TOURIST ATTRACTIONS

by Molly J. Ringle

  Or perhaps he wasn't. He said softly, from behind my head, "So your chapter with the Gilleon lad is closed?"

  "As far as I'm concerned."

  "Just going back to Anthony?"

  "I guess. I don't know. I still wish the thing with Gil had ended better. I was an idiot in so many ways."

  He shifted on the pillow, and when he next spoke, his head was closer to mine. "What do you wish went differently?" he asked, and a lovely shiver ran through me. His lips had brushed my neck with each W. My pulse started to race. Laurence never did things unintentionally, especially when they involved touching people.

  "It--it bothers me that he chose a different American over me," I said, though I had ceased to care about Gil the second Laurence's lips had touched me.

  "Yes, but she's a harpy, like I said," he murmured sleepily. "It just goes to show, his tastes are completely screwed up."

  "Yeah. I probably chose the wrong person for my little cheating adventure," I said, and tried to chuckle, which was hard when I was so anxious I could barely breathe.

  "Definitely," he said. "He's not even as cute as Anthony. I don't know what you were thinking."

  Despair slammed down upon me, and I breathed again, an unhappy sigh.

  Laurence was gay, of course. The comment about cake recipes should have tipped me off. Stupid, stupid girl; how could I have thought otherwise?

  "Goodnight," he said, after a few minutes of silence, and rolled to the other side of the bed, taking his arm with him.

  Despite my disappointment, I fell into a comfortable sleep as I shared the blankets with him. I had an exquisite dream, in which I was lying on my back on that same bed, with that same fire flickering in the hearth, and he was kneeling between my thighs and putting his lips and tongue to good use. I was clutching his hair between my hands, probably twisting and pulling it, but he didn't complain. Everything he did was perfect. I was comparing him favorably in my head to another boy who had once tried this, in college, and hadn't had a clue what to do. Come up here, I begged Laurence, and he obeyed; he tumbled onto me and kissed me, and on my damp pelvis I could feel that he was naked too...

  And there, on the brink of ecstasy, as the authors say, I writhed myself awake. We hadn't even finished yet. How frustrating.

  Dawn was turning the windows gray; the fire had died down in the hearth. My watch indicated that I had another 45 minutes before I needed to get up for work. And my dream-slave was lying on his side, facing away from me, sound asleep.

  I gazed at his wavy hair, the color of chestnuts in this faint light, and watched his shoulder rise and fall with his breath. Aching to continue the dream, I turned and snuggled up against his back. I slipped an arm around him. This didn't awaken him; he only shifted to accommodate me.

  Wildly I remembered snippets of Psychology classes, where they had discussed the effects of subliminal messages, things said to people in their sleep. I bit my lower lip thoughtfully, and considered trying to transform Laurence's preference for boys into a preference for me. But that seemed too risky. If anything would wake you up, surely it would be someone whispering directly into your ear first thing in the morning.

  At that point I remembered another snippet from Psychology. Supposedly, all males were in a state of physical arousal when they dreamed, no matter what the dream. It was the body's way of doing a systems check, so to speak. I was sure I'd read this somewhere. Was there any way I could verify this; and more to the point, was there a way I could use it to my advantage?

  My arm, the one I had slipped over him, crept down an inch. I held my breath. He continued to sleep. I moved it another inch. No reaction.

  Agonizingly, minute by minute, inch by inch, I advanced that arm southward until my wrist teetered on his pelvic bone, which I could feel through the waistband of his pajamas. My heartbeat was making my throat throb. I had to swallow for strength.

  It was now or never. Before long he would wake up and pull away from me, and my chance would vanish. If he woke up in the middle of my attempt to molest him (dreadful thought), I obviously only had one choice: to pretend I was sleeping.

  So with that in mind, I hid my face behind his shoulder, closed my eyes tightly, and brushed my hand against the front of his pajama trousers. My placement happened to be perfect: on the very first try I felt what I had expected to feel, which made my fingers jump away skittishly. But then I cautiously brought them back to that sacred swath of warm flannel.

  Eileen had been right, and the Psych textbooks had been right; and it was all I could do to keep my hand still and not begin caressing. I pressed ever so gently, felt a reflexive stir in response, and bit my tongue to keep from making a sound of desire. Poor, sweet boy... did he know, as he dreamed innocently beside me, that he was in mortal danger of being pounced and ravished?

  My fingers must have quivered with the strain of not doing anything, for I felt him twitch, at first only that one part of him, then his whole body. And then he took in his breath and moved his shoulder, knocking my arm aside.

  "What are you doing?" he asked, in the fast, disoriented voice of somebody suddenly awakened.

  I must confess that I nearly experienced cardiac arrest at that point, but I stuck to my original plan. "Hmm?" I answered, in my best groggy tone. I moved my arms to rub my eyes, but didn't jerk away from him like a guilty girl would. I only hoped he wouldn't take my pulse, for it would give me away in a second.

  He defensively pulled his knees up, and turned onto his back to frown at me. "What were you doing?" he repeated, sounding more lucid this time.

  "When?" I asked.

  "Just now. You were--trying something. What were you doing?" His eyebrows were drawn low and he looked tense all over, as if ready to lash out at me, or collapse trembling.

  "Nothing," I insisted. "I just woke up."

  He turned his head and stared at the ceiling, knees still pulled up, elbow at the ready to defend against further advances.

  I felt worse than I had ever felt about betraying Tony, worse than I had ever felt about anything. I was thoroughly ashamed of myself, and now only begged God, in a cowardly fashion, to keep Laurence from finding out that the act was not only conscious but premeditated.

  He stayed silent, gazing upward with his lips set firmly, not speaking to me.

  "If I did something in my sleep," I said, unable to take the suspense, "then I'm sorry."

  He allowed a nod, but still didn't look at me. Still didn't lower his knees or relax his muscles.

  I lay an arm across my eyes, sick to my stomach at my own behavior. "Truth be told," I murmured, "I was having a very nice dream. So I wouldn't be surprised if I did something. But I'm sorry." I sighed. "I'm so sorry."

  By small degrees, he relaxed. He finally managed half a chuckle. "I was dreaming about cataloguing all the works of Voltaire for the university library," he said, "and I couldn't find any of the ones that started with N. Your dream was probably more fun."

  "Yeah. It wasn't too bad." I slid away from him and stood up, taking my pillow. "I suppose I should get ready for work," I said, and shivered theatrically. "Gosh, it's still cold out here... Hope that furnace part arrives today."

  "It's supposed to," he said.

  I moved to the window and looked out. "Probably another six inches of snow," I babbled. "Guess I should wear the boots on my way to work, and carry the flats to change into when I get there. So-yeah..." I retreated to the door.

  Laurence had turned onto his side. He was gazing at me now, and no longer looked scared or angry, just a little confused.

  With my hand on the doorknob, I paused to say again, "Sorry."

  A grin broke delicately across his face. "I'd have expected something like that from Eileen, but not from you," he teased.

  I blushed, miserable and relieved at the same time. "Swear to God, Laurence, I was just having this dream..."

  "Uh-huh. Tell it to the judge."

  I bowed my head, unlatched the door, and escaped from his room.
/>   Never, never again would I be so stupid, I vowed all that day, feverishly scrubbing dishes and serving tea. No amount of snow or wind-chill could cool the shameful blush on my face, or lower the fire burning in my body for him. I had been so abysmally awful, so disgusting, so vulgar-- and yet--

  And yet every ten minutes I would pause and look at my left hand lovingly, and think to myself, A few hours ago this was touching him, touching him where not even Eileen has touched him. And at some level, he enjoyed it, he can't deny that, and he can't take that knowledge away from me. Then would come the blush and the shame again. Yes, you idiot, and he KNOWS you touched him!

  I only hoped he would speak to me again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Morning of the Apple Tarts

  When I got home, he was involved in intense conversation with two furnace repairmen and three other hostel employees, so we didn't have a chance to speak.

  Probably for the best. His eyes caught sight of me when I entered, and followed me across the floor for a few seconds, but then pulled back to the visitors. We would leave the subject alone until it cooled off, I reasoned. Only fair.

  The furnace installers must have done their job. The heat was back on by bedtime. I therefore was able to sleep in Room 17 again with some degree of comfort, and didn't have to decide whether to freeze or to face Laurence again with the brazen request of staying in his room.

  And I didn't see him when I came down for work the next morning; someone else was manning the front desk. By that afternoon I was getting antsy; we hadn't spoken for nearly 36 hours.

  I petulantly began chopping up chicken for dinner that evening, sharing counter space with some jovial Italian tourists who were spreading a proliferation of tomatoes, zucchini, ricotta, and basil across the kitchen. Amid the general noise, I didn't hear Laurence approach, and jumped several inches when he said in my ear, "Good evening, my little molester."

  A piece of chicken got knocked onto the floor by my arm spasm. I picked it up with exasperation and threw it away. "Damn it, Laurence. You about gave me a heart attack."

  "Good," he said. "Now we're even."

  I glanced guiltily at him. "Said I was sorry," I muttered, and began peeling a garlic clove.

  "I know you did. I'm just amused." He took the knife and started slicing off white edges of fat from the chicken. "What I want to know," he said, "is what this dream involved."

  "I am not telling you that."

  "If I guess correctly, will you say so?"

  "No."

  "A three-way between you and Anthony and Gil?" he guessed.

  "No. I said I wouldn't tell."

  "You and Tony Blair on the steps of Parliament?"

  "Don't suppose you could bring me the butter?" I asked, to distract him.

  That worked for the time being. "Butter?" he said, in horror. "No no, you want to cook these in olive oil."

  And so I proceeded to get a cooking lesson on chicken cacciatore. Such torture--surely only a gay boy would know how to do that.

  But the next day, when I encountered him in the laundry room, he said, "Anthony and Father Jim in a confessional, with you watching through the lattice?"

  "Laurence--no."

  The day after that, it was, "Gillie wearing Highlander regalia and doing a striptease at the Mercat Cross?"

  And the day after that: "Wielding a whip over two cowering Australian male models who you've tied up with chains?"

  By then he was able to reduce me to giggles with each suggestion, which only made it more fun for him. I was still embarrassed, but deeply grateful that he was taking it so lightly.

  Then, on the 16th of February (two days after a totally uneventful Valentine's Day, which I spent watching chick flicks with Eileen and New-Age Nina), I strolled into the kitchen to make breakfast before work, and found Laurence chopping up apples. We were the only ones there at that early hour.

  "We'll be having apple tarts for dessert tonight," he said. "Dad sent me a box of Melroses today, left over from fall."

  "Sounds healthy," I said. I got out my customary egg and heated up a pan on the stove.

  "It isn't," he acknowledged, "but it's tasty."

  As I melted butter, he came up next to me, said, "Here," and slipped a small apple wedge into my mouth.

  It was sweet and lightly dusted with cinnamon. "Mmm. Reminds me of home," I said, chewing.

  "Doesn't it though?" Instead of returning to his counter full of flour and sugar, he leaned on the one beside me, folded his arms, and watched my egg scrambling for a while. I was expecting some critique of my culinary style, so it surprised me when he said, "That dream...I don't suppose I was in it?"

  He hadn't mentioned the dream for days. I felt myself blush instantly. "I said I wouldn't tell," I answered quietly.

  "A blush speaks volumes," he said.

  Caught off guard by this introduction of the subject, at this early hour, I caved much too easily. "All right. It was about you; and yes, I groped you intentionally, but what could it possibly matter? I'm taken, and you're... unavailable. I know it was stupid of me. Don't torment me about it. I said I'm sorry."

  "Why do you say I'm unavailable?" he asked.

  I turned off the stove and put my egg on a plate. Mechanically I added salt and pepper to it, though swallowing seemed like it would be impossible. "Well, you didn't even want Eileen, and she's gorgeous. And available."

  "I told you, I wasn't interested."

  "Right; that's precisely it. Look, I don't want to pry into your private reasons. But I understand, okay?" I took my plate to the windowsill and perched there, nibbling small bites off my fork

  Laurence retreated to his tart-making counter and slowly sliced a few more apples. "I sort of wonder if you do understand," he said finally.

  "Eileen figured it out," I mumbled. "And it makes sense."

  He measured a cup of flour, poured it into a bowl, and sifted a teaspoon of baking powder into it. "To make sure we're on the same wavelength," he said, "what exactly did she figure out?"

  I forced down another swallow of scrambled egg. "That the reason you didn't want to sleep with her is that...that...you're not interested in girls."

  "What?" he laughed, startled.

  "Well, it makes sense," I said defensively.

  "Wait a second. Wait a second. Because I didn't want to sleep with Eileen, I must be gay? Tell me this isn't what you're saying."

  "You don't have to deny it," I shot back. "I wish it weren't true, but come on. Look at the evidence."

  "What evidence?" he demanded.

  I took one more small bite of egg, then shoved the rest off my plate into the trash can. "The cooking... the expertise about fabrics and clothes. The--the fastidious attitude toward women. Look, you can tell me; I won't hold it against you. I wouldn't tell anyone else, either." However, I could hardly look at him. I took my plate to the sink and rinsed it.

  "Okay, hold it," he said. He was still laughing a little, in shock. "I'm a chemist, of course I know about fabrics. I work for Rose Labs. Don't you remember how I spent an entire summer testing various synthetics for fire resistance?"

  "Yeah, I guess," I mumbled.

  "As for cooking, well, the same thing. Fine scientist I'd be if I didn't understand about mixing substances and applying heat."

  "I know, but..."

  "Besides that," he continued, starting to sound a little indignant now, "why the hell should it mean I'm gay, just because I know how to dress myself and cook my own meals? You do remember that my mother died when I was fourteen; you do remember that Dad and I have had to do this stuff ourselves?"

  I put away the plate and turned to face him. "This isn't a good time," I apologized. "I didn't mean to upset you. I should get to work, but if you want to talk later-"

  "Eva," he threatened. "You're not going to think this of me. It isn't true."

  "I just want you to know, it's okay if it is." I made my way toward the door, feeling that I had either been too intrusive or ve
ry stupid. Best that I just get to work.

  "There is a reason why I turned down Eileen, you know," he said.

  I stopped to hear it.

  "I hinted to you that I was interested in someone else. I thought you caught that. And here's another hint, dear: it isn't a man."

  I looked down at the floor tiles, determined not to get my hopes up. "It's Sharon, isn't it," I said.

  "It's not Sharon," he said, sardonically. "You've got the right family, though."