The Perils of Intimacy

by Rick R. Reed

  The moment is marred only by a sudden—and fierce—urge to pee. Jesus, how can some bodily functions be so intense and delirious, magical really, while others seem so pedestrian? I will ponder this in the bathroom.

  I very carefully sit up, moving away from Jimmy, and then set my feet on the gritty hardwood floor.

  I look over at him. The light filtering in through the blinds casts slats of pale orange on his face from the streetlight outside. He stirs a little and then turns over on his side. His snoring stops. I suppress a yearning to reach out and let my fingertips run across the stubbled planes of his face, to caress the dampness of his lips.

  I doubt that he’d mind, but for God’s sake, let the poor guy get some rest! He’s young. Good for at least one more round before the dusky pewter light of dawn creeps in. I grin to myself, and even after all we’ve done tonight, I start to get hard again.

  I stand, my erection jutting out before me, and think how I’ll have to sit on the toilet for a while to allow this situation to resolve itself before I can fully empty my bladder.

  I creep from the bedroom, casting a glance over my shoulder a couple of times, but Jimmy doesn’t wake. Part of me is glad, the other disappointed.

  The hallway is dark. I grope my way along the wall. Behind one closed door, there’s the soft murmur of a TV, and I think how Jimmy’s roommate must have come home at some point. Did he hear us? How could he not?

  Oh well. Jimmy told me he was gay as well. Two gay roommates probably wouldn’t be too shocked by the sounds of coupling coming from another room. I just like to think that his roommate rarely hears it from Jimmy’s room, if ever. Jealous much? I know there’s already a connection, a little possessiveness on my part, and I wonder if I care too much, too soon.

  But you know what? It doesn’t matter. Jimmy’s a gift. Who can blame me if I like to indulge the fantasy that he only has eyes—and lips, and dick, and ass—for me?

  In the bathroom I sit down, waiting for my erection to subside. As I do so, I look around the room. It’s small, cramped. The tile floor, small black-and-white diagonals, is most likely original to the building, which I would guess was built maybe as far back as the 1920s. Two towels, one red and one white, hang haphazardly from the towel rack on the wall. There’s a claw-foot tub with a metal rod shower enclosure, an old wooden medicine cabinet that’s seen too many coats of paint, a pedestal sink with separate hot and cold spigots. There’s rust in the sink. In one corner there’s a pair of jeans, balled up, and on top of it, a Seattle Seahawks hoodie. I wonder which of the guys the clothes belong to. The wastebasket, white plastic, is nearly overflowing.

  I finally go. As I stand up and then turn around to shake off, I notice a little bar mounted above the toilet with hooks on it. Various things hang from the hooks—a few rubber bands, a cock ring—this makes me laugh—and an assortment of cheap leather jewelry: a braided wristband, a crystal on a leather strap to be worn around the neck. This last I finger, staring at it. I feel a tingling as I touch it, almost as if it’s a talisman, transmitting energy to me.

  And then I feel a little sick.

  I used to have one just like it. I can see it in my mind’s eye, in a black wooden box I had on my dresser, lying next to a watch I lost, assorted receipts, phone numbers, a black-and-red thumb drive.

  The tingling switches to nausea. I plop back down, hard, on the toilet. I shut my eyes, trying to blot out the memory that rises up.

  A couple of years ago, I invited a guy over to my apartment off Adam4Adam. When he arrived, I knew he was high as a kite. And he confirmed this shortly after I let him inside my place when he brought out a little glass pipe with black residue on the bottom, white residue along the stem. “You party?” he asked me, wiggling the pipe in my face.

  I can see him in my mind’s eye, and a cold blast runs up and down my spine. Sitting on my bed, naked, emaciated, so skinny his ribs showed, poking out through sallow skin. Long, blond, but somehow dirty-looking dreads, stretching almost down to his waist. He’s holding the pipe to his lips, twisting it this way and that to swirl the drug inside, which his butane lighter has turned to liquid. Watching in a kind of horrified fascination as he exhales a huge white cloud. He offers me the pipe again.

  I shake my head.

  And his face.

  It’s Jimmy’s face. The hair, the body, the sense of decay are all different from the Jimmy sleeping in the other room, the one I just fucked on our second occasion in bed together, yet they’re him. The face is his. It may have filled out some, but it’s the same.

  Why didn’t I see it before? Was it because I didn’t want to? Because he’s changed so much?

  He’d called himself JD back then. The sex between us took only about ten minutes—at least for me. But JD wouldn’t leave. He stayed, watching porn on my desktop computer, stroking, smoking that damn pipe, and occasionally scrolling through his phone.

  He got a lot of texts.

  Can I be mistaken? I shake my head, my heart beating faster, my breath coming a little quicker.

  No.

  You know how you see someone who you think looks like a person you know, and you think it could be them? But there’s something instinctive in you that tells you it’s not. The reverse is true too; when you see someone you know, you see the whole package, and you know, with pretty much certainty, that they are who you think they are.

  I’ve reached that conclusion.

  It’s him.

  And I want to puke.

  The logical part of my brain wants to argue, urges me to look for more proof. I stand and notice a small, cheap cabinet, white particleboard, opposite. I open the bottom and find stacks of frayed, grayish, yet neatly folded towels. There’s an old Entertainment Weekly on top of the towels, its page curled by damp. The drawer above creaks when I slide it open, and I shudder. There’s a lot of crap inside—a beard trimmer, scissors, a box of Band-Aids, a tube of Neosporin, a lighter, a coupon for Nyquil.

  And there’s an iPod. It’s in a rubberized black sleeve.

  It’s just like the one I used to have.

  I have to sit back down. I clutch the iPod in my hand, willing it not to be mine.

  When JD came over a couple of years ago, he not only terrified me by refusing to leave, but he stole from me. Every chance he got. I wondered why he brought along the big black backpack when he showed up. I assumed it had sex toys in it, and later, his drug paraphernalia.

  Turned out it was most likely almost empty so he could fill it with my stuff when I left the room.

  He took a Fossil watch I loved, an emerald ring that had belonged to my grandfather, all the cash in my wallet. I knew the amount—$200—because I’d gone to the ATM that day after work. He took stupid stuff—running shorts, a souvenir T-shirt I’d gotten in Mexico, a leather rope with a crystal attached to it. He pocketed an expensive pair of Bluetooth headphones, Ray-Ban sunglasses, a couple of thumb drives with porn on them I’d left lying by the computer.

  He took a whole lot of shit, none of which I’d discovered until he’d left, early in the morning, as I begged him to go.

  Right now I feel the same sickness in the pit of my gut—violation. The food he’d made for me tonight churns around inside.

  I look down at the iPod, exactly like the one I’d lost that night. I rub my finger along its rubberized cover, debating whether I really want to wake it up. Right now I could still bury my head in the sand—not really, but I still don’t have concrete proof. But if I scroll through the playlists on this thing, it would be proof enough, verification enough, that the guy I just slept with, the one I thought I was falling in love with, was the same guy who’d left me feeling sick and violated two years ago. Not so much because he took my things—nothing was that valuable, and everything, save for my grandpa’s ring, was replaceable. But because I invited him in and he betrayed me and used me.

  It took me months to get over the trauma. It replayed over and over again, on endless loop, in my head. I was celibate for th
ree months afterward, fearful that I’d be violated again. I tried getting in touch with him to see if there was a way I could maybe at least get my grandpa’s birthstone ring back, but it seemed he’d blocked me everywhere he could. Or he just had gotten what he’d wanted from me and had nothing more to say. We both knew he was a thief.

  I sigh. There’s no turning back now.

  I press the silver button in the center of the iPod, and its little screen illuminates. There they are. My playlists:

  Hi-Energy

  Gym/Workout

  80s

  Favorite Females Pop

  Favorite Females Jazz

  Classical mellow

  Big Band Jazz

  Trance/Electronica

  Dance Ass Off

  Run

  All my playlists. This isn’t a coincidence. I frown. This is my iPod. The weird thing? I feel numb. Back then, when I discovered JD had robbed me, I felt rage. I felt violated, betrayed. Sick. But maybe I got that all out at the time, because now, as I stare down at the iPod, scrolling through the old songs and artists I’d once painstakingly uploaded, creating multiple playlists to suit any mood, all I feel is—nothing.

  And the need, pretty urgent, that I have to get out of here. The bathroom’s walls feel as though they’re closing in on me, like some kind of old horror movie. It’s hard to breathe.

  I don’t flush. I clutch the iPod in my hand as I creep softly back to the bedroom. I wince as the door creaks when I open it, praying Jimmy doesn’t wake. I don’t know what I’d say to him. I don’t know what I’d do.

  Numb? Maybe not so much now as I stand here at the foot of his little twin bed, looking down on him. He’s kicked the covers partially off, and one leg, hairy, well-formed, lies exposed.

  “Who are you?” I whisper.

  And I wonder if he even has any memory of me. Or if I was just one in a long line of drug-crazed tricks he abused and abandoned.

  At some point in his life, he must have cleaned himself up. It’s not only the fact that he won’t even touch a drop of alcohol in my presence, it’s the healthy vitality that seems to radiate off him now. I’m not surprised it took me a while to recognize him, although I think there was something nagging at me from the first moment I saw him in the diner that morning, a sense that I knew him from somewhere. It was like when you watch TV and see a guest star who looks familiar but you have no clue from where.

  Good for you, I send out to him telepathically. Good for you for cleaning yourself up. But I can’t forget what you did to me. And I certainly can’t forgive.

  I gather my clothes up from the floor, making sure I have everything. I creep back to the living room, where I dress quickly, praying the roommate or Jimmy won’t decide to get up for a bathroom break or midnight snack run.

  Thunder rumbles outside. It mirrors the turmoil in my gut, my heart.

  I pat my pockets, making sure my keys and my wallet are where they should be.

  I am about to start out the door when I remember the iPod. I’d put it on an end table while I got dressed but then picked it up again. I clutch it. I look down at it and contemplate taking it home. It is, after all, indisputably mine.

  But no. I think the little device will serve as good as anything else as a farewell note, a not-so-obscure “fuck you.” I tiptoe back to Jimmy’s room, glad I left the door partially open. I move close to the bed, where a pile of books serves as a nightstand, and set the iPod down in the center of the top one.

  Just as I’m leaving, I hear the bedclothes rustle. I turn to see Jimmy lifting his head from the pillow, and my heart clutches. The amazing thing? A part of me wants desperately to get back into bed with him, to discover that somehow, some way, I was mistaken. That he will fill my gullible heart with lies I want so desperately to believe that I will.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice deep, raspy with sleep and exhaustion.

  “Hey,” I say back, trying not to display the tension thrumming in me as though it’s electric. I put one hand on the door. I taste a splash of bile at the back of my throat.

  “Where you goin’?” he asks.

  “Bathroom,” I tell him.

  He lies back down and turns over on his side. “Hurry back.”

  “I will. I will, Jimmy.”

  I hurry to close the door, afraid it will reach his sleep-addled brain that I’m fully clothed. I don’t look back. I head straight for the front door and out—into the night. Into a world where I wonder if I’ll ever feel safe to care for another man again.

  This shit isn’t worth it, I think as I step onto the sidewalk, and the rain, pouring down, soaks me instantly.

  I don’t care.

  Even though my apartment is at least three miles from here, I decide to walk home.

  Chapter 9

  JIMMY

  THE FIRST thought that hits me, even before I open my eyes, is Shit. I have to get to work.

  The second one, scarier, is I’m alone in bed.

  I turn and open my eyes to bright sunlight. The room is awash in it. Dust motes practically sparkle in the air. It shimmers around the edges of the blinds and makes me think of summer. There’s a rising sense of anticipation in me, until….

  I look over at the empty space in bed beside me and frown. I run my hand over the pillow and the sheet.

  They’re cold.

  He’s in the bathroom. He’s got to be in the bathroom. He wouldn’t just creep out like some one-night stand. That’s not Marc. That’s not my Marc. He wouldn’t just leave without saying good-bye.

  Would he?

  I lie back, breathe in. I wish I didn’t crave a smoke, but I do. I sit up and rub my eyes, listening. The apartment is still. Outside, early morning traffic whizzes by on Western Avenue. Distant, a siren blares. I can hear a garbage truck’s machinery working to whisk away another week of dumpster refuse.

  The sun’s brightness informs me that I’ve overslept and missed starting time at the diner. I’m already making excuses—my alarm didn’t go off—as I put my feet on the floor and bend over to grab my jeans, still balled up at the side of the bed.

  I snort a quick burst of laughter. No wonder I overslept. I was overserved last night. Overserved with sex. Jesus! I was exhausted. Am exhausted. I can’t remember the last time I was this wrung out—and I’m happy about it.

  I grope around in my jeans pockets until I find my lighter and a pack of Marlboro Blacks. I stand and pull the jeans on and head for the front door, thinking I’ll see or hear Marc in the bathroom as I pass by. I picture myself rapping a couple of times on the door and asking what he wants for breakfast. I’d thought ahead—ever-hopeful—yesterday when I ran to the store and got some eggs, orange juice, bacon, and instant coffee.

  But when I get to the bathroom, the door’s open. The emptiness of the little room mocks me. I peek inside anyway, not quite understanding why. I mean, it’s not like Marc’s going to be hiding behind the shower curtain. I pull the shower curtain anyway, and all I see is a leaking faucet and a bar of soap that’s little more than a sliver.

  Kevin’s door is closed, but I hear him snoring. His TV, never off, creates a low hum beneath the sound of him sawing logs.

  I step out the apartment front door, hurry through the vestibule and then outside. The air smells clean, brisk, washed after last night’s rain.

  I sit down on the top step and light up, watch the gray cloud of smoke as it emerges from my mouth and my nostrils, how the wind snatches it away. The streets are still slick from last night’s downpour.

  I tell myself one of two things to try to explain why Marc wasn’t next to me in bed. First, he had the presence of mind to wake up and get himself off to work. One of us has to be responsible! Somewhere in that little cubbyhole I call a bedroom, he left me a note. Of course he did. Or a text…. And I curse myself for not bringing my phone outside.

  I barely smoke half the cigarette before I stand and pitch it down to the sidewalk. I’m too keyed up to finish it. Now, littering’s something I no
rmally wouldn’t do. Usually I’d put my smoke out on the wall or the step below me and carry it back in to dispose of responsibly in the trash.

  But I’m anxious, nerves jittering like a horde of bees unloosed in my brain. My second thought—that Marc was in the kitchen as I passed through the apartment, searching for coffee or some other form of sustenance—needs to be desperately proven right.

  Right now.

  Heart pounding, I take a deep breath and step back in, knowing even as I hurry for no good reason that he won’t be there.

  Something happened. He knows. The two thoughts are so simple, yet so terrifying.

  The kitchen’s empty. Plates from last night’s dinner fill up the sink, rinsed and waiting to be washed. I left the salad dressing out on the counter overnight, and I put it back in the fridge. I look around myself again, absurdly thinking he’s hiding somewhere, ready to jump out and startle me, laughing.

  How I wish that could be true!

  I hug myself, shivering, even though it’s not really cold in the apartment, running my hands up and down my arms. Dread, like some little creature digging its tiny razor-sharp claws into my brain, begins to make a nest.

  I return to the bedroom, ready to snatch up my phone. Surely a text will be waiting for me. Hey… last night was amazing. But I had to run out so I could make it into work on time. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you. An emoji of a face blowing a heart-shaped kiss. See you soon!

  I look around for my phone and spy it on the floor. Good thing I didn’t step on it. I pick it up and press the Home button, but no message is waiting. Just to be sure, I key in my pass code and go the messages app. Nothing. And there are no missed calls either.

  What the fuck?

  I sit down on my bed, dejected. It’s then that I see the iPod, lying there like a snake coiled and waiting to strike.

  I swear to God, my heart drops from its place in my chest to somewhere down around my groin. Bile rises up, acidic, bitter, burning, and I taste a little of the fish we had last night. It almost makes me want to puke.