like no sense of humour,” I lie, shaking my head.

  Alan carefully folds his napkin and places it on the table. He stands, very slowly, very rigidly.

  I frown at him; he doesn’t look well. He pulls a banknote from his pocket and places it on the table under the ashtray.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I have to go.” His voice is rigid, icy.

  My mouth falls open; I wrinkle my brow. “Did I say some …” I start to ask, but he has turned his back and is already walking away.

  I stroke my beard. I stare at the sky for inspiration.

  Alan walks twenty meters, and then pauses. When he turns to look back at me, I nod encouraging him to return.

  He walks robotically back to the table, crouches beside me and stares into my eyes. “Do doctors nut people?” I wonder.

  “Listen,” he says.

  I nod.

  “Ben – that was his name?”

  I open my eyes wide and bite my bottom lip. I grimace and nod.

  “So the Egg Man does have a name.”

  I nod again; my teeth ache with embarrassment. His voice has started to lose its calm – started to rise in tempo and pitch and volume.

  “Ben, or the Egg Man as you call him, is the most beautiful person I have ever met.” His eyes are watering; his hand is shaking. “You have no right to insult him. What do you think you’re doing? Going around telling people about that stuff! Don’t you think he might mind in God’s name?”

  I nod childlike, grind my teeth.

  His voice breaks, wobbles then finds itself and comes rushing out banging around the terrace. “Jesus! If you had the chance to have that wonderful man in your life, and you let him get away, then you are the most complete jerk that I have ever met!”

  I stare at my plate and nod. “Sorry. I didn’t …” I say. But he’s gone.

  I look at the banknote fluttering in the breeze and glare at the woman beside me. She’s staring at me. “What?” I shout. She looks away.

  I pull my own banknote from my wallet, slip it under the ashtray, and stand.

  Bordeaux Biker

  It’s a long way to go for sex – that’s the general opinion of most of my friends. And it’s true that it will end up being expensive sex too: the hour-long plane journey alone is costing me over a thousand Francs.

  But of course we aren’t really talking about mere sexual fulfilment here. As W. H. Auden said, All promiscuity is the search for an ideal friend, and Louis could just be my ideal friend.

  He’s tall, brown and handsome, he surfs the Atlantic waves in the summer, and cycles along the coast in winter. He has a good job, makes me laugh, and looks devastating in his motorbike gear.

  His face isn’t very clear on the photo he sent, it’s true – but he has an important job, and I understand that he doesn’t want semi-pornographic photos (his motorcycle pants leave little to the imagination) circulating to all and sundry.

  To punish him, I have sent an equally vague photo of myself, taken before I shaved off my beard.

  His emails have been more and more enticing as the three weeks since we first chatted have gone by, and as I board the plane I’m trembling with excitement.

  He has managed to make me laugh out loud telling me how his new secretary at work fancies him, and he has already given me an erection telling me about the wonderful open-air sex he had with his previous boyfriend during their camping holiday.

  He’s picking me up from the airport on his Suzuki (I have already imagined my legs clasped around his thighs) and we are heading off to his place in the country (yes this man has an apartment in Bordeaux as well as a house near the coast).

  Saturday, we will walk along the sand dunes and eat in a little seafood restaurant he knows at the edge of the ocean. In the evening he’s going to show me around Bordeaux’s nightlife.

  Sunday we’re going on an all day outing with the local branch of the gay motorcycle club – so a long way for sex, but maybe not too far for a long weekend with an ideal friend. And if for some reason it doesn’t work out, well, he has a spare bedroom.

  As I come out through the barriers I see him. He’s not tanned but this I can forgive, this is January after all. As I approach I see that he’s beautiful, his blond hair has grown and is pulled back into a ponytail, it suits him wonderfully. As I walk toward him he sees someone beside me and runs past sweeping her up in his arms. This leaves me feeling confused.

  Then I really see him – the man in motorbike leathers.

  Louis is paler than in the photo – this I can forgive, this is January.

  Louis is fatter than in the photo – at least twenty kilos heavier.

  Louis is older than in the photo – late forties rather than mid thirties.

  Louis is uglier than in the photo – no he’s not uglier, he’s ugly. His skin is pitted and yellow tinged.

  He walks towards me tentatively, he isn’t sure about my identity and I am frozen.

  “Mark?” he asks me holding out a hand. “C’est toi?”

  I am panic-stricken. I have the seed of an idea, just an acorn of a plan, but it seems so mean … Would I dare?

  He grins at me, his teeth are brown and uneven, his lips are pitted and rough.

  Now we are face to face, I look him in the eye.

  “Hi!” I say in my thickest American twang. “You must be Michelle’s husband … She didn’t tell me you were a motorcyclist! Hey I hope you’re not intending to take me anywhere on a motorcycle! I’ve never been on one in my life!”

  Louis frowns at me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. His accent in English is thick.

  “Is Michele with you?” I ask.

  “I think you … Someone else.” He waves a hand in the air as if this will help explain and shuffles past me.

  I pretend to recognise someone further away. “No problem,” I tell him generously.

  He apologises again, and glancing back at me only once, turns ever hopefully to watch the stream of arrivals.

  I wander off looking for the hotel desk. I feel shabby and dishonest.

  “But he wasn’t exactly honest either,” I think, already justifying it to myself.

  Love Me, Love My Life

  We meet over the Internet – he answers my ad. We chat away via email, converted into electronic impulses, catapulted around cyberspace. It takes a while to build up a picture of him. We start with photos of ourselves, and end with photos of our families. We tell each other what we do for a living and end with our most traumatic life-events. Slowly I grow to like him, to look forward to talking to him on the phone.

  Of course I don’t really know him, so I suppose that this is the same loveliness present in every human being if we can only see it, but I come to know him as kind and fragile and I start to imagine his arms around me.

  He lives in Paris. “Still,” I think, “it’s better than New York or Chicago!”

  But now, standing at the station, waiting for his train to roll in, I am terrified, for I’ve done this before and I know that tall can turn out to be short, thin to be fat, intelligent to be dumb. A dream can turn into a nightmare; I’m amazed that I still dare do Internet dates at all.

  The train is late so I smoke a cigarette. “Mark!” – A voice to my right, a woman’s voice.

  I turn. I say, “Shit,” under my breath. “Hi Carol!” It’s Carol fro
m work and I hate her. She thinks anyone with HIV should be put on an island somewhere, says that the Cubans have got it right.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I shrug. “Waiting for a friend,” I say.

  She nods. “I’m off to Marseilles for the weekend,” she says, then, “A friend?” She cocks her head slightly as she says this.

  I nod.

  “Well I’d better be getting going,” she says peering up at the notice board. “Oh no! My train is … Oh dear! Ten minutes!” she sighs. “Lucky I bumped into you then,” she adds. “Quelle chance!”

  I nod and say, “Yeah.” – “Ouais.”

  “What train is your friend arriving on?”

  “The TGV,” I say. “From Paris.”

  “And how do you know each other?”

  I peer at the notice board, buying time. “Our parents er, knew each other, um, when we were kids,” I say.

  She smiles and nods. “That’s nice, so you’ve known each other for ever.”

  I nod. “Uhuh.”

  “But what if we don’t recognise each other?” I think. “Shouldn’t you be getting to the platform?” I ask.

  Carol is pulling a packet of cigarettes from her jacket. “Nah, I’d rather stand here with you than stand alone on the platform!” she laughs.

  The tannoy hollers that Luc’s train has arrived. I roll my eyes and smile bravely at Carol.

  I see him at a distance, pushing through the turnstile, his sports bag hiked up over his shoulder. He looks exactly as he did in the photo, I sigh with relief. He has recognised me and he’s grinning from ear to ear.

  “He looks happy to see you!” says Carol.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Mark!” he exclaims. He drops his bag at my feet and hugs me heavily, awkwardly. He looks at Carol. “Hi,” he says holding out a hand. “Luc.”

  Carol gives a little nod, holds out her hand. “Oh well, I better go and catch my train,” she says picking up her bag.

  “So!” breathes Luc, as Carol starts to walk away. “We finally get to meet face to face!”

  I close my eyes in pain and when I open them Carol has paused – she’s looking back with a crooked smile spread across her lips. She’s staring at me. “Well have a good weekend with your old old friend,” she says.