by Jason Starr
They had sex the normal way, but he was so distracted and angry, he almost lost his hard-on. He had to concentrate really hard, pretending she was one of the porn stars he’d seen on TV the other day, that Chinese one, in order to keep it up. Then, finally, after about five minutes, he finished. It was probably the lamest sex he’d ever had.
But by the way she cuddled up to him afterward and started kissing his face and neck, she didn’t seem to have any clue that all he wanted, more than anything in the world, was to get the hell out of there. He would’ve left right away, but he knew that would mess things up for Will and Amanda big-time, so he figured he wouldn’t let on that anything was wrong tonight, but then he’d break up with her the way he usually broke up with girls, by e-mail or with a text message. He’d tell Katie he got back with his old girlfriend, or that he wasn’t ready for a relationship, or some crap like that.
He stayed for another hour or so, finishing dinner, and then he made up an excuse, telling her he had to go back home to do some stuff for work tomorrow.
“You know what would be cool?” she said. “If we could start leaving clothes at each other’s apartments. I mean, so we can stay over sometimes.”
“Yeah, that’s a really great idea,” he said, then he looked away, rolling his eyes, but making sure she didn’t see.
He kissed her goodbye, telling her he’d had a great time and couldn’t wait to see her again.
“Hey, you wanna go out tomorrow night?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’ll definitely call you,” he said, thinking, Yeah, like that was happening.
Finally, he was out of her apartment, by himself, a free man again. It had almost stopped raining. He wanted to find a girl, any girl to make him forget about the whole Katie debacle. Blondie’s on Second Avenue looked lame, so he went next door to the Big Easy and hit on the hot bartender. No luck there, so he positioned himself at the bar next to two girls. One of them was cute, one wasn’t. Most guys, in this situation, went after the cute one. Big mistake. The cute one usually had a boyfriend and was on a “mercy night out” with her single, not-as-cute friend. Andy knew if he started talking to the cute one he’d wind up buying drinks for her and her friend, and get absolutely nothing, not even a phone number. So Andy started talking to the so-so looking one—her name was Lynn—and things looked great for a while. She seemed really desperate and into him and he thought he was a shoo-in for at least a blow job. The problem was, the good-looking friend was just sitting there by herself. There must’ve been ten other single guys in the bar, and Andy couldn’t believe no one was coming over to help him out. Naturally, the pretty one felt uncomfortable alone and started pressuring the friend to leave with her. Andy could tell the friend wanted to stay, but the pretty one kept bitching, and the friend finally gave in. Andy got the friend’s number, but he doubted he’d actually call her. He wasn’t looking for a date; he was looking to get laid.
He ordered another beer and scanned the bar. The ratio sucked. There were only two girls in the whole place and they were both on the fat side and they were both with guys. He figured he’d down his beer, then check out a couple of other bars on his way home or maybe just call it a night—he’d see how he felt—when he noticed a dark-haired guy with a goatee standing near the door. It was hard to tell for sure, but the guy seemed to be staring at him. Andy looked away a couple of times, then checked back, and the guy still seemed to be looking right at him.
Starting to get seriously pissed off, Andy glared at the guy, as if saying, Stop staring at me, asshole. The guy must’ve noticed, because he came over to Andy and, smiling widely, said, “Hi, don’t you remember me? Joe. Joe the Yankees fan.”
THIRTEEN
Andy squinted at the guy but he didn’t look any more familiar.
“No, actually I don’t remember you.”
“Come on,” the guy said. “We met a couple of months ago at that bar on Third Avenue. Your name’s Andy, right?”
“Yeah,” Andy said, looking at the guy closely again, trying to see if something rang a bell.
“And you’re a big Phillies fan, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Come on, you remember me. It was late, we were talking near the bathroom. We were both pretty drunk, too.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, I think I remember now.” Actually, the guy only looked slightly more familiar, but Andy figured he must’ve met him before and was just blanking. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Joe.”
“Joe?”
“Yeah, Joe.”
Now that they were talking, Andy didn’t get the weird vibe so much anymore; actually Joe seemed like a pretty cool dude. “So how’s it going, man?”
“Pretty good, pretty good,” Joe said. “So you got that girl’s number, huh?”
“You mean the ugly one?”
“She didn’t seem so ugly.”
“You were twenty feet away, dude. Trust me, there were big problems up close.”
“Then why’d you get her number?”
“You mean this?” Andy took out the little piece of paper with her number on it, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it away over his shoulder. “I’m not gonna waste my time with that shit.” He sipped his beer, then looked around. “Man, I can’t believe how lame the talent is here tonight. There’s usually a ton of tuna here, you know?”
“You’re looking to get laid tonight, huh?”
“I already got laid,” Andy said. “Now I wanna get fucked.”
Andy was trying to be funny and expected Joe to laugh, but Joe didn’t have any reaction. Andy thought maybe the guy didn’t hear him—the music was kind of loud—but then Joe said, “Why’s that?”
“Because it sucked, that’s why,” Andy said.
“Why did it suck?”
The Q and A was becoming a bummer.
“It’s a long story, you know? This girl…she’s just been stringing me along, you know, wasting my time.”
Joe stared, then said, “Yeah, don’t you hate that?”
“Yeah, it fuckin’ sucks, dude.” Andy downed some more beer, then put the bottle down hard on the bar. “Well, it’s time to blow this place. I’m gonna see if there’s any talent at Brother Jimmy’s. Nice running into you again, bro.”
Andy was about to get up when Joe said, “If you really want to get fucked tonight, I can help you out.”
Andy looked at him, wondering, Whoa, is this guy an ass bandit or what?
But then, thinking Joe didn’t seem like the fudgepacking type, Andy said, “Yeah, how’re you gonna do that?”
“This might come out the wrong way—”
“As long as it doesn’t go in the wrong way.”
The guy was staring at Andy, didn’t seem to get it.
“I’m not gay, dude,” Andy said.
Joe smiled, then said, “No, I didn’t think you were. Here’s the deal—I’m married, okay? To a beautiful woman. A model, actually. You might’ve seen her before. You heard of Cleara?”
“No.”
“Well, she’s a very famous model. She was on the cover of German Vogue last month. She’s Brazilian, but she’s really big in Europe. She was in the SI swimsuit issue last year.”
“I have that issue at home. Was she on the cover?”
“No, she didn’t make the cover…unfortunately. There was a shot of her on the beach, near some rocks. She was wearing a skimpy thong bathing suit, but it was coming off, so she had her hands over her breasts like this.”
Joe demonstrated.
“She sounds hot,” Andy said.
“Yeah, she’s very hot,” Joe said. “Anyway, we don’t have the—it’s always hard for me to say this—the most typical marriage in the world. See, she likes it when I, like, bring guys home for her.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No, I swear to God. It’s a big turn-on for her. That’s why I go to bars. Not to try to pick up girls, but to pick up guys.”
Andy had heard
about shit like this. A buddy of his in high school claimed he’d met a woman in the mall one day who used to invite him over to her place to fuck while her husband watched.
“Don’t you get jealous?” Andy asked.
“No, I actually enjoy it.”
“You enjoy watching guys fuck your wife?”
“No, no, I’m never in the room. She tells me all about it later. Anyway, if you’re interested, you’re exactly her type. How old are you?”
“Twenty-three, but—”
“Yeah, that’s perfect. She’s twenty-eight, but she loves young, clean-cut guys. Were you in a fraternity in college?”
“Yeah, Delta Kappa Epsilon, but I—”
“Yeah, she’s gonna love you. So what do you say? We live right over on East End Avenue, in a penthouse overlooking the river. We can be there in five minutes.”
“Sorry, dude,” Andy said. “I mean, it sounds great and everything, but—”
“I know this might sound weird to you, but I’m telling you, it’s the truth. I wish I had a picture with me to show you, but trust me, she’s unbelievably good-looking. And all the guys I bring back for her leave very, very satisfied.”
“I believe you, dude,” Andy said. “But, I don’t know—”
“Hey, if you’re not interested, you’re not interested. I don’t think you realize what you’re missing, but I’m not gonna push it. But, hey, it was nice running into you again. See you around, I guess.”
Andy watched Joe go over to two guys sitting at a table and start talking to them. The guys seemed into what Joe was saying and Andy figured he was giving them the same offer. Usually, if a guy came up to him at a bar and told him about his beautiful Brazilian model wife who liked to screw other guys, Andy would’ve thought the guy was full of shit, but Joe seemed for real. Then Andy wondered what the hell he was doing, letting this major opportunity pass him by. Shit, this could’ve been one of those once-in-a-lifetime type things, something that fell from the sky right into his lap, and if he let it get away he might spend the rest of his life wondering What if? Maybe things not working out tonight with Katie was the best thing that could’ve happened. Maybe he was meant to run into Joe and go have sex with the model. Maybe she was wild in bed and would do everything, even have anal sex with him. He would have to be out of his mind to not at least check this thing out.
Andy went over to Joe, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Okay, I’ll go.”
“You sure?” Joe asked. “Because these guys—”
“No, I’m in,” Andy said.
They went outside.
“So where did you say you live?” Andy asked.
“East End Avenue, right near Carl Schurz Park,” Joe said. “It’s not far.”
“There won’t be any cameras there, right?”
“No, it’s not like that at all. I mean, you can look around if you want, but I promise you—this is just good clean fun.”
They made a left on the next corner and continued along the dark side street. A cold front must’ve come through because the temperature felt like it had dropped ten degrees. For a while it was awkward, and they didn’t talk much, and Andy was starting to feel weird about the whole thing, wondering if this was such a great idea after all. Then they started talking about baseball, about how steroids had ruined the game and tarnished all the records, and Andy started feeling okay about it again. He hoped Joe wasn’t bullshitting, that his wife—Cara?—was really some super-hot model. But if it turned out she was really ugly or whatever, it would be no big deal, either. He’d just say, “No thanks, see ya,” and bail. He had zero to lose, so why not go for it?
When he reached East End Avenue, Joe started crossing the street, heading toward Carl Schurz Park. All the apartment buildings were on the other side of the street so Andy wondered where Joe was going.
“Where’s your building?” Andy asked, slowing down, lagging a few feet behind.
“Oh, right over there,” Joe said, pointing downtown on East End. “I just have to make a little pit stop first.”
“What kind of pit stop?”
“Well, Cleara likes to get high, to get in the mood, and I don’t have any shit on me.”
“Oh,” Andy said, “so where’re you going?”
“My dealer hangs out on the promenade,” Andy said. “It’ll take two sees and we can smoke a little, too. You like to get high?”
Andy hadn’t smoked pot since college, but he used to get wasted all the time.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes.”
“So come on, let’s go.”
Andy hesitated, worrying about the random drug tests at work. But if he said he was afraid, he’d feel like a wimp, and he hated feeling like a wimp. He wanted to be a risk taker, the type of guy who could do something crazy like this, meet a guy in a bar and get high and go to fuck his wife, without getting nervous about it.
“All right,” Andy said and followed the guy into the park.
They walked in silence for a while, then Joe asked, “You ever been in this park before?”
“No,” Andy said. “I mean, I passed it when I went running once, but I never went in.”
“I love it here. It’s really quiet, really peaceful. It’s like a slice of the country in the middle of the city. You can come here with a book, sit on the grass, and nobody bothers you. Cleara and I have picnics here all the time. Yeah, we really love it.”
They continued along the path, stepping around puddles. There was some light from the small, old-style lampposts, but it was still dark and hard to see too far ahead.
“Listen,” Joe said. “You can hardly hear anything, right? You wouldn’t even know you’re in Manhattan.”
They were heading toward the stairs leading downward when Joe suddenly started sneezing. He bent over to get a hold of himself, then straightened up, smiling, and said, “Allergies.”
Squinting, Andy said, “So where does your…dealer hang out?”
“Not far from here,” Joe said.
They went down the steps, toward an underpass. There was a nice cool breeze coming through the tunnel, pushing back Andy’s hair. Then, at the bottom of the stairs, Joe grabbed Andy, forced him back against the concrete wall, and started squeezing his neck.
Andy tried to grab Joe’s arms, push him away, but he couldn’t get anywhere. He felt pressure building in his head.
“You shoulda left her alone, Frat Boy,” Joe said. “You shoulda left her alone.”
What the hell was he talking about? What the fuck was wrong with him? Andy tried to suck some air through his throat, any air, but couldn’t. Then he thought, This isn’t happening. I’m not even here. But, fuck, he still couldn’t breathe, and Joe, with his face all red and bulging veins in his forehead, looked totally insane. Andy thought, If I could just get one breath, one fucking breath. He struggled, trying desperately to pry away Joe’s fingers. But the fucking guy seemed to be wearing gloves or something and Andy couldn’t get the fingers loose. He tried to kick Joe but couldn’t get any force into it. He was weak, everything spinning, then he couldn’t fight back. He didn’t know where he was anymore, or who he was. He was looking at Joe’s face, but it wasn’t even a face. It was nothing at all.
PART TWO
FOURTEEN
When Peter Wells was nine years old he asked his mother if she would marry him someday. His mother didn’t take it seriously, acting like it was a big joke—maybe her son was going through some sort of romance period, a phase—but Peter was dead serious. He told his mother again and again how much he loved her and how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Finally, she told him that it was getting to be too much, that he was starting to upset her, and that he had to stop it. Although Peter knew that his mother really was in love with him and just didn’t want to admit it, he stopped expressing his feelings because the last thing he wanted was for the woman he loved more than anything to be mad at him.
For the next few years, Peter continued to pine, in secr
et, for his mom. Most kids his age tried to spend as little time with their mothers as possible, feeling embarrassed to be around them, but not Peter. He loved doing things with his mother. He went everywhere with her—to the Pittsfield Mall, to Price Chopper; he even waited at the salon while she got her hair done. To impress her, he got interested in the things she was interested in—classical music, old movies—and he rushed home every day to listen to NPR. When he wasn’t with her, like at school, he’d sit in the back of the class, gazing out the window, thinking about her. After school, at night, he’d tell his mother he needed help with his homework just so he could spend more time with her. Although she’d never admit it, Peter knew his mother enjoyed his company, too, and not only in the usual way mothers enjoy their sons’ company. There was definitely an unspoken bond between them, a special connection that other mothers and sons didn’t have.
When Peter reached puberty, naturally his mother was the star of most of his masturbation fantasies. He imagined many scenarios, but his favorite was their wedding night. They were in the honeymoon suite and it was their first time together. He imagined taking off her dress, what her breasts would look like, what they’d feel like. He enjoyed the buildup, but tried not to ejaculate, and it annoyed him whenever he accidentally did. He felt like ejaculating degraded his mother, made her into one of the slutty women in a copy of Hustler he’d once seen.
Peter became a master at hiding his emotions. No one had any idea that he had a thing for his mother—his father was probably the most clueless of all. As far as his old man was concerned, yeah, maybe Peter was more of a momma’s boy than most kids, but there wasn’t anything abnormal going on. And the thing was, there wasn’t anything abnormal going on. Of course, Peter knew that most boys didn’t fall in love with their mothers and want to marry them, but his situation was different. His mother wasn’t even his mother. He’d been adopted and his real parents were Canadian, lived somewhere near Montreal. And there wasn’t a huge age difference between him and his adoptive mother either. They were only twenty-seven years apart so when he was twenty she’d be forty-seven, when he was twenty-five she’d be fifty-two, et cetera, et cetera. It seemed like the older they got the less of a big deal it would become. Yeah, some people would think it was weird, a mother marrying her adopted son, but what difference would it make? They would be in love and that’s all that would matter.