by Amy Lane
Galen shrugged. “It’s a dump. It’s like slumming.”
John nodded. “See, for me? That’s what being with anyone not Tory was like. But for Tory, I think it was the other way around.”
“No—” Galen’s eyes opened wide, and John shook his head and held up his hand.
“Tonight’s gonna suck. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stopped for a second and then decided, What the fuck. They were both sort of in the process together. “Look, no box tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll go through his apartment, sort stuff to give away, stuff to keep. How ’bout I call it off around four and take you to my place? There’s about six zillion rooms, and I’ve got a pool. If there’s no gators in the damned pool, you can be sick and in pain somewhere else.”
“I’m not sick,” Galen muttered.
“Could have fooled me,” John said, pushing away the uneasy certainty in his stomach.
“I’ll be better tomorrow,” Galen said positively, and that vague certainty John had just experienced coalesced. Well, the best part about being in this part of town was that nobody judged, right?
“Good,” John said gently. “Thanks for being real with me today.” He leaned forward and kissed Galen’s scruffy cheek, thinking that was platonic enough. “And seriously, thanks for not being a douche bag.”
Galen rolled his eyes a little. “Who’s saying I wasn’t?”
“I am.”
John didn’t wait to see his expression. For right now, for today, he felt okay, and he didn’t want coke, and he wasn’t coming apart at the seams when Galen could have made it so much worse. He was taking that as a win.
Sunshine
“SO HE’S coming over tomorrow,” Dex said over the phone. “That’s promising.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“Look at the table from the door, John. See the closet to the right? Yeah. Scanner/copier is in there. It’s on the middle shelf. See it?”
“You are three thousand miles away,” John snarled. “How did you even do that?”
“I set up the office there, remember?”
“I… what… how do you….” John remembered this kid. He’d once taken three guys at a time—he’d screamed so loud during the double-penetration-while-giving-a-blowjob scene, the lady next door had called the cops because she thought someone was getting murdered. The guys had been done and in John’s shower by the time the police arrived. It had taken some fancy ’splaining to get them to believe it had just been sex, and that had been the impetus behind John’s decision to buy a small office complex and outfit it for porn. It was a good thing that scene was so fucking hot, because it had provided the down payment. How did that kid—that kid, who could have sex with such reckless abandon and suck cock until the other guy’s eyes rolled back in his head—get to be this, the guy who ran John’s business and apparently kept his ass clean and his nose wiped to boot?
“Degree in business, John,” Dex said dryly. “I’m two months away. We actually had to take a class in office ergonomics. It helped.”
“God, you are a poster child for porn recovery, do you know that?” John snarled. Seriously, Dex needed to go on talk shows. Yes, I was a porn star and I loved it, but now I’m a grown-up and I only have sex behind closed doors. Same guy. Love me for it. He’d legitimize the industry.
“Yeah, John. I’ll be doing Jon Stewart and Oprah next. Look, you know what you’re signing, right?”
“Health insurance, vision care, and auto insurance subsidies,” John said seriously. “Yeah. I hear you, Dex—don’t worry.”
Dex grunted. “And you’re also authorizing Kane to work as a cameraman for a salary. I hope that’s okay.”
John remembered using Kane as an example of some of the kids he had working for him. Well, it would be a pretty dick move on his part if it wasn’t okay.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine. I’m glad for your sake he’s getting out.” Because Dex wanted a relationship, and porn made those harder. It just did.
“Thanks. In fact, I’ve got this idea I’m working on—when you’re a little more into the business, I want to run it by you.”
“Run it by me now. I’m home alone in this giant fucking house. I’m bored.”
“I don’t have it all solid in my head now. But what I want is some way for the guys who work for us to… I don’t know. Transition out. So, like Tommy. He needed to quit porn, and he had something else on his résumé so he could go out and do something else. But you know, some of these guys, they’re starting at eighteen. They’ve got delivering pizza and porn.”
“Heh, heh, heh….”
Dex chuckled on the other end of the phone, and John remembered why he’d fallen for the guy. They both had the same prurient sense of humor. Well, hell. Kane laughed at the same shit. John knew that—he’d directed Kane’s porn.
Kane, dammit, stop dicking around in that guy’s ass and fuck!
Heh, heh, heh, heh….
Yeah, I know, I’m hilarious, but seriously….
Heh, heh, heh, heh….
Dex, stop egging him on!
The entire shoot had been a disaster. Dex had been working second camera and he hadn’t been able to stop laughing, Kane had been fetal, howling with glee, and John….
John had sat down in the middle of the room and giggled while the guy Kane was supposed to be fucking ignored them all and got off, which was only fair, because Kane had teased him unmercifully.
But it had been a good time.
The laughter eased up, and Dex continued. “Yeah, so pizza and porn and… you know, if they don’t spend their money on college, and I’m telling you, even if they do….” The silence bespoke years of Dex trying to get the classes for his degree. That was one of the reasons he’d stalled—he’d gotten stuck on three classes. He’d managed to get them on his schedule this semester, and John had been glad. That much he remembered from his two-month bender, and it made him feel a little better about himself.
“Yeah—they might be done with porn, but that doesn’t mean they can get their classes. I hear you.”
“See,” Dex said, “you get it. I just… some of them are fine. They’ve got families and a support system and a plan. Some of them are in the job for life, and they’re happy. But some of them….”
Yeah.
Some of them.
Tory.
“Go for it,” John said. “Find a way. We’ll hash out the details. I think it’s a good idea.”
Dex’s long exhale told John that he’d really been waiting for his opinion. That of all things made John’s eyes burn. “Good. Good. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Well, I appreciate everything else. How’s Kane?”
“Home. Ruling the remote control with an iron fist. It’s a good thing he likes the same shows Frances does and she doesn’t mind nature programming.”
John laughed a little. What he knew about kids equaled what he knew about happy families. Zero.
“Sounds dire,” he said. Until he said it, he didn’t know how wistful the words would be. “I’ll get this signed—”
“Wait a minute. You. Dead friend. Going through his stuff. Almost date with the neighbor. You gave me the neighbor parts, but now I want details.”
“Really?”
“Talk, asshole. I’m editing porn and writing schedules. Entertain me.”
John’s turn to exhale. And then, surprisingly enough, he talked. He finished up with “I think he’s addicted to pain meds. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Bummer,” Dex said. Then he brightened. “But don’t give up on him. Is he nice?”
“He used to be a corporate lawyer,” John said dryly.
“D’oh! Well, that’s two strikes against him. Tell me more.”
“He blamed me for Tory’s death, I think. And then he changed his mind.”
“So, really, it’s a trifecta. The guy’s an asshole. I can’t believe I didn’t date him.”
John laughed. “Well, according to you, you’re off the marke
t.” He’d been finishing papers while he talked, and now he stood up and set the scanner to send. “Okay, I’m sending these. Did I do okay? Can I still be the boss?”
“Yeah, you did great. I’d say go cook yourself some dinner, check the pool for gators, and maybe take a swim before calling it a day.”
“It’s dark and raining. Maybe just eat. Did you ever really find gators in the pool?” Or worse, snakes.
“Two words, Johnny. Pool. Cover. It’s not just for pussies, I’m telling you.”
“I hear you.” He closed his eyes and thought of all the good television he’d missed when he was in rehab. Dex had Hulu—it was all at his fingertips. For the first time since… well, since Chase Summers had started his very public meltdown, John felt like sitting home alone with food and the television was a win instead of a terrible buzzing proof that he was wasting his life. “Thanks, Dex. For everything.”
“Thank you, for not using today.”
The lump in John’s throat took him by surprise. “Did you read a fucking manual?”
“No. Who’s got time for that shit? Kane wants to bake cookies tonight—I need to hang plastic on all my walls.”
John laughed for the umpteenth time since the conversation had started. “God forbid. Sleep tight.”
“Night.”
He was tired of talking. He cooked himself some stir-fry (which made leftovers in the refrigerator for two meals—he felt sort of proud of that) and sat down in front of the television. For a few hours there was just entertainment—police car chases, witty banter, and closure at the end of the show. John climbed into his pajama bottoms and bed, thinking that maybe the best thing about porn was that it was a relationship on a small square screen. Everybody got their happy ending before the screen went dark.
HE HAD to treat his skin with aloe and lidocaine the next morning—ugh. Curse of the green-eyed redhead, even in his thirties. He squinted into the mirror, assessing. Well, one of the best things about spending much of his adulthood hunched over a computer screen was that he didn’t have too much sun damage to worry about. In fact, a lot of the freckles that had come with the original vehicle were still available in the late model.
He grinned at himself for a second, trying to see if that still worked too.
Well, yeah. He had more wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and his lips were leaner than they had been in his twenties, but he still had an angular face with high cheekbones and a sharp chin.
Well, okay. He was plain as a potato. He certainly wouldn’t hire himself for porn.
But he wouldn’t mind looking at his face over a dinner table, or while working on a project, or to talk to or during se—
John swallowed. Yeah. Well, who wanted to have sex with him? Coke wasn’t his only flaw—although it was a big one. Okay, then. A companion. Someone interesting to talk to. Someone willing to sit with him while he did this impossible thing.
Small blessings. Wasn’t that what they taught you in rehab? Small blessings.
He took a deep breath and called Galen’s number.
Galen picked up right before it went to voice mail.
“Uhm. Hey. Hello.”
The voice on the other line was Galen’s but not. Dreamy, unfocused, and sort of void. John felt something buoyant inside him pop and fall.
“Hey, Galen—this is John. The guy who forgot his box.”
“Yeah. The pornographer. I remember you.”
Ouch. “Yeah, well, I told you I was coming over today to go through Tory’s stuff.”
“Today? Oh fuck.” Some of the dreaminess left, and John got the impression of a man straightening up and trying to focus. “Yeah. I’m sorry. Just, uhm, still a little sleepy. Not really myself. Swear. No. Come over. I’ll be human. Everything. Swimming. You promised swimming and no snakes.”
John was torn between laughter and patting the poor baby on the head. New addicts, old addicts—there was something so painfully childlike about the joy of the high.
“Yeah,” he said gently. “Swimming, no snakes. I’ll be there in an hour and change—I’ll even bring lunch.” He thought of Galen’s awkward thinness and of his own returning body mass. Hard to be built like a god when you were too stoned to eat.
“I like pizza,” Galen said winsomely, and John had a flash to when this guy had been at his prime. He must have been fearsome—charming and smart and ruthless as hell.
“Pizza it is,” John promised. He made his way to the kitchen table, where his laptop was still set up, and started to fish around for pizza places between Cypress Point and Daytona.
“Lots of sausage.”
“But of course. So, an hour and a half, then,” he said, finding the pizza place and clicking the Order online button. “One meat-eater’s special coming up.”
The exuberance on the other end of the line faded in one quick gasp. “Isn’t it sad? I used to be less desperate for company than this.”
John thought of all the times he’d had the guys to his house to play video games or Frisbee in his backyard. “I have more company when I’m in Sacramento,” he said, feeling grateful. “I don’t really think of it that way, but it’s a good thing.”
“You have company?” Complete bemusement, like it hadn’t occurred to him that yes, John could have entertained just like Galen had.
“No, Galen, I spend all my spare time jacking off in a corner. Yes. Company, friends—the occasional monogamous lover. I’m a real human being, I swear.”
“I’m a judgmental douche,” Galen said somberly. “I must be. It’s why I’m all alone.”
John sighed. “Well, hold the judgment and I’ll bring the company. See you in a bit.”
He kept the top up for the trip to Daytona and didn’t skimp on the sunscreen either. He plugged his iPod into the sound system and immersed himself in the ride. Florida blew by him—flat, for the most part, but covered in vegetation. He knew that if he were looking at it from above, he’d see a lot of swampy bodies of water, turned brown by the tannins in the oak trees that seeped through the soil. Growing up here, he’d always felt… hidden. Hidden like the bruises his father left on his body, hidden like the scars of their arguments, hidden like any parents wanted their gay son to be when they had so very much else to hide.
Showing sex, putting it out there, exposing those hidden things, even the contortions of Tory’s face in ecstasy, felt the opposite of hidden.
It had taken him a long time to realize all of that exposed skin and exploited sex hid things too—worse things than John’s shitty childhood and the humiliation of being unwillingly exposed. Painful, twisted, unfixable things, and John had spent all of rehab trying to talk about them but never coming to terms with the fact that he’d seen them up close and personal. Closer than a rim job, closer than a come shot, John had seen the demons of his lover’s heart.
WHEN JOHN and Tory started their senior year in high school, Brant Jordan looked them up before their first day ended.
“’Sup,” he muttered, shouldering John as John stood at their locker.
“Hey,” John said back, looking at him distrustfully. “You have a good summer?”
Brant turned a bland face to him. “Yeah, man. I learned all sorts of new shit. You?”
John allowed himself a smirk. “Same old same old. Nothin’ but me and Tory, doin’ what we do.”
Brant nodded, and John hoped that he’d made his position clear. Him and Tory—they were first. “Good to hear it. Think, maybe, you and Tory would wanna show me how to do what you do? My folks, they’re gone every Wednesday for prayer meeting. You get good grades, right? You wanna come over and, uhm, tutor me?”
Oh, awesome. It was win/win! John could take pictures and Tory could have a different guy, but John would still be involved. And even better, they’d be hanging out with a preacher’s kid. Maybe his father could get the fuck off his back.
Fucking Jesus, John. Don’t be a fairy. Get your ass out of your bedroom and do something!
Of course, when
John did get his ass out of his bedroom and hang out with Tory, he was usually greeted with a backhand and a big fucking hassle when he got back. He started to wonder what would happen if he just screamed, “I am a fairy, dad! I suck cock like a pro!” and got it over with. The one thing that kept him back—the one thing that kept him back—was Tory.
It was funny how when you were a kid, you started out thinking everyone’s family was normal but yours. And dammit, Tory’s household looked so normal. He had a mom and a dad and brothers and sisters, and Mom talked to the kids and Dad played with them. They seemed loud and raucous and normal, and even though Tory was expected to get better grades than John, and to show up at church more, it didn’t really hit John what Catholic meant until that summer.
Shortly after John’s fabulous run-in with the even more fabulous Zion, Tory’s mother frog-marched him to mass every Sunday.
So, did you go to confession?
Yeah—Mom made me.
What did you confess?
To having impure thoughts—it’s what everyone confesses to. They have no idea that means I want you to fuck me raw.
Good. That’s awesome. I’m so glad to hear it.
But even John’s sarcasm wasn’t a defense to the lingering guilt, the doubt that Tory never put voice to, but seemed to seep into even his sex. He became more manic in bed, more desperate to come, to go further, to do more. He rode his bike to the porn store and stole a vibrating dildo bigger than John’s cock, and John filmed him getting off with that monster shoved into his body. He came until he passed out, twitching, and John removed the toy, washed him off, and put him in his pajamas, exhausted from the scene, from coming, from screaming until he was hoarse.
Then John climbed in bed next to him and held him. Just held him close, like he was cuddling one of Tory’s little sisters or a hurt puppy or something.
Thinking back on it as an adult, John recognized the signs of tenderness, of care, but then, when they were just “fucking around,” that wasn’t the language he and Tory used.
Maybe they should have.