Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent

by Anthony Rapp

  I hadn’t really known him for long, but he was the ringleader, and that night, as usual, we were at his house in Shorewood, the slightly more upscale community adjacent to Joliet. His loud, obese mother was also home, in the living room watching TV. She loved when Ricky brought his friends over. “Oh, HI, how are YOU?” she boomed in her nasal voice from her easy chair when I dropped in. “Nice to SEE you again!”

  “Mom, we’re going to be in my room,” Ricky said.

  “Okay, Ricky. See you all LATER!”

  There wasn’t any asking for permission in Ricky’s house. He expected to get, and got, what he wanted. And what he wanted that night was all of us in his room drinking and playing Spin the Bottle. And that’s what we did.

  The players that night were Ricky; Bryan, an officer in Joliet West’s ROTC who was Ricky’s age, with that similar older-than-he-was quality, his New England accent an anomaly in our town; Doreen, whose dyed red hair was spectacularly sprayed and sculpted to swoop over her forehead, almost covering one eye, its side-part extremely low, near her ear, like a balding man’s comb-over; Laura, compact and tough, sporting a New Wave pompadour, her hair poofed up on top and buzzed on the sides and in the back, but with a bonus tail stemming from the base of her skull; Frances, slim and pretty, with freckles, big blue eyes, and dark dark dark black hair, which fell around her face without quite as many products sprayed or gelled or moussed into it; me, at fourteen by far the youngest participant; and Andy Dick—yes, that Andy Dick, years before he was famous—also eighteen, my closest friend in the group and the real reason I was there. I had met Andy two and a half years prior, when I played the title role in Oliver! at Joliet West. He played Dr. Grimwig, a tiny role in Act Two, and in any other production undoubtedly completely forgettable, but not so in our production. Andy, gawky and skinny and unafraid to do anything for a laugh, sprayed his blond Afro—he looked like a tree, with his lanky frame and huge hair—completely gray (the shiny, silvery gray you only get out of those ‘Streaks ’n’ Tips’ cans used for makeup effects in amateur theatre productions), and decided that his Dr. Grimwig was ninety years old and dying of emphysema. So his two-minute scene with me wherein he asked me how I was feeling, and then pronounced me well, stretched into four or five minutes, as he coughed and wheezed and sputtered and hacked up phlegm and ad libbed crazy exclamations. The audience loved it, laughing uproariously, and it took all of my concentration to keep from laughing. We became instant friends, and from that moment on Andy constantly made me laugh.

  There we all were, in Ricky’s room, ready to play our game. Violent Femmes’ eponymous album blared from Ricky’s stereo system, if you could call it blaring; his stereo was one of those Radio Shack cheapies with the tiny simulated-wood speakers, and everything that came out of it sounded pretty thin and sad, but we didn’t care.

  I hope you know this will go down on your permanent record, Gordon Gano, the Femmes’ lead singer, sang.

  Oh yeah? we all chimed in.

  There wasn’t much to Ricky’s room: just a bed, his pathetic little stereo, and a couple of posters messily thumbtacked to the formica-paneled walls, posters of Duran Duran and Bauhaus and The Cure. We all sat on the floor at the foot of his bed, in a circle, clutching our wine coolers or beers or screwdrivers or plain old straight vodka. I was drinking wine coolers.

  Gordon Gano sang, and we sang along:

  Why can’t I get just one fuck?

  Why can’t I get just one fuck?

  I guess it’s got something to do with luck

  ’Cause I’ve waited my whole life for just one…

  Our Spin the Bottle rules went like this: the spinner got to tell the spinnee what to do, and everyone had to do whatever the spinner said. So it had elements of truth or dare, but without the truth, and with the essential Russian roulette factor of the spinning bottle.

  “I’ll start,” Ricky said, and he spun. It landed on Doreen.

  “Oh, shit,” Doreen said.

  “Doreen,” Ricky said, “I want you to give Laura ear sex.”

  Doreen blushed and smiled, and Frances playfully hit her in the arm.

  “Go Doreen,” she said. Ear sex was a favorite activity in our Spin the Bottle games. I hadn’t known it even existed until I started playing with this group.

  Laura rolled her eyes and took a sip of her wine cooler, then went over to Doreen. Doreen kissed Laura’s ear, really giving it a thorough licking. Laura squealed in delight. I still didn’t quite get the appeal of ear sex; it seemed slobbery to me, messy, and not very tasty, but I was still intrigued. No one had ear-sexed me yet. In fact, I rarely got hit by the bottle. That had to change. I wanted some action. I swigged the last of my wine cooler and opened another one.

  “Oooooo, look at that,” Bryan said. “Laura likes that.”

  Finally, Doreen and Laura broke apart, both of them grinning huge grins. Doreen tidied up her lip gloss and drank some of her beer, and Laura sat back down in her spot on the floor. She didn’t wipe her ear. I resisted wiping it for her. Then Doreen picked up the bottle and spun it. It landed on Bryan.

  “Okay, what is it this time?” Bryan said, rolling his eyes as if he had truly done everything there was to do.

  “Hmmm,” Doreen said.

  Bryan’s mouth gaped open in mock horror. “Uh-oh.”

  “French kiss Ricky.”

  “Yeah!” Andy growled.

  Bryan smiled. “Okay.” And he lunged at Ricky, and the two of them kissed, quite aggressively, Ricky holding on to Bryan’s face, Bryan grabbing on to the back of Ricky’s neck, both of their tongues working overtime. Ricky’s eyes opened as he kissed Bryan, and with an eye facing me, he watched me watching them kiss. I could feel my cheeks burning, but I didn’t look away.

  The thing was, a couple of weeks prior to this get-together, during another hangout at Ricky’s house (no Spin the Bottle that day), I wound up alone in Ricky’s room, listening to The Smiths, when Ricky walked in and closed the door. I was lying on my back on his bed, propped up on my elbows, in red-and-white-striped shorts and a Meat Is Murder T-shirt. Everyone else was with Ricky’s mom in the living room watching TV. The Smiths tape was almost over; I had been in there a while.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Ricky said to me.

  “Not much,” I said. Suddenly the tape that was playing stopped with a click that felt more like a bang.

  And without another word, Ricky sat down on the bed next to me and started to run his hand through my hair. I froze and felt my shorts tighten around my groin. Before this moment, I hadn’t had any sexual thoughts about Ricky. I didn’t find him attractive; he was too flamboyant and edgy for me, although most people would probably think he was handsome, with his mature, five-o’clock-shadowed square jaw and intense eyes and dark hair. But now there he was, with his hand resting tenderly on my head, and my heart started to race and my face started to heat up, and in that moment I definitely wanted him to do more to me than just run his fingers through my hair. But I said nothing.

  He gently eased me down all the way onto my back, sitting next to me, and let his hand travel down from my head to my chest and then onto my stomach—I had never felt those spasms in my belly before, little jolts, when his fingers lightly brushed their way down—and finally his hand found its way into my shorts. This was what I wanted him to do, but at the same time I wasn’t sure why he was doing it, I was so young, and small for my age, and I barely knew him. But then again it was just sex after all, it didn’t mean anything anyway, and he obviously wanted to do it, so if he wanted to, that was all right. I stared at his fake-stucco ceiling, concentrating on my breath moving in and out. He pulled my shorts down and kissed my stomach, and there were much bigger jolts, much bigger, and then he put me in his mouth.

  The lights in his room were on, and at any time, someone could have walked in. But I didn’t stop him. I stopped staring at the ceiling and started to watch him as he went down on me. Without stopping, he looked up at me. I was motionless and di
dn’t make a sound; neither did he. I started to feel raunchy, and for a brief second considered stopping him, but the silence in the room was so complete that I didn’t want to break it by saying anything. I could imagine that this wasn’t really happening. I could step outside myself and watch myself lying there like that, Ricky over me, his head moving rhythmically up and down, up and down, and from there I could still feel the incredible, delicious sensations of having his mouth on me, and it didn’t mean anything, it really, really didn’t—it didn’t mean I was gay or anything like that, it was just a blow job, after all—and I didn’t want to touch him, I just wanted him to touch me, the way that he was, that was all that we had to do, I hoped that was all he wanted to do, and it felt so good, it felt so good, and I felt and felt and felt and felt and I was going to come soon, I was going to come soon…

  It didn’t take long, and when I was done, he smiled at me, pulled my shorts back up, and left the room, just like that, closing the door behind him. I lay there on my back for a very long time. I felt myself sinking into the bed. It wasn’t a pleasant sinking; it was more like the beginning of drowning. I didn’t know why I hadn’t stopped him. I started to think that I should have stopped him, I should have, but then I started to think no, it was harmless, what had just happened was harmless, it didn’t mean anything, and no matter what, it had felt good, anyway. But it was so weird that neither of us had said anything. At least when I had fooled around with my friends Christopher and Stephen, masturbating together and occasionally going down on each other, we had talked before and after, and sometimes during. Although I always felt silly talking during. Christopher, Stephen, and I had all been good friends first, and we all knew each other really well. We trusted one another. Our fooling around together didn’t really mean anything anyway; at least I thought so. It was just the result of our desire to experiment, to get our rocks off. It was our little secret, and we told ourselves and each other that we only did it because we were horny teenagers who didn’t have girlfriends.

  But as I sat in Ricky’s room staring at his ceiling, thinking about what had just happened, I couldn’t remember why I had started hanging out with him; he and I had barely talked to each other in school. And now I didn’t know what he was going to say about me to his friends, or when he might try something with me again. I didn’t want anything more to happen. Already it was complicated. For all I knew, the entire school was going to hear tomorrow about the blow job Ricky D’Angelo gave me. I never should have let him do that to me. It was a mistake. Really, a mistake.

  I sat up and shook my head vigorously to get my brain to stop spinning. I sat there, staring at my hands in my lap, and eventually, my brain spun down just enough, and I left the room and rejoined the group, tucking away the experience I’d just had, trying not to think any more about it.

  Ricky hadn’t spread the story around after all, as far as I could tell, and he and I had not spoken of it since, but now, two weeks later, there he was, pointedly eyeing me as he sloppily and hungrily kissed Bryan, and Bryan sloppily and hungrily kissed him back.

  Mo my momma mama mo my mum

  Have you kept your eye, your eye on your son?

  I adjusted my position so no one would notice the stirring happening down in my crotch. A nice buzz was also starting to flit its way through my head, and I was determined to get it going stronger. I gulped down some more wine cooler.

  Words all fail the magic prize

  Nothing I can say when I’m in your thighs

  At last, Bryan and Ricky broke apart. “WHOOO!” Andy yelped. “That was EXCELLENT!” Ricky kept watching me. He even gave me a silent-movie star one-eyebrow raise as he drank a little more beer. And, in spite of myself, I held his gaze.

  Wait a minute honey, I’m gonna add it up

  I’m gonna add it up!

  We all joined in for the song’s big finish, messily shout-singing over Gordon’s screechy whine.

  Add it up!

  Add it up!

  Add it up!

  When I take a bow and say good night

  There were more rounds of Spin the Bottle, and I got picked once, by Frances.

  “Give Doreen ear sex,” she said.

  So there it was, this ear sex thing. Not the most appealing activity in the world, and with Doreen to boot, not the most appealing recipient imaginable. I was now drunker than I’d ever been, and the room itself, not just the bottle, spun a little, as I crawled on over to Doreen and brought my face up to her ear. The utterly unpleasant, synthetic odor of Aqua Net practically leaped off her hair into my nostrils and stayed there. A few prized blackheads poked out of the tight, shiny skin of her ear. I took a deep breath, and plunged in.

  Well, the scent of Aqua Net was terrible enough, but it was nothing compared to the taste, a revolting combination of glue and metal. The spray had also left a sticky sheen all over her ear, stiffening even the tiny hairs that lined her ear’s upper edges. There was nothing soft or inviting about licking her lobe or sending my tongue into her ear’s recesses. I had to keep myself from gagging, but Doreen was giggling and squirming with what I assumed was pleasure. I was glad one of us was enjoying it.

  I finished as quickly as I could, took a giant swig of my wine cooler, swishing it around in my mouth before swallowing, and tried to hide just how unpleasant that experience had been.

  “Woo-hoo!” Doreen said. “That was gooooood!”

  “Thanks,” I muttered, embarrassed.

  “Go Anthony!” Andy shouted. Ricky made eyes at me, a be-mused smirk on his face. I rolled my eyes and spun the bottle. It hit Laura.

  “Grab Ricky’s crotch,” I said, still trying to force the Aqua Net out of my taste buds forever. Ricky smiled at me and Laura laughed, and then she went right on over to him and grabbed. She even threw in a kiss for effect. Ricky kept his eyes on me the whole time.

  Then Laura spun, and it hit Ricky.

  “Okay, Ricky,” Laura said. And she looked at me. Had he told her anything? “It’s about time Anthony got some ear sex.”

  Ricky could not have looked more delighted. He grinned an enormous grin at me. My heart was now a thundering crazy creature trying to break free of my chest. If I had been blushing before, I must have looked like a giant blond-headed strawberry at this moment. The others’ faces faded into the background; only Ricky filled my field of vision. And then there he was, next to me, and then there his tongue was, squirming around and around and in and over my ear, louder than I would have thought—but of course it was loud, it was in my ear—but it was warm, too, hot, actually, from his breath, and soft, and moist, and absolutely thrilling. So this was what people were talking about, ah, yes, this was nice, this was very very very nice, and what he was doing with his hand, rubbing my inner thigh (did anyone see that?), was also very nice, and before I knew it I was opening my neck up for him to kiss, and kiss it he did, and I was grabbing the back of his neck, and pushing his mouth into my neck, and into my ear, and he was grabbing my head and pushing my neck and ear into his mouth, and this was going on for what felt like an eternity, and soon I realized I was laughing uncontrollably, and kicking my legs out like a spastic puppy, and I saw and heard Andy whooping and clapping, and I saw Laura smugly taking a drag on her Marlboro Light, and Ricky’s tongue was all over my ear, and he was kissing kissing kissing my neck, and then all of a sudden, he stopped and pulled away, giving my lobe one last quick lick.

  “YEAAAAAAHHHHH!” Andy screamed. Since when had he become a crazed frat boy, anyway? “That was so HOT!” And he cackled, holding his hands to his mouth the way he did when he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

  I was dizzy. I gulped more of my wine cooler, and suddenly felt bolder than I had ever felt. Like I could do anything with anybody, right then and there, never mind any consequences—nothing mattered, nothing at all. If Ricky wanted to have sex with me, I would have sex with him, so what if I barely knew him, so what if I didn’t really want him, I wanted somebody, and he was there, and he seeme
d to want me, I didn’t know why—I was so young and scrawny, no one ever seemed to want me—but he did, and that was way, way, way more than enough for me.

  Sometime later, we all found ourselves in the driveway. It was dark and cool, and I was spectacularly drunk, feeling heated and slightly manic from the fuzz in my brain. I had already arranged with my mom that I was going to spend the night at Andy’s house, and as I was getting ready to cram myself into his canary yellow Honda, Ricky came up to us.

  “I’m coming over, too,” he said. I felt my face flush and I looked away. I’d been hoping he’d say something like that.

  “No problem with me,” Andy replied, flashing me a goofy, scheming smile, and we took off, Ricky in the back seat, me in the front, my stomach quietly but persistently flip-flopping at what I was about to do. Andy drove like a crazed monkey as usual, always the performer, screeching his tires and abruptly slamming on the brakes for no reason, then squealing away and swerving back and forth down the dark and silent suburban streets as if he were traversing the world’s looniest obstacle course. I loved every second of taking these rides with Andy; I never felt unsafe, just absolutely entertained, and I guffawed the whole way.

  In the short drive to Andy’s house, Ricky’s hand found its way onto my shoulder, giving it a squeeze and a rub, which I didn’t acknowledge, but which I also didn’t stop him from doing.

  Later, Ricky and I were tangled in blankets on the floor of Andy’s living room, moonlight spilling in through the glass patio doors. We were naked and fumbling (well, I was fumbling; Ricky was pretty adept) and Ricky was insistent and relentless. I followed his lead and went right along with him, dozing occasionally, to wake up who knew how much later to find his mouth on me somewhere. I’d start in with him again, touching him in ways I’d never touched anyone, with more abandon, ecstatic and spinning and drunk drunk drunk the whole time.