Lives of the Circus Animals

by Christopher Bram

  He buzzed sooner than expected.

  “That was quick,” she called down on the intercom.

  “I didn’t need much.”

  She buzzed him in. A moment later, he knocked.

  She opened her door. “Howdy.”

  And there he was. He was still dressed for work in a coat and white shirt but no tie. He held a paper bag in one hand. A small, cheap collapsible umbrella hung from the other hand like a dead bat.

  “I didn’t know if you’d be home,” he said. “But I figured I had nothing to lose.” His gaze drifted down, then snapped up again.

  And Jessie thought: This is Frank. What was I thinking? I can’t just fuck Frank. She was sorry that she hadn’t pulled on jeans. She didn’t look sexy, but lazy, slobby, slutty.

  “Come on in,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

  He left his umbrella on the floor in the hall and strolled in. He glanced up at the loft bed. His feet made a slurping, sucking sound.

  “Wasn’t there rehearsal tonight?”

  “Dwight and Chris and Melissa had a cater job. So I just rehearsed Toby.” He entered the living room, saw the sofa, then the cow chair. “You can be only so long with Toby without going nuts.”

  He went to the cow chair and sat there. No, he didn’t want to fuck tonight either.

  “I just put my food back in the microwave,” said Jessie. “Would you like something to drink? Beer? Tea? There might be some wine.”

  “Beer sounds good.”

  She went into the kitchen, took out her broccoli, and opened a Rolling Rock. No, no, no, she told herself. Let’s have a nice friendly talk and save the other stuff for another night.

  When she returned, Frank was sitting in the cow chair, looking at her tapes in the bookcase and eating an apple. That was all he had in his paper bag, an apple.

  “You have some good movies here.”

  “That’s right. You’ve never been here.”

  “No, we’ve been to my place, but not yours.” He smiled at her when he took the beer, a nervous, worried smile.

  She sat on the sofa and stuck a forkful of broccoli in her mouth.

  He had come to her tonight. He was in her space. That must be why he had such sexual weight. Horniness kept changing its mind.

  “I hate to ask this but—” He looked at her more seriously. “Do you mind if I take off my shoes and socks?”

  “What?”

  “They’re sopping.”

  She laughed. “Like I’m formal?” She tugged her sweatshirt over her knees. “Go ahead. Be comfortable. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

  He tugged at the laces of his tennis shoes.

  “Southerners,” she teased. “You’re so fucking polite.”

  He made a face as he unpeeled his socks. “Hey. I lost my manners back when I lost my accent.” His feet were white and soggy.

  “Uh-uh. You still have the manners.” Was that what was wrong with Frank? He was too nice? “But you’re right. You have almost no accent. How come?”

  “I’ve been doing theater since high school in Memphis. It just rinsed out on its own.” He shrugged. “How’s your mom? You saw her on Sunday?”

  “Crazy as ever. Let’s not talk about her. You sure you don’t want more to eat than just an apple?”

  “Not hungry. I could lose some weight. Nine-to-five jobs are fattening. I eat lunch just to get out of the office.”

  He was right about his weight. She wouldn’t contradict him there. “You poor guy. I hate to think of you giving your days to a stupid stockbroker.”

  “No worse than you giving your days to Henry Lewse.”

  She sighed. “But he’s theater. He’s a way to get close to something I love.”

  “If you were me, you’d know to run from it.”

  “Get out of here. You love theater. You have a gift for directing.”

  “I don’t have any gift.”

  “You do. You just need some luck to go with your gift.”

  He looked at her, surprised, even touched. He took another bite of apple, another swig of beer. “Cute outfit you’re wearing.”

  “Thought you’d never notice.” She knew he was flirting only because their talk had gotten too serious, but she didn’t want to be serious either. “Oh! You won’t believe what Allegra told me today!”

  “What?”

  “Oh—No, forget it. It’s not that interesting.”

  Just in time, she recognized what was at stake. This was not just fun gossip. She could not betray Allegra. And she should not spook Frank by tattling about the love lives of his actors.

  “Hey,” she said. “Your trousers are soaked.”

  And they were: black up to the knees.

  “Only the cuffs.”

  “You can take them off too, you know.”

  He looked down at his slacks, then up at her. “But if I do that, I might give us the wrong idea.”

  She hadn’t intended her proposal to be sexual. But it was, wasn’t it? She grinned. “And what’s wrong about that idea?”

  “Nothing. Except it’s a weeknight. We get so little time together, I thought it might be nice to just talk.”

  “Yes. Good. Right. That’s what I want too,” she claimed. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

  He looked skeptical, maybe of her words, maybe of his own.

  “But if you want me to be comfortable—” he said.

  And he stood up. He turned his back to her. He unbuckled and unzipped. He stepped out of his trousers and there was a glimpse of off-white boxer shorts. His hairy legs looked cute with his coat and shirttail. “Where can I hang these?”

  “Just drape them over the back of that chair.”

  Which he did. And he sat back in the cow chair, as if nothing had changed, as if he didn’t have something jutting in his lap. He crossed his right leg over his left. He was still smiling, but it was an uncomfortable smile, directed at himself, at her, at his penis.

  What the hell were they out to prove? That they could sit around in their underwear without pouncing? She folded one leg under the other, keeping her knees together. She wished they didn’t feel like an old married couple.

  “Oh oh oh,” she suddenly said. “You might know this. A line from a movie has been going through my head all day. ‘I luf you like a pig lufs mud.’ Sound familiar? Is it Garbo? Dietrich?”

  He thought a moment. Then he broke into a smile. “Uh-uh. It’s Ingrid Bergman. It’s—oh what’s the name?” He snapped his fingers.

  “Gaslight? Casablanca?”

  He shook his head. “No, period piece. A comedy. And she’s beautiful, like always, but funny too, which makes her even more beautiful. She’s a fortune hunter, and she has a great name. Clio Dulaine! And she’s in love with Gary Cooper.”

  “Saratoga Trunk!” cried Jessie. “It was just on AMC. How could I forget? And there’s a dwarf, and a mulatto housekeeper. And you’re right. She is beautiful. But not half as beautiful as Gary Cooper.”

  One met so few men, or women either, who really enjoyed old movies. Gay men thought they did, but most of them knew only a few obvious titles and the same tired scenes. The occasional straight man who loved old movies was usually ashamed of knowing so much. But not Frank.

  “I luf you like a pig lufs mud,” Frank repeated. He was staring at her.

  “What?” But she knew what.

  “Too bad it’s a weeknight.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “It’s just—I don’t know. There’s usually something too rushed and utilitarian about sex on a weeknight.”

  “What makes you think I want to go to bed with you?”

  He considered that, then nodded. “Good. If you’re not interested, we have nothing to worry about, do we?”

  She propped an elbow on a knee and set her chin in her hand. They were both playing bluff with their lusts. “Hey,” she said. “It’s early yet. Want to be utilitarian?”

  He smiled. “I don’t know. I keep changin
g my mind. From minute to minute.”

  “Me too.” Her throat was tight, her words squeaked.

  And they sat there, gazing at each other across the room, waiting for someone to make the next move.

  Finally he stood up. He came toward her. He was still smiling.

  She scooted over on the sofa.

  He sat down beside her. He slipped an arm behind her back.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello yourself.”

  She leaned into the heat of his body. She was surprised by how warm he was. He seemed as large and comfortable as a dray horse. She looked up at a chin peppered with evening whiskers. “Should I brush my teeth?” she whispered. “Broccoli with garlic sauce?”

  “I love broccoli with garlic sauce.” And he kissed her.

  His mouth tasted like apples and beer. She could feel his kiss take root in her crotch, twist and knot there, then climb like a vine into her breasts.

  Oh yes, she thought. This is what I want. This is what I need. Sex. Good friendly sex. Sex with a good man, a nice guy who loves me more than I love him. Which was too bad. But better this way than the other. And there’s no telling what either of us will feel on the other side of the finish line.

  31

  He climbed deep into her kiss. He pressed her pillows of breast against his chest. His hands were under her sweatshirt, stroking a bare back where a bra should be, fingering the soft sawtooth of spine. He inhaled shampoo and hair. She felt wonderfully small in his arms, sweetly portable, as if he could hold her and keep her always.

  His body was thinking: Sex, good dumb animal sex. But his mind was thinking: Love, Jessie, the future. His mind and body had been fighting ever since he arrived here. His body had won, but his mind now found itself hoping that the body could win love if the sex were good enough.

  “Let’s move this up to the bed,” she whispered.

  “There enough room up there?”

  He sat up. She slipped out of his arms. He watched her scurry into the bedroom and up the ladder. A pair of frayed panties peeked out from under her sweatshirt as she popped into the loft bed.

  He stood up so quickly that he felt dizzy. He shook off his coat and began to unbutton his shirt.

  “What’re you doing?” she called out.

  “Getting comfortable.”

  It didn’t look like there was much maneuver room up there. The poster for Venus in Furs faced him on the wall down here; he disliked undressing in front of it.

  His boxer shorts and T-shirt looked grubby—he saved his good underwear for weekends—so he shucked them before he started up the ladder. The rungs bit his bare soles.

  “Oooh,” she moaned as his nudity climbed into view. “I wanted to strip you.”

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  He drew her against him. And there was pure pleasure, the mindless joy of being in bed with a woman, any woman. Then the woman became Jessie again, and it was even better.

  Her sweatshirt disappeared, then her panties. He sat back on his heels to take her in with his eyes. There was more room up here than he expected. The window peering over the top of the platform bed provided enough light for him to see her: she lay on her back, a beautiful shape wearing only a haircut, a smile, a cross-eyed pair of teacup breasts, a triangular ginger beard.

  “Uh-huh,” she purred. “So you do like older women?”

  “No. I like you.” He wished she wouldn’t play that game; she was only two years older. He lay down again, hoping to persuade her that his like was love.

  It was better than the first time, but more complicated, less innocent. He felt more strongly about her. When he nuzzled and suckled a breast, he wanted to think it was her heart that his lips felt in the thickness behind the nipple. When she took him in her mouth, he was not only physically excited, but also emotionally touched. She held him in one hand, used her other hand to hold her hair off her forehead, and cut her eyes at him, as if to say: See how much I like you? But it was confusing to watch the woman he loved take a dick in her mouth, even if it was his dick. He regretted that she did it so well. He could not help thinking of all the gay men in her life. Did they give her tips? Did she hope to hold her own with them? He gently lifted her up and kissed her forehead and eyelids. Then he laid her on her back and bowed down to her sex.

  Oh yes, this was what he wanted. Her beard lightly scrubbed his chin and lips. He opened her with his thumb, he found her with his tongue. He was in charge now. He could be obscenely intimate with her private fingerprint of salts and hormones, kissing and twirling her. He could taste her in the back of his throat, a pleasantly bitter flavor as if an aspirin were lodged there.

  Her breathing deepened, her stomach rose and fell. A finger joined his tongue and he felt the little ridges like the ribbed roof of a dog’s mouth. He loved the architecture. Then the ridges began to rise like the ribs supporting the roof of a cathedral. Her breathing sharpened and grew louder as the cathedral opened inside her. She lifted herself against his mouth, she gripped his shoulders. And Frank was in heaven. She was taking his love, loving his love. She threw her head back and opened her throat, pressed her heels against his ribs and rode his mouth to glory.

  When she was done, when she lay flat on the bed, catching her breath, she looked flaccid and boneless, like he’d removed every bone from her body. He gently wiped his mouth off on her thigh. He crawled up beside her. Her face was pink, her eyes blissfully shut. She drew deep breaths through an open smile.

  “And you said you don’t like sex.”

  “Hmm?” Her eyes remained closed. “I never said that.”

  “You act like it. Sometimes.”

  “Maybe. I can be stupid sometimes.” She groped around until she found him. “You now. Put on a condom. While I’m still—warm.”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to finish yet.”

  “We have work tomorrow.” Her hand pumped him. “Both of us.”

  He held her hand and stopped her. “You should rest,” he said. “You just had quite a workout.”

  “Hmmm.”

  He could come in her hand or even her smile, he was so excited right now.

  “Did you bring any condoms?” she said.

  “Uh-uh. I didn’t think we’d end up in bed.” He wanted her to know that he didn’t come here just to get laid.

  “I think I got some. In my purse.”

  “Why?” he said sharply. “In case Henry needs them?”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him. “Hell no.” She laughed. “Henry can carry his own rubbers.”

  Why had he said that? Why had Frank brought him into their bed? He had no business being annoyed that Jessie carried condoms. Every straight woman should. He’d love to fuck her without one. He’d love to get inside her with nothing between them. He’d love to get her pregnant. Which was a stupid thing to think.

  “I’ll get your purse,” he whispered. “In a minute. I don’t want to leave you yet.” He gathered her up and turned her on her side. He pressed his front against her back and held her from behind. He burrowed his nose in her hair and lightly flicked her nipples.

  “Careful. I’m very tender and ticklish,” she murmured.

  “I luf you like a pig lufs mud,” he repeated. And so she wouldn’t think he was only quoting Ingrid Bergman, he added, “You are so fucking beautiful.”

  She made a pinched, irritable noise. Then she wiggled her bottom against his cock. She reached back to stroke his hip. “What’s the dirtiest thing we can do with each other?”

  “Let’s not think like that.” It was as if she wanted to fight his words with sex.

  “You want to fuck me in the ass?”

  She said it so matter-of-factly that he tried to be equally blithe. “Hmm? Not tonight.”

  “I thought all guys wanted that. Straight guys too.”

  There, she said it. The thing at the back of Frank’s mind was in her mind too. Gay sex was everywhere.

  “What if I finger-fuck you?” she sa
id. “Or rim you? I’ve never rimmed anyone before.”

  He rose up on one elbow. “Why’re you talking like this? Why do you want to make this dirty? I’m not a gay man. And neither are you. What do you want to prove?”

  She turned around and blinked at him. “I want to make you feel good.”

  “No. It’s something else. You want to prove this is just a good, dirty fuck. You don’t want to admit that I’m in love with you.”

  Her mouth hung open. She looked down at his cock, as if that could explain him. “Here,” she said. “You think too much.”

  “No.” He pulled her hand away. “Listen. Can’t we talk?”

  “Now? Jesus. I feel so good right now, Frank. This is great. This is fun. Why do you want to mess it up?”

  “Because it’s not just fun for me. I love you.”

  She looked at him, but said nothing, not “I love you too” or even a safe, polite version like “I love being with you.”

  “Is that so awful?” he demanded. “That a straight man can love you? Or are you so hung up on your gay brother and gay boss that being with a man who can love you is paralyzing!”

  She stared at him. She slowly sat up, gathering her legs to her chest. “Fuck you,” she finally said. “Go ahead. Call them fags. That’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No! I don’t care about them. I care about you. I don’t want to fuck you in the ass or any of that—stuff.” He almost said “faggot stuff” but caught himself. “I want to be with you and have you with me, without any of this other shit in your head.”

  “It’s in your head, Frank, not mine!”

  He sat up too, hiding behind his knees. If they were in a normal bed, an earthbound bed, one of them would have left by now. But they were trapped up here on this platform, naked and angry.

  “I’m not in love with Henry!” she declared. “And I’m not in love with Caleb. He’s my brother, dammit. I know him too well.”

  “I didn’t say you were in love.”

  “Just because I don’t love you the way you want to be loved, you think I must have a sick incest thing for my fag brother?”