hidden

by Tomas Mournian

  “Dunno.” I shrug. I don’t have the energy to explain how it’s Blue-Eyed Bob, Pony’s kiss, the drugs. “The music, the—the, you know, everything.”

  “The moment.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You guess.”

  “Me. You. I don’t know. I don’t know if you really like me.” I look him in the eye. “Maybe you just want me for sex.”

  “Hey,” he says, holding my gaze. There’s my answer. He does like me. It’s no act. I knew it. No wonder I’m so nervous. “What are you afraid of?”

  “You.”

  “Afraid of me? Why?”

  “I don’t know … who’s the boy, who’s the girl?”

  “Oh!” J.D. says, with a huge smile. “I can tell you that.”

  “But that’s not the only thing I’m afraid of.”

  “Halloween’s over,” he says and leans forward, Casanova with plastic fangs. “What else scares you?”

  We stand, face-to-face, chest-to-chest, crotch-to-crotch. His body pulses, far from being one of the living dead, he’s warm, oozing sex and life. Tempting. Young, lean and fine, J.D. flicks a switch, turns on my desire. Still, I need to know.

  “You being poz.”

  J.D.’s body goes cold. The smile fades. His eyes shift. He bites his lower lip.

  “It’s true?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re not poz?”

  “No.”

  “If you can’t tell me the truth, I don’t care if you’re the best kisser in the world.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Are you HIV-positive? Or aren’t you?”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  “Sure,” I say. I’m casual. But now, nothing is casual.

  Chapter 87

  J.D. stands outside the kitchen window, leaning against the fire escape. I sit at the table. We’re separated by five feet, but it might as well be five million. That’s how far apart far apart feels. He lights a cigarette.

  “Fear and ignorance.” He exhales. “You probably think you could get it from kissing me. Or cuddling.”

  “You can’t blame me. Who’d have sex—sex without condoms—knowing it was a death sentence?”

  He looks at me and takes in my words. Or, I imagine he does. Maybe I’m more interesting to look at than the wall.

  “Everybody acts like they’re so cool about it. But they’re not. When my other grandma died, my mom freaked out. And she was the one who was still alive.”

  “Didn’t you just yell at your mother for telling your grandmother?”

  “Yeah, but that was a couple years ago,” he says. I almost believe him. “Anyway, that’s why I don’t accept labels or categories. I need to show people that it’s not a death sentence.”

  “It’s a virus. You either have it or you don’t.”

  “We all have it.”

  “You are positive?”

  “Nope.”

  “You would have sex with me without a condom?”

  “Nope.” He twists his head, cracks his neck and smokes.

  “You know …”

  “No,” he says. He glares at me. “I don’t know. Tell me.”

  “Everything and its opposite,” I say.

  “What?” He looks at me through narrowed eyes.

  “Well—” I start, then stop. “I didn’t want to say it, because then I’d be calling you a liar.” He opens his mouth. I put up a hand. “It’s my turn. Half of what you say sounds like a lie. And the other half sounds true. So I’m standing here, looking at these two piles. One pile, lies. One pile, truth. So I made a third pile.”

  “What’s in that?”

  “The I-don’t-believe-anything pile. And—” I can’t say it. My pride won’t let me. Plus, I’m terrified if I do say it, I’ll feel vulnerable to him in a way I can’t ever take back. So I muzzle the words. “It doesn’t matter, I still want you.”

  J.D. flicks the ciggie, and it flies out, into space. He doesn’t give it a glance. I watch it fall. He ducks under the window, into the kitchen. Inside, his left leg swings over the chair. He stands, crotch level with my chest. He looks down, mouth turned up at the sides. I gaze up into his eyes. Morning light hits the yellow flecks. Gold in green pools. I fall under his spell. Thing is, I know I’m falling. Hypnotist or magician, J.D. doesn’t need words to get what he wants. He smiles, sexy and seductive, “You wanna.”

  “Sleep,” I groan. “All I want is sleep.”

  “Go,” he says, swinging his leg over and off the chair. He walks away. I miss you. “Don’t flatter yourself,” his body language says, “I don’t want you anyway.”

  I know—know—he’s manipulating me, but I still want him. My body—it must be chemical. I’ve lost control. My legs—not me—stand and follow. I catch his arm.

  “Really? You know you don’t want to.”

  “You don’t know what I want,” he says, and pulls away. Like that, we’ve switched roles. Now he’s the one who plays hard to get.

  “I don’t know what you want, because you won’t tell me the truth,” I say, and let him go.

  “Really.” He walks to the bathroom and turns over the sign. OCCUPIED. I wait. He leans back, beckoning me with a look.

  I step into the dark. He lights candles and runs the water, scattering powder for a bubble bath. Steam rises off the water and fills the cold room.

  “Well?”

  I nod.

  He shuts the door.

  Chapter 88

  I look in the mirror, check my hair. When I turn back, J.D.’s naked. He puts out a hand and pulls me close. I don’t resist. He reaches around my body and unzips. I let him peel off the skin-tight pants. I stand there, naked. But I feel more than nude.

  His left toe dips in the tub. I mirror his movement, and dip my right toe. Mute, our bodies mime one another. Tell one another what the other wants. Till we stand, water knee high, in the tub. We kneel, submerging ourselves, sinking down until we’ve disappeared under the bubbles.

  I lean back. He holds up a sea sponge.

  “Close your eyes.”

  He squeezes. Warmth floods my face, neck and shoulders. It dissolves the layers of night. Washes away makeup, sweat and smoke. My weariness slides off. I reawaken. He reaches out, over the tub.

  Click

  A horn, mournful and low, fills the room. It swirls, a dancing genie freed from her bottle. Drums join the horn. Chills run down my spine, legs, out my feet. A woman’s voice, low and mournful, comes forth and sings.

  Take this kiss upon the brow

  And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow—

  You are not wrong, who deem

  That my days have been a dream;

  Yet if hope has flown away

  In a night, or in a day,

  In a vision, or in none,

  Is it therefore the less gone?

  All that we see or seem

  Is but a dream within a dream.

  Her voice fades, the horn goes crazy and J.D.’s body moves up, his tongue running over my skin. Song matches music, and pleasure with sensation. Held, now I understand. J.D.’s hands are strong, gentle, knowing. His touch lacks fear—of my body or desire. Everything is possible. He’s bold. I can follow him into the dark, and know I’m safe. J.D.’s arm holds me, his embrace ties me to this moment and each one that follows.

  “Am I dreaming?”

  “Yes,” he whispers. “We dream together.”

  I get lost in him. The feeling of water and warmth. Reality and imagination blur. He slides under me. His hands—big, square, certain—hold my hips. His lips brush my ear.

  “I’m real,” he says, pressing himself, rock hard, against my ass. He pushes. Inside. He wants to enter me.

  “You got a condom?”

  He reaches over the edge of the tub and rolls himself over, his body on top of mine.

  “Here,” he says, and hands me the rubber.

  My teeth tear the wrapper, I slide it out and roll it o
n. He leans forward and pushes back. I enter him. It happens without effort. Our bodies are a perfect fit. I know what to do. How much and how fast.

  “Ah!” he cries, hands gripping the tub. Ass arched, his body pushes back, demanding, “Take me.”

  “You feel so good,” I rasp. My voice catches. I shut my eyes. I want to feel. He gives himself to me. Completely. He tightens his body. I caress him. I want to know him, every inch of him. His smooth skin. His body is the new world. A landscape to explore. He catches my hands and holds them over his heart. We inhale, reciting the prayer said between lovers.

  Our arms and legs are wrapped in and around one another. I’ve lost track. I don’t know what’s “J.D.” and what’s “me.”

  Our pulse, our blood, our bodies, we become one. I thrust, deep into his body—and his into mine. I lose myself. I don’t know where—or who—I am. I’m lost in the us. Pleasure builds. I feel it. Rising from my source. I cry, “Ahhhhhh!!!”

  We shake, violent and shoot—me into him, him into the air. Pleasure pours out our bodies. Pleasure radiates through our body. Pleasure is possibility. Possibility is pleasure.

  We hover. There. In. Between. Held aloft by the water.

  I lean forward, over his shoulder. He turns his head. Our lips touch. We kiss. Hungry, our mouths close the circle. Energy flows through our bodies. We. He. I. Vibrate. Cells light up. We are a bright beautiful being. Love here, love there, love everywhere.

  I eat from the tree of knowledge. Pleasure. Sin? The apple nourishes. Sustains me. Gives me pleasure and life. The snake eats its tail. The circle is complete. Heart racing, my palm hovers over his chest. His heart races. He slides his body over me, a magical sea creature. His movements slosh foamy water over the edge of the tub.

  I’ve never felt this close to another person. Maybe when I was born. We breathe. Our breath is one. And as our pleasure ebbs, our bodies relax and float, dropping down, into dark, watery depths. Our hulls settle, and rest on the ocean floor.

  We stay there till the water chills. J.D. pulls the plug. The water drains. We stand.

  “Wait,” he says. He returns with fresh towels. “Arms up.”

  Obedient, I stand there, naked as a child after a bath.

  Satisfied as an adult after a hard, tender fuck.

  Chapter 89

  We sneak back, into the safe house. A digital clock glows, red numbers marking the hours since we left. We climb up, into our bed. Gravity and exhaustion pull me down to the sheets.

  My heart. My head. My body. My soul. I vibrate. I feel connected to everything, and everyone.

  “Listen.” J.D. puts headphones over my ears. Music. A singer’s voice echoes, seeps into my head:

  … with stars of brightest gold …

  Daylight seeps through the window coverings, stains the dark safe house. I close my eyes. I breathe, deep, into my core. For the first time in my life, I feel safe, and I fall asleep in his arms.

  i listen to them fight

  i did not know he’d

  be so angry

  about second place

  i want to stand up

  & take kidd in my arms

  if it were up to me

  i’d give him the gold medal

  “here” i’d say

  “take him”

  but i am not

  in charge of his heart

  so it’s not mine nor

  can I give it away.

  GONE

  Chapter 90

  “I wanted to know,” I say, unsure how to ask.

  Marci and I stand at the sink. She slops the soapy sponge on the dirty plates; I rinse and dry.

  “About what?” She hands me a plate.

  J.D. sits on the window ledge, strumming a guitar. After Halloween, he went acoustic.

  Click click click.

  Dead bolts tumble. The front door opens.

  “About sex. Are there any rules about, um, you know, people hooking up?”

  Kidd steps into the kitchen, peels off a ski cap and drops his backpack.

  “How’d it go?” Marci asks.

  He doesn’t answer, lost in a bad mood. He drops to the floor, legs spread. He reaches down, fondles his crotch and looks at me with an evil grin. “We can do what we want with our bodies.”

  “Cuz there’s always condoms lying around!” Peanuts shouts from the main room.

  “But it can get complicated if,” Kidd says. His eyes make me wonder if he’s been hanging out with Blue-Eyed Bob, taking serial killer lessons. “There’s a friendship between two people and one of them starts having a relationship with somebody else.”

  He twists his body, speaking to me but looking at J.D.

  “People call each other on their shit. So,” he says, turns and glares at me, “if somebody’s having sex coz they’re lonely or bored, that’s definitely gonna be out in the open.”

  “Yeah,” Peanuts says, walking into the kitchen. “People talk about it.”

  “Like, for example, Coco—” Kidd says, eyes fixed on J.D. “Nut.”

  “Hey,” Marci warns.

  “Ben,” he says. “I’m speaking to you. Or you gonna act like you don’t hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I say, and look him in the eye, running a carving knife under the hot water. I hold it up and dry the blade. “Everyone does.”

  “Just like everybody knows you’re fucking him because you’re bored shitless and you don’t know what else to do. Right?”

  The question / accusation was one of Moustapha’s favorite tactics. I ignore him. This makes him furious. Were we alone, Kidd would grab my head and drown me in the soapy water. Peanuts cracks up, doubled over with laughter.

  “I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing,” Marci says. “I mean, if everybody knows what’s going on, it’s all out in the open. Nobody gets hurt.”

  “Ben, you prolly know about the buddy sleepover,” Kidd says, ready to rant. He loves nothing more than the sound of his voice. He loves it the way other people worship their dicks. He stands, walks to the fridge and opens it. “It’s harder for us to pull them off since we’re ‘Co-Ed,’ but not impossible. What does he tell you? When he crawls up the ladder and slips into your bed? ‘Dude, I’m wasted. I’m so drunk! I’m so fucking horny! My dick is so hard!’”

  He leans forward, foraging in the fridge. I visualize him falling inside and the door slamming shut. We try to open it, but it’s stuck. He suffocates. End of Kidd.

  “‘Ahh! Hey! Wha’ … Oh! Oh! Oh! Papacito, that feels good, yeah, mi’jo, fuck I’m so damn wasted. Whoa! I’m so wasted. I’m. Ah, ah, ah … AAAA!!! Dude, what just happened? My ass burns. I gotta crash!’”

  I summon my mental powers. Push. A charity truck picks up the fridge. They can’t get it open, either. Another truck drives it to a landfill and dumps the fridge. Years later, Kidd escapes. Serial killings ensue. When he’s caught, the headlines read, “I Was a Teenage Mummy.”

  “If that’s what it sounds like having sex with you,” I say, hand tightening on the knife. “No wonder he left.”

  Kidd holds the O.J. carton to his lips and drinks. His throat bobs. I hate the sound—the glub-glub-glub. Done, he burps, the way people harsh a fart. I hand a clean glass to Marci, who passes it to him. He looks at the glass. Will he smash it? Or use it? He pours O.J., drinking glub-glub-glub. Done, he burps.

  “Then, you wake up the next morning and the one playing the man sits up and goes, ‘Fuck! Dude, I don’t remember anything. Last night? I was so out of it, bro’.’”

  “I don’t think sex with more than one partner is necessarily bad,” Marci says. “I mean if—”

  “You don’t know shit,” Kidd explodes, drops the carton on the sink, slamming the fridge door. “You fat, nosy bitch, he’s mine!”

  “—if everybody knows what’s going on,” she finishes.

  “I do know what’s going on,” Kidd says. “I’m not making up this shit. They keep me awake at night with their stupid, fucking frat boy nonsense.
That is a problem.”

  “Yo, Kidd? I don’t belong to nobody,” J.D. says. Calm, he props the guitar against the wall. “Not you. Not him. Nobody. I belong to me.”

  Kidd steps forward. J.D. mirrors him.

  “Time out,” Marci says, stepping in-between them. They could move around Marci, but her body barricade gives them an excuse to stay apart. “J.D., go to the roof. Kidd, wait there.”

  Still, I expect a fight. At the last second, either one could snap and throw down. J.D. parts the curtains and opens the window. A gust of cold air blasts the kitchen. He pauses.

  “I need my jacket.”

  “I’ll get it,” Peanuts says, jumps up and runs out.

  “I want to say one thing,” J.D. says. “Why do you ‘suddenly’ have a problem with me having sex? It’s not any different than before except—”

  Peanuts returns with a puffy, Frosty-the-Snowman jacket. J.D. pulls it on and ducks out the window.

  “Your cig’s in the pocket.”

  “—that it’s not with you.”

  “J.D.” Marci sighs. “He won’t say it, but he does.”

  We all know what “it” means. Love. I sneak a look at Kidd’s face. He’s angry and scared. He turns away.

  “When he was fucking Jeremy,” J.D. says, speaking to us but mostly to Kidd. “Everyone knew. I never said a word. Fucking in the closet, ‘accidentally’ leaving the door open. You never, never heard me complain.”

  “J.D., you’re not going to like hearing this,” Marci says. “But sometimes you play with people’s—”

  “I never played with nobody or their heart.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you were going to, weren’t you?” J.D. pats the pockets, feeling for lighter and ciggies. “I tell people exactly—exactly— what they can expect. Always. But some people, some people hear what they want. And there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  Cold wind ruffles the curtains. J.D.’s gone. I start to follow. “No,” Marci says, grabbing my arm. I pull away, but there’s no point. The window slams and shuts me out. “Bed.”