Black John

by Amy Lane

  John swallowed uncomfortably. “Do I have to, uhm, retain your services or something?”

  Galen rolled his eyes and nodded. “Now you learn some fucking discretion? Fine. Pay me a dollar.”

  John had seen this movie too. He fished out a dollar and handed it over, and Galen crumpled it and threw it at him. It bounced off John’s forehead. Galen retrieved it and did it again.

  “Are you done abusing me because you feel like shit now?”

  “One more time.”

  This shot sailed clean over John’s head and got stepped on by the mother hugging her children good-bye as their father swept them away. Both of them watched it get ground into the carpet in a flat little packet of green paper, and then John turned to Galen for an answer.

  “I’ll send you a contract for consulting services tonight, which you can sign on the web.” Galen sighed and dragged both hands through his unruly curly hair before clasping his hands behind his neck and looking down at the table. He looked up again, and the expression on his face told John everything he needed to know about whether there would be four people or three on the boat the next day.

  “It’s okay, you know,” John said, reaching out.

  Galen grunted as if hit and jerked back from the gesture of peace. “It is not. And you don’t even know—”

  “You can’t come with us tomorrow. That’s okay. It was shitty of me to even ask you.”

  “Your old porn is on the Internet. You know that, right?”

  John tried to jerk his brain around into wherever Galen had gone, but he couldn’t do it. “You have fucking lost me.”

  “I’ve seen you, John. I looked you up after that first night you visited.” Galen dropped his gaze for a moment, but he squared his jaw and carried on. “You fucked these people, you and Tory—”

  John groaned theatrically and buried his head in his hands. “Galen, before we have this conversation, I need to know something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Is this you really being jealous and possessive, or is this the withdrawal talking?”

  “It’s me being jealous and possessive.”

  John wrinkled his nose. “Weird,” he said, shrugging. “Okay. So, I am thirty-five years old. Fifteen years ago, Tory and I fucked around with a couple of guys and filmed it and made money. It’s how I started my business. Now you need to know two things. Thing the first—Tory was the star. I would watch the porn, I would film the porn, and because I was a kid and had a perpetual erection, when the guys were done, they’d give a brother a hand, and sometimes we caught it on film. I was never a porn star, and I was never anybody’s first choice.” His voice dropped. “Not even Tory’s, and I think we both figured that out.”

  “I am about to call bullshit, but you may proceed to thing the second before I do.”

  John rolled his eyes. “And here’s thing the second. Remember, I film sex as a business. I’ve seen guys with boyfriends or girlfriends do this. And on the screen? They are into it, and they look like they are completely involved with the person they’re with. But that’s the fantasy. Don’t you get it? The straight guys—they’re taking boner pills out the yang to get it up, and the bi and gay guys, sometimes they’ve got to take them too, because it’s hard getting naked and personal with people you don’t know. And when you’re shooting the porn, it’s not all ‘One-two-three go!’ You have to stop the camera, and there’s accidents—do you know about the poop? Have I mentioned the poop? Especially with the new guys who don’t, like, starve themselves for the day before the shoot. It’s not… it’s not the fantasy behind the camera. Brant and Zion made great porn, but that’s because they were falling in love while they made it. Tory made great porn, but that’s because he was so greedy for something that he thought sex would give him and that greed is what showed up on camera. I know guys—like Chance. You watched Chance, right?”

  Galen arched an eyebrow. “Yeah. Didn’t he and Tango hook up?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, they did—but you know what? They never shot a scene together. Not once. So that thing—that….” John stumbled, because he felt foolish, because this sounded young and naïve, and he was anything but. “That thing that you and I have—that’s not a porn thing. That’s a people thing. I mean, Jesus, Galen, if anyone should know when it’s just sex and when it’s something important, you’ve got to believe I’m the guy who would.”

  Galen was staring at him bemusedly, one corner of his mouth crooked up, his eyes deceptively lazy. “Are we done yet?”

  John flushed. Jesus, that lawyer thing he did was deadly, wasn’t it? “I think so.”

  “Excellent.” Galen steepled his fingers. “Then let me address a few points, probably out of order. First, don’t ever tell me about the poop. That right there is a relationship breaker. I promise never to help you edit porn if you let me keep my cherished little fantasy that there is never, and never shall be, poop on the porn set. Are we clear?”

  John couldn’t help the tired smile then, and he met Galen’s gaze sardonically and nodded. “That is clear.”

  “Very good. Second—I understand what you mean, probably better than you do, so I’m going to say this very clearly. I spent three years with a man who ditched me in the hospital and who I knew was not faithful to me. The infidelity did not bother me that much with him. But with you, it would cripple me. I don’t think anyone in your life has ever loved you the way I do, John Carey, and I am very possessive. Tory may not have cared if you were with other people. Whoever else you’ve had in your bed may not have been particularly… personal. But I will be jealous, possessive, and every inch the bitchy, clingy boyfriend, until you pry me from your side with a crowbar and throw me to the crows. Are we understood?”

  John tried to wet his suddenly dry mouth. “I need a glass of water,” he rasped randomly. Galen passed him the bottle he’d kept unopened at his side, and John took it from him numbly, cracked the seal, and drank in short order.

  “Now,” Galen said as though that had never happened, “I’m going to repeat myself. I am. Possessive. Of you. I am that way because you are special to me. Now I get that you will be filming good-looking younger men having sex as part of your business, but I want your solemn word that looking and not touching is all that you will do.”

  John nodded, completely enthralled.

  “Use your words, John.”

  “You love me?” Because that point—that felt a little shaky right there.

  “Indeed I do,” Galen said gently. He leaned over the ruined chessboard and tapped John’s cheek with a knuckle. “I would imagine that’s a new thing for you, am I right?”

  “I’m, uhm….” Oh man. Man, he had not anticipated this. Galen loved him? “You might not feel that way after rehab,” he said lamely.

  Galen closed his eyes and then reopened them with a furnace heat of anger buried in his glare, but he did not let loose his temper. “I believe I will,” he said, his voice so even that John flinched. “And I think I may have just scared the shit out of you, you big, bad porn magnate, and I find that fascinating. I don’t even have to ask why you’d find it so hard to believe. I have watched you disembowel yourself for weeks now, and I think I know things about you that you would rather I didn’t. And I will tell you this—I love you. And I don’t think time or rehab is going to change that. And if you are full of shit about this ‘it was a long time ago and it doesn’t mean anything,’ there’s not going to be enough of me left to make it through rehab, do you understand?”

  John blinked. “Uhm… yeah,” he said, still trying to realign the stars in the heavens. “Yes,” he repeated, nodding. “I mean, no, I don’t understand it. But yes, I will not…God. Do you know how stupid that is to even ask me? You are the only asshole who would even make this an issue. You think I’m going to fuck with that for a one-off with two guys who have only ever really wanted me as a friend?”

  Galen scrubbed his face with his hands. “You have exhausted me. I’m done. But I’m also satisfied
that nobody as stupid as you are could be plotting to go fuck around and then come back and be nice to me, so begone with you!”

  “Well,” John sighed, recognizing that yes, Galen was irritated, but he also really was done, “if you’re going to be that way about it, I’ll kiss you good-bye and take my leave.”

  He pushed back and leaned over the back of Galen’s chair, bending down to kiss a sweaty temple.

  “I really do love you,” Galen said quietly, his voice a little wobbly.

  “God, that sounds awesome.” John’s eyes burned. “It’s like hearing, ‘Hey! You won a house!’ and you never knew you wanted a house, but now all you want to do is live there.”

  “It’s your place if you want it,” Galen murmured.

  John squatted on his haunches and gave up dignity, grabbing Galen’s hands and resting his chin in Galen’s lap. “I want to live there so bad,” he whispered. “So bad. But I’ve got to pack up my own shit first, and tomorrow is part of that. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow, okay, baby—”

  “Two days,” Galen said firmly, pushing John’s hair from his face. “You have paperwork to do.”

  “But—”

  “Go be a grown-up. You and I can play badminton with our feelings soon enough.” He leaned forward and kissed John’s forehead then. “And maybe some volleyball with our hearts if we feel up to it, you know, when we’re done.”

  “But what if I need you the day after tomorrow?”

  “Oh,” Galen said with a faint smile. “Well, by all means feel free to forsake the grown-up thing. Now didn’t I say something about ‘begone’?”

  John pushed himself back up and met Galen’s mouth with his own. “I’m going. I care for you so much it hurts.”

  “I am not particularly credulous, but fine. Go home and send me all your drug correspondence, porn magnate, and I’ll try and pull your ass out of the fire.”

  John grinned, liking very much that Galen would try to be his knight in shining armor. “I shall do that.”

  Then he kissed Galen one last time and left.

  A Day at the Beach

  THE LITTLE diesel-powered ferry that bussed people out to ash-dropping depth (as John called it) and then putt-putted back was actually really comfortable. It had an inside cabin with a wet bar (fortunately stocked with lots of sodas and snacks) and comfy, roomy seats made of velveteen, and it had benches on the prow, where Zion and Brant spent most of their time, faces toward the wind like giant puppy dogs.

  John was very aware that this was cook-green-eyed-redheads-like-chicken weather, so he stayed in the cabin, nursing a soda and gazing beyond the horizon, thinking about what they were going to do as soon as they got far enough from shore.

  About ten minutes into the half hour that the captain and guide assured them it would take, Brant and Zion came back inside.

  John glanced out at the rich blue of the sea and sky and then back to his friends. “You guys! There’s no reason to cut it short for me, you know. It’s nice out there.”

  “Yes, but black people burn too,” Zion said, plunking his wider, heavier frame on the seat next to John.

  John leaned on the table that was anchored to the floor. “Not in five minutes,” he said dryly. “What’s up?”

  “You are,” Brant said, sitting on his other side and snuggling in like a puppy. John let him, and thought about physical contact, and how nice it was to have someone he was comfortable with give it. Not sexual, just comfortable. Wow.

  “I’m under strict orders not to be the cream center in the Oreo,” John said dryly, winking.

  “Well, we’ll keep our clothes on if you will,” Zion said mildly. Then he threw an arm over John’s shoulder, and John settled into it, thriving a little on the comfort thing.

  “Galen is appreciative.” John closed his eyes and tried to fit that puzzle piece into his brain. It still wasn’t finding a place.

  “That’s wonderful, but why in the hell should you care?”

  John grunted. He didn’t want to talk about this now. Or, well, he did want to talk about this, but he wasn’t ready to talk about him.

  “When did you guys first know it was love?” he asked instead. “I mean, one minute we were all fucking around and you were both sort of ‘anything goes,’ and the next minute it was both of you, and never the twain shall part.”

  “That’s easy,” Brant said, leaning against John like he was part of an especially formfitting backrest. “We’d go over to your place and we’d fuck around and make porn and screw whoever… and then we’d always end up at Zion’s place together, watching movies or talking or sleeping. And then suddenly, one day, Zi wakes up and says—”

  “Look, Skinny White Boy,” Zion filled in, “you are one of three people I can stand for longer than an hour at a time, and you are the only one I want to fuck, and I could fuck you forever and then take you to dinner. I think it’s time we called this what it is.”

  “And I said, ‘A marriage!’” Brant gasped, laughing softly.

  Both of them seemed to sober and still at the same time. If they could have looked at each other, John knew they’d be looking at each other with a sort of soft affection.

  “And I said, ‘If it is a marriage, I want to be monogamous—’”

  “And I said, ‘If I’m gonna give up making porn, you’d better fucking love me.’”

  Then both of them said, “Mm….” together.

  John laughed. “And that’s when you quit.”

  “No,” Zion said surprising him. “That’s when we got clean—you remember that. And we got out, and we felt the same—except more. And better. And like we never wanted to be with anyone else. And that’s when we stopped doing porn. And you were really supportive about all of that, remember?”

  “I was really happy for you,” John said, but his voice faltered.

  “What?” Zion prompted.

  Oh God. “I waited… I’d been waiting since eighth grade for Tory to say the same thing. And… and you guys suddenly had that, and I think maybe I realized that I never would.”

  “Not from Tory, anyway,” Brant snorted.

  “No. Not from Tory.”

  There was a heavy silence in the boat.

  “It was my fault, maybe,” John said at last. He hadn’t wanted to say it—it sounded maudlin and self-indulgent—but he found he had to. “I mean, not the suicide but the… the whole spiral. Maybe he needed me to say stop, and I didn’t. I… I would have done anything to make him happy, but I never told him no. I just… just… left him….”

  Oh, he was glad Galen was not here to see this. He was glad it was Zion and Brant, who had known him back when, who had known how weak he’d been, known how he’d begged and pleaded but had never put his foot down, never drawn a line in the sand and said, “You will lose me if you cross this.”

  It was not fair that he had to be the parent when he’d had no idea how to do such a thing.

  “Maybe Tory was just lost!” Brant protested, shifting a little. He handed John a Kleenex, which was considerate, but not enough. John wasn’t just welling up a little, he was crying, a great waterfall that he could not seem to control. “Because I remember—I don’t know if you remember my first time, because of the head injury, but I remember it. And you were telling Tory how to make it nice for me, and I… I just wanted to be loved for me so bad. And you were the one who did that, John. Not Tory. Not even Zi at first. You made me a part of you and probably saved my life. I mean….”

  He grabbed John by the back of the head and forced him into his chest. John allowed it to happen. Friends. He’d had friends once. I need this. When I go back to Sacramento, I need to live my life with friends.

  “John, man, I know you loved him. And we all made mistakes when we were just stupid kids. But you were a good kid then, and you’re a good man now. Tory—he made his own mistakes. Whatever made him reckless and selfish when he was younger, he never got past that. He never grew up. And you know what? Growing up isn’t that bad.�
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  “Beats the alternative,” Zion said drolly.

  John regarded him soberly from the shelter of Brant’s arms. “Well, the alternative is why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  Zion rolled his soulful brown eyes, and even his grimace seemed larger than life. “Way to make it real, Johnny.”

  It was just as well the engine putt-putted to a stop then, because John didn’t really have an answer to that.

  The guide—a sweet, unflappable middle-aged woman with graying black hair, a thin, active face, and lace adorning her sweater, skirt, socks, cuffs, and collar—came into the cabin and asked them if they were ready to go out on the deck.

  Oh, damn. Well, whether they were ready or not, they had reached Destination Emotional Maturity, and it was time to greet themselves as the Emotionally Mature.

  God, this was going to suck.

  The sea was damned peaceful, with only soft blue swells rolling in, and John found himself missing the cold seas of the San Francisco Bay fiercely. This wasn’t his ocean anymore—this was a place he’d once played as a kid.

  “So,” the woman said (John had forgotten her name as soon as she said it—it might as well be Charon for all he could remember), “here is the container Mr. Carey picked out for the ashes, and he can go ahead and hold it while you say whatever words you wish. I have a Bible verse here if you want to read it, or some common services. Take all the time you want. I’m here to assist you in any way I can.”

  John took the container from her and tried not to smirk, but she didn’t seem to be the least bit impressed.

  Brant and Zion, on the other hand….

  “John, is that what I think it is?” Brant sounded just like he had as a kid—snarky and immature and about ready to cut up.