Outside In

by Cooper, Doug

  “I don’t know. It just never sounded that enticing to have a cock shoved in me.”

  “Not for me, either. Maybe a finger occasionally, but I’m more the giver than the receiver. You’ve never been with a man?”

  I do another line, searching for the courage to share what only one other person knows. “When I was twelve.” I pinch my nostrils and sniff, releasing my nose to allow air to whistle through and pull back lingering fragments. “One of my friends and I, you know, would touch each other and stuff, and get each other off. But nothing since then.”

  “What makes you think you’re really that different now? Back then you trusted him and enjoyed the feeling you got from it, so you did it. That’s what kills me. Most guys have had the same experience, then they run from it their entire lives rather than accepting and understanding it. Sexuality fluctuates. Emotion is what complicates it all. For example, if two people are attracted to one another and they become emotionally involved, let’s say married or even living together, the question surfaces, ‘Do they have responsibility to each other to resist temptation with others?’ If attraction is like an appetite, is a person supposed to resist spontaneous cravings? If he doesn’t, should he tell the other person? If one indulges and the other doesn’t, how will each react? It gets really messy.”

  “Don’t look to me for any answers. That’s the part that fucks me up every time. I deal with it by keeping my obligations to a minimum. If at some point I want to commit to another person, I will, but until then, I’ll do what I want.”

  Randy pours more vodka in my cup. “One thing for sure, there ain’t a woman around that can suck a dick like a man. It’s all suction and tongue.”

  His proximate stance rifles a shiver of discomfort through me—not because I want to leave, but because I’m aroused.

  Randy says, “Women try to use their teeth like they’re teasing you, like the danger of it all adds to the excitement. When they ask me about giving head, I always tell them—”

  I turn toward him, fully erect. Our lips meet. The stubble on his chin scratches my face. His lips are strong and his tongue wraps around mine convincingly. He reaches down and slides his hand down my shorts. I want to pull away but can’t. It all feels too good.

  I break our joined lips but still remain close enough for him to keep holding me. “What if those guys come looking for me?”

  “We can stop if you want. Or we can go out to my office.”

  I surrender to the moment. “Okay, let’s go.”

  I button my pants, chug the rest of my drink, and follow him out to the modular home that serves as the office. Maybe I should just hop on my bike and ride away. I don’t know if it’s the drugs, the alcohol, or his convincing speech, but I can’t stop. Unlike my other stories, however, I already know this is one that can’t be shared with anyone.

  The office is divided into four rooms: two bedrooms, one serving as Randy’s office and the other as a storage room; a large living room, which is equipped with two recliners and an L-shaped leather couch; and a bathroom. A big-screen TV stands in one corner facing the couch, and there’s a desk in the opposite corner. Fortunately Randy doesn’t turn on the lights. As long as I can’t see what I’m doing, I can create whatever picture I want.

  Randy and I tear off one another’s clothes like reunited lovers. I fall back onto the leather sofa, completely naked. Randy puts his lips around me and sucks slowly at first, gradually increasing the force. I lean back, numb from my self-prescribed medication, yet totally invigorated by the treatment administered by Randy. The muscles in my legs and ass spasm.

  I lift him from my groin. “Wait, let me do you.” I take him in my hand while pushing my lips up and down, never breaking the seal, remembering what he said about suction and tongue. I rock back and forth on him while he plays with me with his foot. I feel him soften in my mouth. I increase the intensity.

  Randy stops me. “I don’t think it’s going to happen. Sometimes when I party I can’t get off. But I want you to.” He leans me back on the floor, again sucking vigorously. I picture Astrid, but as his coarse hands rub me, I’m reminded that it’s another man who is pleasuring me. The contractions in my legs and ass begin again. Each time he swallows, I go deeper in his throat. I’m only seconds away. Saliva runs into the crack of my ass. His finger slides inside me. I explode, thrusting my hips forward, feeling him swallow the tip and all the discharge.

  Randy continues to suck, eventually leaving me cleaner than when we started. He pulls off me. “I guess I should get you out to Bean’s.”

  The reality of what happened settles in. I can’t face the others. “Just take me home. I’ve had enough for one day.”

  The drive is quiet. I stare out the window feeling like a whore who has just pleasured his sugar daddy.

  “Don’t worry about anything,” Randy says as he pulls up behind the red barn. “We had some drinks and you went home. Nobody has to know any different, and don’t think this has to happen on a regular basis. It’s a one-shot deal—no pun intended—unless you want differently.” He grabs my hand as I get out of the car. “I told you another man knows how to suck a dick, huh?”

  “What happened to you last night?” The voice from my doorway is sweet and familiar. Astrid enters and sits on the edge of my bed. “Cinch kept telling me you were going to meet us out, but when you never showed, I thought maybe he was stroking me to keep me partying with him.”

  I try to sit up, but the axe stuck in the middle of my forehead forces me back down. “I, uh, was going to come out, but once I got to the Skyway and had a drink, I was tired, so I just came home.” I look away, unable to keep eye contact with her.

  “I also wanted to make sure you’re not weirded out by what happened before you left.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “We’re still friends.”

  I smile, but I’m not thinking about her. I’m only thinking of the real reason I didn’t see her last night. I say, “I am so sorry about the other night.” The shame from last night has transformed into fear that others may find out. I roll her on her back. She looks surprised, but she pulls me close. Our lips lock in a fevered embrace. I slide my hand to her crotch, pressing my groin into her thigh, attempting to prove to her, and to myself, that I’m still a man. Our breathing becomes heavier, our movements more emotional.

  “Wait. We can’t.” She slides out from under me. “I have to go. I have to be at work.”

  I grab her hand. “Don’t go. I screwed up. Give me another chance.”

  “No, this isn’t right. I’ve got to go.” She pulls away. “I’ll see you around.”

  I wait for my arousal to dissipate and move to the shower. Maybe I can simultaneously scrub away the physical traces and the subsequent confusion from last night. I wanted to move away from the person I was becoming by coming to the island. But in the past twenty-four hours, I’ve not only destroyed the person I once was, but also ruined any progress I may have made since my arrival.

  I get ready for work quickly and quietly, still not yet ready to face the others. If I can be out early, I won’t have to deal with them until they show up for work. I need to build some confidence around other people first. I need to convince myself of the lie I’m going to tell about last night. Strangers don’t see through the cracks as easily as people who know you.

  “What’s bothering you today?” Cinch asks while on break before the evening shift. “You’ve been out of it all day.”

  I’ve been trying to act normal, or at least steer clear of anyone I know, throughout the day, but the question was inevitable. He sees the crack. We’re too close for me to be able to hide anything.

  I say, “I don’t know what’s wrong. I guess the trip took a lot out of me. Maybe my body is finally rebelling against the torture I’ve put it through. Tonight I should just take it easy and get a good night’s sleep. Birch arrives tomorrow, so it might be my last chance for any rest until after the Fourth.”

  Cinch offers to find someone to
work for me, but time off is exactly what I don’t need. I have to stay busy and keep my mind occupied. I vow to stay on the porch and out of the mix.

  He says, “Relax now—Brooke called. Things are going to get interesting around here. She and Dawn are coming this weekend. Have you talked to Dawn?”

  “No, and I don’t plan to. I’m not getting involved in her mess.”

  “Too late. She broke off her engagement.”

  I push my hand through my hair in frustration. “Well, have fun hanging out with both of them because I ain’t going to be there.”

  “Whatever happens, we’ll be busy. People will party to get ready for the holiday, party to get through the holiday, and party once it’s all over.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “SHEP, YOU UP YET?” Birch’s voice resonates from the living room like the engine of a rescue plane. He’s early, something you never expect from musicians, especially in the morning.

  I wrap a towel around my waist and emerge from the bathroom, still dripping with water. He is exactly the person I need to see right now, a familiar frame of reference to regroup around. I understand the person I am when I’m with Birch. More than anything, he’s someone from outside the party circle. I love my friends here, but if the drugs were removed, how much time would we really share? That’s probably why there’s so much false brotherhood surrounding the party scene. People don’t want to admit the real reason they’re hanging out, so they overemphasize the true value of their friendships.

  Birch’s return marks the beginning of the entertainment cycle again. Working at the Round House is like working in a toll-booth. People pass through on a regular basis, and although our interactions are brief, I learn a lot about them because of the frequency of their visits. Not to mention that reunions are always an excuse to party.

  “What’s happening, baby?” He hugs me, lifting me off the ground.

  I catch my falling towel. “Why’re you so pumped up today?”

  “Dude, you’re not going to believe what happened. About eight weeks ago I put together some promo packs and sent them to different record companies, but I didn’t get any responses. That’s why I was frustrated about my CD the last time I was here. So before we left, I was loading the van when the phone rang. Usually I let it go to voice mail, but for some reason I decided to pick it up. It was a producer from a small label in Nashville. He really liked the CD and said he’s gonna pass it on to upper management. I’m not expecting much, but the toughest hurdles are over. We’ll at least get a listen, which is all I ever wanted. At the very least, a few execs will make a trip to see us live. He’s supposed to call me next week to set up a time when we have a few gigs in a row. It’s crazy, man. Nothing happens, and then from out of nowhere, you catch a break.”

  “That’s awesome. Which gigs?”

  “Probably next time we come here. This is kind of our home. Where’s Cinch?”

  “Still sleeping.”

  “Wake his ass up. Let’s grab lunch somewhere.”

  “It’ll have to be quick. We have to work at one.”

  “Since when are you guys on time? Meet me at Frosty’s. Time to celebrate.”

  Although I’m happy for him, I feel empty when he leaves. He’s working toward something. What am I working toward? What do I have to look forward to?

  I go into Cinch’s room to wake him. Also asleep underneath the covers is Brooke. The visual itself isn’t as shocking as the attached implication that Dawn is not far behind.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes and stares at me, obviously still not awake. I say, “I’m meeting Birch at Frosty’s for lunch. Get up and meet us down there.”

  Cinch smiles and moves his eyes several times in Brooke’s direction. “Look who showed up last night.”

  “Dare I even ask if her partner is here?”

  “She is, but I think your troubles might be over. She was all chummy with Bean and this guy Mize from the Beer Barrel. You should’ve seen her. She was flirting so hard, and I know it was so that people would come back and tell you. Like you even care.” Brooke stirs. “Go ahead. I’ll see you there shortly.”

  I go for a walk to kill some time before meeting Birch. The pain and confusion from yesterday still linger but have receded. The experience with Randy is just another benchmark. Once again I have ventured into the unknown and at least for now have safely returned.

  Birch is with Cinch at the bar when I walk into Frosty’s. “Man, that was a quick getaway,” I say. “Forty minutes ago, Brooke wasn’t even awake. How’d you get rid of her so quickly?”

  Cinch slides a Bloody Mary toward me. “Just told her I had to work. Put her ass in a cab and sent her to Robin’s.”

  Birch says, “Nothing but class around here.”

  “What do you mean?” Cinch says. “I paid the two bucks.”

  I look around the bar. “Being here for lunch is a new experience for us. We usually open it with the fishermen at seven a.m. after a long night. I swear I’ve taken at least three years off my life in the past three months.”

  “Maybe that’s the conversion,” Birch says, obviously about to go on one of his stream-of-consciousness tangents. I welcome it, though. Having these types of conversations is exactly how we became friends. “Maybe one month here equates to one year on the mainland. That’s why people typically only last one or two seasons. Think about how much you do here and how many people you see in a month. A month might be exaggerating things, but you could definitely equate four months to a year. And the place is only busy for four months, so people cram a year’s worth of experience into that short time.”

  I say, “Time doesn’t age you; experience does.”

  “Exactly,” Birch says. “If I do in four months what most people do in a year, haven’t I really lived a year?”

  Cinch says, “But you’re gauging your life by some other frame of reference. You’re saying that what another person does in a year is the standard, which might not be true. Maybe they’re not doing enough, and a year of your life is average. In the end, does it really matter how old we are anyway, or what we did at age twenty-five, thirty-five, or forty-five?”

  I raise my glass. “I’ll drink to that. Birch, go order the pizza. We only have an hour before we have to work. Anything but onion for me.”

  After Birch leaves, Cinch says, “Dude, you should’ve seen Dawn and Mize last night. She kept asking me about you and what she should do. I kept telling her to back off and give you space, but she kept bugging me. Finally I told her you were seeing someone else. As soon as I said that, she turned her attention to Bean and Mize. He’s a buddy fucker from way back, so he was more than happy to play the game, keeping one eye on her and one on the door, hoping you’d walk in.”

  “At least I’m off the hook.”

  “And that will piss her off even more.”

  The conversation, the good night’s sleep, and seeing Birch all serve as additional building blocks in my reconstruction. By tomorrow it will all be behind me. I don’t know if it’s the entertainment cycle with the bands or the Friday, Saturday, Sunday routine, but I too am living in three-day segments. Tomorrow ends another cycle, and I’ll be ready to begin again.

  In the afternoon, Dawn strolls into the Round House. Her smile wider than usual and her head held higher, she is ready to spar. Even if Cinch hadn’t told me what happened the night before, her added confidence gives it away.

  “Surprise,” she says. “Sorry I didn’t call, but I didn’t want you to feel like you had to entertain me. We’re just having fun, remember?”

  I say, “I wouldn’t be surprised by anyone who shows up here on one of the busiest weekends of the year. Not to mention that I saw Brooke this morning in the barn.”

  “I was going to come over with her, but I didn’t want to intrude. So why weren’t you out last night? The island starting to take its toll?”

  Cinch’s advice for her to give me space is transparent in her words. Equally as clear is he
r peacock-like strutting. I keep reminding myself that I don’t care, but her smug attitude erodes my veil of indifference.

  I answer her questions and continue our conversation for the better part of an hour, successfully evading each of her attempts to lead me into asking what she did last night. I talk to her about her work, life in Detroit, my trip to Cleveland, anything to deny her the satisfaction of implying that something might have happened. But she counters each escape with another assault. The final blow in the attack communicates just how far in advance she prepared for this battle. Appearing just as puffed up as his partner, Mize walks through the front door to meet her here for a drink, probably by her invitation, during his break from the Beer Barrel. How pathetic. Each of them so happy to use the other for entertainment and redemption.

  I walk over to Cinch. “Can you believe this? She really thinks she’s getting back at me. How far will she go to get even for being blown off?”

  “Who cares? If you’re lucky, maybe she really likes him.”

  Even though I try not to watch them, my eyes continually drift in their direction. I recognize my jealousy, but it’s not because I care about her. I don’t want to be with her, but I don’t want anyone else to have her, either. I like thinking she’s there for me, but I don’t want to be there for her. I want her away from me, but not so far away that I can’t pull her back when it’s convenient.

  Eventually the two of them walk out together. Dawn gives a casual glance over her shoulder as she steps onto the porch. But there isn’t anything casual intended by her gesture—instead, it’s as if to say, “You want space? I’ll give you space, so much that you’ll wonder not only what, but who I’m doing.”

  Over the next few days, not only are Cinch and I unable to make a trip to the Boardwalk in order to refuel, but the increased traffic also stymies our delivery business. People have to come to us.