Pain Slut

by J. A. Rock

  Who was this joker?

  “How bad can it be?”

  “Hendrix Seger.”

  I hesitated. “Like . . .”

  “Like my last name is Seger, as in Bob, and my parents liked Jimi Hendrix.”

  A bark of laughter escaped. “I’m so sorry.”

  He grinned. “I’m pretty used to it. I go by Drix, which makes me sound like a douche bag action hero. But ‘Hend’ wasn’t really an option.”

  I tried a movie preview voice. “Drix Seger stars in . . . Shirtsaster!” What was wrong with me? This was a grieving stranger. And his funeral shirts were ruined. I flushed. “I’m so sorry. Again.”

  “I won’t require any more apologies.” He spoke quietly, sounded amused.

  I studied him a moment. Decided I liked something about him. His certainty, his oddness, his teeth. His voice.

  He took out his phone. “What’s your number?”

  I gave it to him.

  “I’ll text you closer to Friday.”

  And just like that, I had a dinner date.

  I drove toward Dave and Gould’s, feeling floaty, distant. The pressure of my balls against the steering wheel kept bringing me back to reality every few seconds.

  A date. I had a date.

  And I hadn’t even had to do anything except fuck up the guy’s order and wear a baggy sweat suit. Which made me suspicious. Why was Hendrix Seger interested in me?

  I turned onto Wayne Street. I’d been friends with Dave, Gould, and Kamen for going on seven years now. We’d met when I was twenty-two and they were twenty, and we’d gotten along right away, despite some notable disparities in personality. Kamen was as laid-back as they came. Dave was more volatile, but in such an earnest and cheerful way that most people forgave his overexcited moments. Gould was so quiet that he tended to appear chill—though I suspected he dealt with more anxiety than the rest of us put together.

  And then there was me: humorless Miles, with his Fred Rogers cardigans and the stick up his ass. I preferred to see myself as the mature one. The intellectual. The stoic voice of reason. But apparently this was not a universal perception.

  We were an odd crew. Dave thought of us as a family; I thought of us as profoundly codependent. I was particularly confounded by how we’d ended up in this exclusive little queer-man cluster, with nary a straight or female friend in sight. I’d tried to have other friends of other genders and orientations over the years, but it seemed like those relationships faded quickly, leaving me once more in the company of my nonheterosexual male brethren.

  We’d had a fifth member in our group—Hal. Reckless, fun-loving. An absolute cad, but as charismatic as they came. He’d died nearly two years ago during a bondage scene. It had been, to put it mildly, a blow to our group. Especially when Bill Henson, the dom who’d left Hal tied up alone with a cord around his neck, had been found innocent of second-degree murder.

  I parked on the street in between a minivan and a stubby smart car. Headed to the front porch of the duplex, keeping my hand in front of my balls. Before I reached the door, my phone buzzed.

  Cheryl Callahan was calling.

  “Miles, hi!” Cheryl sounded cheerful, as usual. She’d probably sound exuberant even as she told me my dreams of adopting a child were dead. “I have some good news.”

  I gripped the phone tighter. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Your interviews and background check all went great. So how would you feel about us beginning your home study?”

  Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. Breathe.

  “That’s wonderful,” I managed.

  “So what I’d like to do now is set up a time in the next couple of weeks for us to meet at your house. The visit shouldn’t last more than three hours, and it’s just a chance for me to get to know you and your environment better. We’ll talk about your family, your routines, your neighborhood . . .”

  My family. Oh God. “No problem.”

  “It’s really not that scary, I promise. So if you’ll email me what your schedule looks like, we’ll set up a time and get rolling on this.”

  I wanted to ask what I could do to make sure I aced this. Like it was a test—which, in a way, it was. And yet I didn’t want to give away that I was nervous. I wanted her to show up to my house and see that it was naturally a wonderful environment for a child. That everything I did and owned and enjoyed fell right in line with what the Beacon Center wanted to see.

  “My schedule is fairly flexible,” I said. “I’m self-employed, so really, I can make almost any time work. The sooner the better.”

  “Okay. How do you feel about next Monday, then? Three o’clock?”

  “Perfect.” I was still gripping the phone so hard my fingers hurt. “Um, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you do interviews with my parents and my sister?”

  “I did.”

  “And they were . . . They went fine?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Interesting. Cheryl and I said good-bye and hung up.

  I stood staring at the duplex door for a moment.

  I’d been putting off telling my friends that I was trying to adopt. I wasn’t sure why exactly, other than the fact that I was afraid of screwing this up. Afraid the Beacon Center wouldn’t approve me, and that I’d then have to explain my failure to the group.

  But now . . .

  Why not? Why not tell them?

  The door was unlocked. It was always unlocked, no matter how often I lectured Dave and Gould about locking it. I was too excited to care. I couldn’t determine how much of my excitement was actually blind terror, but for the first time in weeks, I felt . . .

  Really fucking hopeful.

  The others were at the kitchen table, as usual. Years ago, Dave’s father had built this giant, lacquered dining table, and Dave and Gould had found a fairly nice set of chairs at a garage sale, and we’d all started hanging out around the table. Dave and Gould’s kitchen was open and roomy, and they kept it well stocked with food and beer. Kamen even had a spare guitar here just so he could entertain us during hang-out sessions and Subs Club meetings.

  I had a nice house—bigger but less homey than the duplex. My pantry contained a few sad-looking cans of beans and vegetables, and about twelve boxes of cracked-pepper thin crisps. This was something I intended to work on before my home study. I needed to make my place seem lived-in. Kid-friendly. A place where one could eat things besides thin crisps.

  “Miles!” Kamen threw an M&M at me as I entered. “What kind of cake would Hal want?”

  “Since we never really celebrated his birthday when he was alive, it’s hard to say.” I pulled out a chair and sat. Very carefully.

  Kamen was staring at me. “Dude, do you have to poop or something?”

  “What?” I glanced up.

  “You’re sitting like you’re trying not to shit your pants.”

  Kamen. Doofus extraordinaire. Lovable, clueless, and still experiencing eight-year-old levels of amusement at anything stool-related. “My back just hurts from work.”

  Dave and Gould, who had been talking to each other, turned at that. Dave grinned. “Miles probably got laid.”

  “Nope.”

  Dave scooted his chair in. “We were thinking about vanilla cake. Because, you know, irony. Plus Gould can’t sleep when he has chocolate.”

  I shot Gould a questioning look. He shrugged.

  I adjusted my shirt over my crotch, but now that I was sitting, it was difficult to cover the situation. “Can someone tell me why we’re throwing Hal a birthday party?”

  Dave cleared his throat. “We were talking about it last month, but you were too busy freaking out about a work email to listen. We thought it would be a good way to remember Hal.”

  Kamen nodded. “Mostly we just haven’t had cake in a while.”

  I tried to grab the M&M bowl without jostling my balls. All I could think about was the home study on Monday.

  “Dude,” Kamen said to me
. “I don’t wanna be the one who points this out, but are you hard?”

  Suddenly Dave was leaning across the table to see me. “Oh my God. Miles. What is going on down there? Is the alien from Alien about to explode from your balls? Are you gonna have a crotchburster?”

  Now even Gould leaned over. Quiet, compassionate Gould. Surely I could count on him not to interrogate me. He looked up and met my gaze questioningly. “Saline?”

  I nodded.

  “Wait, what?” Kamen asked.

  Gould turned to him. “You can inject saline solution into parts of the body to make them swell.”

  Kamen glanced at my crotch again. Then up at me. Then down. “But . . . but . . .” Up at me. His jaw dropped. “Did you do that to your balls?”

  I sighed. “You know, I did actually want to talk to you guys about something serious. But if all you can focus on—”

  Dave sat back. “Is that your balls look like they could be manacled to prisoners’ ankles to keep them from escaping? Forgive us.”

  “Oh my God,” Kamen said. “That’s why you’re wearing a matching sweat suit instead of your Mr. Rogers sweaters.”

  I sighed again and looked up at the ceiling.

  Gould shifted. “What’s your serious thing, Miles?”

  “No. I’m not telling you now.”

  “Come on,” they chorused.

  I bestowed a withering glare on each of them. Then I took a deep breath. “I just got some news.”

  They were all staring at me. It was now or never.

  “So for the past few months, I’ve been in contact with the Beacon Center.”

  Dave nodded. “Is that the retirement home you’re moving in to?”

  I ignored him. “It’s an adoption agency.”

  Dead silence.

  “Are you adopted too?” Kamen asked. “Like your sister?”

  “No, I’m not adopted.” Did I really have to spell it out for them? “I’m adopting.”

  They just stared.

  Dave’s brow furrowed. “Adopting what?”

  “A child,” I said.

  More staring.

  “But you put electricity up your ass.” Dave said it calmly, slowly, as though there were some very simple aspect of this situation I’d failed to grasp.

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “If you have a kid, how are you going to explain your TENS unit? ‘Oh, don’t mind this, kiddo, that’s just for when your old pop needs to electrocute his own rectum . . .’”

  I shook my head at him, stunned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Are you saying you don’t have any qualms about the fact that you’re a huge masochist and you want to adopt a kid?”

  “What, you think I’d be a bad father?”

  “No, no. I just . . . wow.”

  “You’re, like, not much older than us,” Kamen said. “And you want kids?”

  “I’m twenty-eight. Lots of people have kids by my age. By your age too.”

  “But don’t you want to wait until you have a partner or something?”

  Oh my God. My friends thought I wasn’t ready to be a father. Me. The only one of us who had his own business. Who lived in a house, not an apartment. Who knew how to do taxes without software.

  I shook my head again, irritated. “I’m not going to wait around for my dream man to show up.” I looked to see if any of them planned to give me any support.

  “We don’t have any money,” Dave said, as though the four of us were collectively adopting my theoretical child.

  “You don’t have any money,” I pointed out, my anger growing. “I’ve been saving for a long time. You guys act like I haven’t thought this through. I’ve been planning to do this for years.”

  “You never told us!”

  “How many times have I told you I want children?” I demanded.

  Dave stammered. “I just thought you meant when you were, like, thirty-five.”

  Kamen gave his guitar string a tentative pluck. “Do they even let single dudes adopt?”

  “Of course they do.”

  Dave glanced at Kamen. “Yeah, buddy. Think about Annie.”

  “But single gay men . . .” Gould spoke for the first time since I’d made the announcement.

  “Single gay men are allowed to adopt,” I snapped impatiently. “It’s not an issue.”

  Gould flushed slightly. “You just caught us by surprise is all. This is good. Really good news.”

  “Yeah, man.” Kamen nodded. “We’re really happy for you.”

  I was practically shaking with anger. This was not how I’d expected my announcement to go. I’d thought they’d be surprised, sure, but that they’d all acknowledge that if anyone in our group would make a great father, it’d be me.

  “Well, you don’t act like it. This is big news for me. I’ve been working on this for over a year, and we’re just now getting ready—the caseworker and I—to start on my home study.”

  “What’s a home study?” Kamen asked.

  “They’re gonna look at my house and make sure it’s a good environment for a child.” I shot Dave a deadly look. “I’ll be sure to hide my electric butt plugs.”

  “Okay.” Dave nodded, but he looked shell-shocked. “Okay. Cool.”

  I stood. Didn’t give a shit if they saw my bulging sweatpants. “I thought you’d all be happy for me. I thought I could count on you.”

  “I just don’t understand how you could plan all this without saying anything to us,” Dave said as I headed for the door.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m not married to you guys. I have my own life!” I left them all to their birthday planning for a dead man. Who apparently warranted more support than a living friend.

  The next day, my balls were back to normal, so I drove to my mother’s house in the suburbs. I was still furious about my friends’ reactions. I’d already ignored several apology texts this morning.

  I sat in the car for a few minutes with the engine running. I was itching to throw the car in reverse, back out of here, and speed away. I wasn’t sure if I could handle any more loved ones weighing in on my life choices. But eventually I shut off the car and got out.

  I could hear music blaring as I stood on the front porch. I knocked. Tried the knob. Pounded for a few minutes. Finally the door swung open.

  My twenty-two-year-old sister, Malina, stood there. Her blond-streaked black hair was gelled flat to her scalp and gathered into a high ponytail. She was wearing black yoga pants and a red-and-white-striped T-shirt. No bra. Mascara was clumped in her eyelashes, and her nails were painted tangerine. She had a container of yogurt in one hand and a plastic spoon dangling from her mouth.

  She let the spoon drop to the floor. “Heeeeyaaa, babi!” She threw her arms around me and pulled me inside. Off-balance, I stepped on the spoon and cracked it.

  She let me go. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that I had a smear of yogurt on my jacket.

  “How’re you?” I asked, wiping at the spot.

  “Good, good.” She led me through the house to the kitchen, where she stabbed at her phone with one finger until the music stopped. “Sit. You want juice?” She pronounced it yuice.

  My parents had adopted Malina from Honduras when she was a baby. And though she’d grown up not speaking a lick of Spanish, she had, over the past four years or so, developed a random, quasi-Spanish accent. Last fall, she’d decided she needed to get in touch with her culture, so she’d started hanging out with a group of Honduran women she’d met at Hymland College—aka Hymen College, to the local youth. As far as I could tell these women did nothing but compete to see who could wear the croppedest crop top, have the highest ponytail, and look the most nonchalant while she stared at her nails and chomped gum. Every now and then they’d break out in snarling fits of rapid-fire Spanish. But when they spoke in English they had the lowest, most languid voices.

  Malina still didn’t speak Spanish, except for a few random words she’d picked up from the group, bu
t the accent fascinated me. It was like she was a non-Hispanic actor studying to play a Hispanic role and presenting the most botched, ridiculous stereotype imaginable.

  “Sure.”

  She got out a carton of orange juice and poured two large glasses. She brought the glasses to the table one at a time so she could continue to clutch the yogurt in her other hand.

  “Where’s mom?” I asked.

  “She went to the mall.” She wen to de mall.

  “How’s living with her?” Malina had moved back in with Mom after she’d graduated from college last year. A choice I found interesting, since she and Mom had never gotten along particularly well.

  “It’s fine. She’s like always.”

  Regal. Despotic. Cruel and glorious. Dave called her Lady Bracknell. When she spoke, she had a way of making you feel like you were interviewing for a job she was never going to offer you. She’d spent years with a whiskey in hand, and now she still walked around with one arm slightly out, fingers curled around an invisible glass. She snapped a rubber band around her wrist whenever she wanted a drink, and her wrist was always crisscrossed with red marks. “Not drinking, though?”

  “No.” Malina was scraping yogurt out of the carton with her finger. She looked up and caught my gaze. “Miles! I’m watching her.”

  “Just checking. You know I can’t afford to have her slip now.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She sipped her yuice, then started humming with the glass still pressed to her lips. She put the glass down. “I had an audition.”

  “For what?” Malina had majored in musical theater. Her dream, for some unknown reason, was to be cast as Katherine Plumber in the touring company of Newsies. But according to Malina, she needed to build her résumé first.

  “The Last Five Years. I won’t get it. They’ll cast a white bitch.”

  “Don’t say ‘bitch.’”

  “I am a bitch. I can say ‘bitch.’” She got up and went to the silverware drawer to get another spoon. “Just like you can use the N-word.”

  “I don’t want to use the N-word.”

  She shrugged and took a bite of yogurt, slurping it into her mouth. “Babi. It wouldn’t kill you to learn your culture, you know?” She had recently taken to calling me “babi”—which, as far as I knew, was the Spanish word for a baby’s bib.