A layer of sweat formed on my forehead, and I decided to stop worrying about Eddie and start worrying about my finances. It was just as distressing a situation, but there was math involved and that made it more manageable. Doing math in my head always soothed me -- even when calculating my own negative worth.
I tried to determine exactly how much of a raise I’d need to get my life in order. At the new job, the one I hadn’t even interviewed for, that is. I had several credit cards in need of paying down. For a year, I’d been juggling my expenses -- charging groceries, gas, everyday expenses -- so that I had enough to pay the mortgage. If I got a twenty percent raise, I’d be able to get some of that under control. The position at Monumental Studios was a promotion, so a twenty percent raise wasn’t out of the question.
I really needed to believe there was a light at the end of the tunnel for my financial problems, which were in turn my problems with Jeremy. I had to find a way to finish things with him once and for all. I considered making him a counter offer. If I got a new job, I might be able to accept part of what he took. Say forty thousand dollars. Of course, I was pretty sure Jeremy didn’t have forty thousand dollars. We could set up a payment plan, but once I let him out of the domestic partnership agreement and he got hitched to Skye, why would he continue to pay me? Or more accurately, why would Skye continue to pay me?
I needed a lawyer. I knew that. I’d been avoiding the idea for months. A lawyer would want a retainer, and obviously, I didn’t have that. It was logical to think a lawyer would save me money on the whole thing. But the question was, would a lawyer save me enough to justify their fee. If all I saved was the money to pay the lawyer, was it worth it?
I’d met Skye just once. Jeremy had a fantasy that the three of us would some day be friends. He insisted I have dinner with the two of them. I went along, in hopes that if I was social and polite, we’d somehow find a way to work through our financial issues.
When we met at an impossibly trendy West Hollywood restaurant, Jeremy said, “Skye is really excited to meet you.”
Of course, I’d seen his show, Shear Luck, which had one season on cable. It was about Skye opening his own hair salon in the valley. He barely had enough money to open the shop and constantly threw diva hissy fits at the hunky contractor. I think Jeremy and I were among the few people in the world who actually watched the show. At the time, I thought we were watching it because it was fun to hate Skye. On the show, he’d seemed like a complete narcissistic asshole. I knew editing might have had a lot to do with that, but when I sat down to dinner with him that night, he seemed in character.
And he was not in any way, shape or form excited to meet me.
While Jeremy struggled to keep the conversation moving, mostly by discussing every item on the menu, I studied Skye. He was probably close to forty, though I doubted he was the type to admit it. He wore his hair in a way that suggested he’d just rolled out of bed after thrashing all night. In an earlier decade, your friends would have told you, “Man, your hair’s a mess. Go fix it.” Now they say, “Whoa, dude, cool do.”
Eventually, Skye began to talk. His only topic of conversation was his career. He was opening another shop in Burbank. He was in talks with various filmmakers about making a theatrical documentary about the whole process. He was through with cable television. He found it too limiting - which I suppose happens when they cancel your show. Jeremy was writing a screenplay about Skye’s life. He mentioned a very popular teen idol he hoped to attach to the project. Skye had cut his hair once two or three years ago, so they had an in.
After we ordered dessert, Skye seemed to remember that conversation required a give and take, looked at me and said, “So...you’re an accountant. Sounds painfully boring.”
I wanted to say, “not as painfully boring as this conversation”, but decided to take the high road. I said a few things about how much I enjoyed my job and its value to the overall studio. Not that I thought Skye would appreciate that.
Then Skye asked, “You don’t happen to know anyone in development, do you?”
Ah, I thought. Here’s the reason for the dinner. I was tempted to tell him I had some very good connections in development just to watch him grovel. Instead, I told the truth. “No, sorry, I don’t.”
When the check came, I stubbornly waited nearly five minutes before Skye grumpily picked it up and paid it. They’d invited me, and given my financial problems with Jeremy, I wasn’t giving them a dime for dinner unless asked -- and maybe not even then.
In my book, Skye was a total loser -- no matter how many films he did or didn’t have in the works. Even though they’d met after Jeremy and I had broken up, on some level Jeremy was choosing Skye over me. And if Skye was a pathetic loser, what was I? Jeremy, seeming oblivious to the entire dinner, wanted to go have a night cap somewhere. Skye and I stepped all over each other declining. Instead, I went home and drank an entire bottle of Chardonnay while listening to a radio station that played a lot of Celine Dion. I don’t like her enough to buy a CD, but there are times when she comes in handy.
I finished with the elliptical and went down to the second floor and walked the track to cool down. As I did, I checked out the guys in the free weights area. I’d been coming to this particular gym for several years, so there were lots of familiar faces. I had favorites, of course. Guys I liked to check out again and again; collect little bits of information about; imagine what their lives are like. Some of them I might like to meet, maybe.
A guy I’d nicknamed Stripes was on the floor doing some intense exercises that involved squatting over a machine and lifting an enormous weight a few inches up toward his chest. I assumed the machine had something to do with the impressive V-shape of his muscular back.
I called him Stripes because in the locker room he always seemed to be wearing a pair of striped boxer briefs. He was older; a little beyond forty, I’d guess. He had the kind of strong-featured, square face favored by the cartoonists who design superheroes. Most of his body was tight and well-defined by his frequent trips to the gym. He was there almost every time I came, so I figured he had to be more regular about it than I was.
My favorite part of his body was his ass. I’d seen it a few times in the shower, and it was smooth and soft, maybe even a little on the fat side. He probably hated it, but the contrast between the tight, obvious muscles he had everywhere else with the creamy softness of his buttocks got my attention. Sometimes it’s a man’s flaws that get me.
I’d been planning a solid workout for my arms and shoulders, but abandoned the routine in favor of stalking Stripes. Without regard to muscle group, I picked out a machine a few down from the one Stripes was working and began doing reps. He glanced at me a couple of times. It was casual enough that I wasn’t quite sure he’d noticed me gawking at him. Nor was I quite sure he hadn’t.
About the fifth time he glanced over, I was sure he’d noticed me. There was no way he couldn’t have. He was casual about it. Didn’t spend a lot of time looking back at me. But then, he folded up his sweat rag and headed toward the stairs leading to the locker room. Just as he turned into the stairwell, he looked over his shoulder to see if I was following him. And I damn well was.
In the locker room, I walked by Stripes on my way to take off my workout clothes. I put my combination into my lock and opened it. I tried to move as slowly as I could. Since I wanted Stripes to go into the shower first. Where he chose to shower would tell me what I thought I already knew. The showers at my gym were set up in two long rows facing each other. Straight guys normally took the first empty shower they came upon. Gay guys were pickier, choosing on the basis of privacy and the view offered, usually showering all the way at the end.
I slipped out of my gym clothes and dug through my duffel for my towel. I wrapped it around me. Carefully, I put my gym things into my bag and looked up to see that Stripes had already headed off to the showers. Perfect.
; Walking into the showers, I headed toward the end. Stripes was in the very last shower on the left. I took the second to last shower on the opposite side and had a perfect view of him. Not the kind of guy to masturbate in the shower at the gym, I wasn’t planning to do anything but get a good look at his assets. Being a voyeur rather than a masturbator was a subtle distinction, I suppose, but one that mattered to me. I also couldn’t afford to lose my membership to the gym. I didn’t have four hundred dollars to join a new one.
Stripes soaped up his well-defined chest. A layer of hair covered his pectorals, some of it gray -- which might be a turn off for some, but I liked it. A tingle began in my prick, and I turned away for a moment. When I thought it was safe, I turned back. He was staring right at me, lathering his cock.
Against my will, my dick sprang to life. I tried to cover it with one hand, but that just encouraged it to grow. I looked over at Stripes. He had a smile on his face. My heart was racing and my breath had slowed down. I gave in and began to stroke myself -- so much for voyeurism.
Completely hard, Stripes pumped his cock half a dozen times. Then he turned and showed me his ass. It was as deliciously fat as I’d remembered. Pumping some soap out of the dispenser, he began to clean his pucker hole. I couldn’t believe he was so aggressively showing it to me. He was practically sticking his ass out of the stall while he fingered it.
I caressed myself slowly, telling myself to take it easy. Knowing that if I went too fast I’d pop, and I was having a good time, I wanted it to go on for at least a little while. Suddenly, a guy I didn’t recognize walked by and got into the stall next to me, the stall directly across from Stripes. I cleared my throat, trying to warn Stripes, and turned so the guy couldn’t see my erection.
Scolding myself for my stupidity, I scrubbed my arms far more than necessary while I waited for my erection to ease down a bit. It was one thing to be semi-hard and pretend your flaccid state was always that big, but a full on stiffy tickling your navel couldn’t be passed off as anything but what it was. I just knew I was going to get kicked out of this gym forever.
Between the next stall and mine was a sheet of frosted glass. I could see the outline of the New Guy, and though fuzzy, it was appealing. The glimpse I’d gotten told me he was in his twenties, a well-built blond, tall and lanky. I tried to think if I’d seen him before, but wasn’t sure. I worried he was some straight guy who’d gotten lost and would now run out to call a manager.
I turned around and saw that Stripes had stepped back into the shower and was facing the wall, continuing to soap himself. Well, at least I got to watch his ass for a while, even if I didn’t get to react to it. Stripes looked over his shoulder; first at me, then at the New Guy in the next stall. Slowly, he turned around.
His erection hadn’t gone away. He was still rock hard. I looked through the frosted glass to see the New Guy’s reaction and saw that he was facing Stripes and pulling at his semi-erect cock. I relaxed; my own prick beginning to harden again.
Stripes stroked his pole, looking back and forth between the New Guy and me. The New Guy noticed him looking my way and turned to check me out through the frosted glass. He pushed his dick up against the glass so that it was almost fully visible. My heart skipping a beat, I stepped forward and did the same thing.
Moments later, I stepped back and began to seriously pound my meat. The New Guy did the same. So was Stripes. I could tell by the tension in his face that Stripes was close to coming. I pumped myself even harder. At the last moment, Stripes reached his free hand down and came in his palm.
I turned and focused on the New Guy through the frosted glass. He was standing on his toes. Even through the glass, his whole body looked tense. Then, his come splattered against the glass. Seconds later I squirted out my own contribution.
Looking up, I caught Stripe’s eye. He gave me a big smile as he toweled himself off. I soaped up my hair and then rinsed. When I opened my eyes again, the New Guy was gone.
Walking to my car in the garage next to the gym, I couldn’t help but think two things: first, I was really glad Peter had flaked, I never would have done that if he was anywhere in the building; and second, I was becoming completely un-vanilla. In less than two weeks, I’d paid for sex, had free sex with a sex-worker, and jacked off in public. Part of me wanted to call up Jeremy and throw the information in his face.
Before we got together, Jeremy had a host of experiences. He talked as though it was the normal experience of every gay man to spend his early twenties testing sexual boundaries. And maybe it was for some. I, however, had skipped that phase. Jeremy had done all sorts of things I hadn’t. He’d been to bathhouses and sex clubs; he’d had three-ways, four-ways, and I-sort-of-lost-count-ways; he could explain every sex toy on the market and had tested half of them. Before I’d have un-safe sex with him, I made him take a full STD panel and show me the results. Remarkably, he was fine.
During the courtship phase, he claimed he wanted to settle down, that he’d sewn his wild oats and was ready for a relationship. For most of the time we were together, it seemed that he’d gotten exactly what he wanted. That it was all working out for him. But then, at the very end, he zapped me with his “too vanilla” comment.
I knew better than to tell Jeremy what I’d been up to, though. He’d likely enjoy hearing about my exploits, and that soured any possible revenge. Still, I was pleased with my newfound adventurous side. Except, of course, for the fact that I had to go home and face my unwanted guest.
It was nearly eight when I pulled my nearly paid for, navy blue Honda Civic into the driveway. On the drive home, I’d distracted myself from the problem of Eddie by wondering if I should buy a new car when I got my new job. The dependable economy of my Civic might not fit my personality anymore. It seemed I was changing, and maybe I needed a car that reflected the new me. Perhaps something racier.
My house was dark. A good sign. I looked up and down the street, but didn’t see Eddie’s car. I breathed a sigh of relief. I could scarcely believe my passive aggressive approach to the situation had worked. But it seemed that it had.
I hit the garage opener I kept attached to the visor on the driver’s side. The garage door opened slowly, seeming to struggle. When it was about four feet off the ground, the door stopped moving all together. Great, I thought, one more thing in my life that wasn’t working. I tried to remember how much garage openers cost. Would I have to replace the whole thing, or could I get away with replacing just the motor? Getting out of my car, I headed over and bent down to get into the garage and see if I could fix whatever was wrong with the opener, at least temporarily.
At first, I didn’t connect with what I was seeing. The light was on for some reason. As usual, there were a dozen cardboard boxes filled with the contents of my kitchen and another dozen filled with some of Jeremy’s things he’d never bothered to collect. The boxes were stacked neatly against the back wall. In front of them was a weight bench and some weights I didn’t use on the theory that I could use the ones at the gym, though I only used those on occasion. In one corner sat an artificial Christmas tree -- a bad idea when I bought it and still bad idea.
What hadn’t been there before, the thing I was having trouble understanding, was Eddie. He hung from the track to the garage door opener, a leather belt with one end tied to the track and the other buckled around his neck, one of my dining chairs tipped over at his feet, his face a terrible dark red, his tongue hanging loosely from his mouth.
Chapter Six
What happened next is a blur. After I stumbled out of the garage, I remember pulling out my cell and dialing 911. They might have answered faster if I’d gone into my house and called from the landline, but I was unable to get myself to go inside. Suddenly, I was afraid of my own home. As though Eddie killing himself in the garage had tainted the entire place. Irrationally, I was afraid it would become nothing more than a place where some guy I barely knew hung himself.<
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Finally, an operator came on the line. I told her my address and that a friend had hung himself in my garage. Or something to that effect. She tried to make me go back in and make sure he was dead. I practically had to scream at her to get her to understand that I’d been in there and could tell he was dead.
Then, I heard sirens coming closer and closer. I remember thinking there are sirens all the time in Los Angeles yet somehow they sound different when you know they’re coming for you. A patrol car pulled up, parking across my driveway, blocking in my Civic. The siren was off, but the lights continued to spin. Everything around me flashed red.
Two officers got out of the cruiser and walked over to where I stood on the curb. Both appeared to be in their late twenties. One was tall and white, and the other was medium height and might have been Hispanic. Their uniforms didn’t quite fit; the tall one’s was loose and oversized, while the Hispanic officer’s uniform was tight and looked as though he was squeezed into it. Each had a collection of guns, billy clubs, and cell phones clipped to their nylon utility belts. Without introducing themselves, the tall one asked me what had happened while the other walked into the garage and began to look around.
I gave a brief rundown of coming home from the gym and finding Eddie hanging in the garage. The officer nodded as I spoke. The maybe-Hispanic officer inspected Eddie’s body and took a cursory look around my garage. Then he came back down the driveway and passed us on his way back to the patrol car.
The tall, white officer asked my name and wrote it down in a small notebook. “And this is your house?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and then joined the other officer back at the patrol car. They spoke for a minute or two, then came back up the driveway. They lifted the garage door, forcing it up a few more feet and making entry easier. The move caused Eddie to swing back and forth a few times. I thought I might vomit.
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