Around six o’clock, I got up and drug myself into the bedroom. I had to do something about the bed. The mattress was obviously ruined. I stripped off the sheets and threw them into the washing machine. Now what? I had no idea what to do with myself.
On a normal morning, I would set up the coffee maker, do a few sit-ups while it brewed, microwave some oatmeal, then I’d sit down at my laptop. Check my email. Read a bit about what was going on in the world. I’d shower, dress and head off to work. Doing any of that seemed wrong. It would be a betrayal of sorts. Nothing about Eddie’s morning would be normal. In fact, he wasn’t even having a morning.
My laptop spent most of its time on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I grabbed it and made a little nest with pillows and a throw on my sofa. I Googled suicide. I learned that women committed suicide more often in China and men more often in the west. In America, most suicides are white men. Statistically, it should have been me hanging in the garage, not Eddie. Suicide is a symptom of depression. That struck me as odd. I think of a sore throat as a symptom, or a headache, but death? Death as a symptom is too final. You’re obviously not going to recover -- the symptom is bigger than the disease. Still, that was interesting. If Eddie was mentally ill, that explained everything, right? Or rather, an explanation wasn’t possible. Crazy people didn’t make sense.
I looked up urine fetishes and read a whole lot more than I ever wanted to know about things people did with their piss. By the time I was finished, Eddie’s behavior stopped seeming quite so odd compared to some of the other things I’d read about. At least he hadn’t left a finger or other miscellaneous body part in my bed.
There was no way I was going to work. For one thing, I’d promised to go to Hollywood Station and make a formal statement. For another, I just couldn’t. I called the office and left a message for Sonja. I didn’t want to say too much, didn’t want to share the details of exactly what was happening, so I told her a friend had had an accident and I needed a day or two to deal with it.
Then I sent an email to Charles asking him to finish up an “acquisitions” report comparing the “actuals” to “ultimates” on a group of titles picked up by the Home Entertainment division that couldn’t wait for me to get back. Well, they probably could wait, but having Charles screw them up might help Tiffany keep her job.
It was nearly eight-thirty. I decided the best thing to do was to get my statement out of the way. I took a quick shower, threw on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. I didn’t shave or put product in my hair. I didn’t even floss. I just wanted to go. Abruptly, my cell rang. It was Jeremy.
“Oh my God, what happened?” he asked, instead of staying hello.
“How did you find out?” I asked.
“Mrs. Enders called me.”
“This guy I was sort of dating hung himself in my garage,” I told him.
“Are you okay?”
His voice was familiar and friendly, and he’d asked me that same question so many times during our almost seven years together that I actually told him the truth, “No. Not really.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
It was stupid, but I said, “Yes.”
The statement could wait. The detective hadn’t specified when I should come by. It should just be sometime today. That afternoon would be fine. Still, it felt wrong to wait, like I didn’t care that much. But I needed to talk to someone, even if it was only Jeremy.
We met about eight years ago in a West Hollywood bar called Pogo. The place had been trendy during most of the nineties, but by the time Jeremy and I ended up there, it had pretty much run its course. Which meant they had no cover and lots of drink specials. I was sipping on a Vodka Cranberry that I’d gotten for a dollar and a half when I noticed this guy on the other side of the bar staring at me. He wore a pair of dark-framed glasses that made his blue eyes seem enormous. He had light brown hair, clipped into a scraggly point on his forehead. Thin and angular, he somehow managed to look not only chic but cozy and inviting.
In some ways, many ways, Jeremy was always a Hollywood stereotype. The joke around town is that everyone in L.A. has a screenplay they’re trying to get to a producer, a movie star, or a studio head. Cab drivers, waiters, hairdressers, everyone thinks they can write a movie. I’ve been at the studio long enough to know that writing a screenplay isn’t exactly easy. Still, given what ends up on the screen, it’s not hard to see why most audience members think they could do better job.
At the time we met, Jeremy was a caterer-waiter taking an extension course in screenwriting at UCLA. Actually, he made it sound as though he was in film school, and it was only later I learned he wasn’t in an actual program and had only taken the one class. Getting to know him, he seemed like the typical artist: dreamy, hopeful, and idealistic. As we dated, he told me all about his favorite movies in such detail that I still run across films on TV I feel like I’ve seen but am sure I actually haven’t. He loved foreign films with their unexpected plot twists and mysterious downbeat endings. He even forced me to sit through some Criterion Edition DVDs of films that I could barely understand and doubted I’d have understood even if they’d been in English.
I refused to have sex with him until we’d been dating for nearly a month. He thought I was being ridiculous to wait, but he put up with it. I liked that he disagreed with me but was willing to go along anyway. I thought it meant he respected my opinions. That he’d always respect my opinions.
When we did finally have sex, it was good. Well, better than good. It was great, and I was hooked. Good sex has a way of clouding a man’s judgment, or at least mine, and Jeremy and I moved in together just a few months later. Part of me is probably still in love with that Jeremy of the first year. He was idealistic, hopeful, artistic, a young man who was sure to go places, sure to be “someone.” And I was ready to go along with him.
Seven years later he was in his thirties and still working a survival job. He wasn’t a screenwriter with several movies under his belt as he’d hoped to be. He wasn’t even a screenwriter who’d finished a decent spec script. He was disappointed in himself and desperate not to acknowledge it. Somewhere along the way, he had become superficial, an annoying name dropper of people he’d never met or, worse, only waited on, and, seemingly at least, money grubbing. The central question of my life for the last year had been, is Jeremy a good person or not? On the one hand, this shouldn’t be hard to figure out, he did take money that was only partly his. But then I can’t forget the person he was when we met, hopeful, optimistic, somehow innocent.
I suppose I should be fair and mention that the house was my idea. We’d been living in an apartment that was pretty cheap. But, at the time, it seemed if we didn’t buy a house soon we’d never be able to. So I pushed for it. Then I pushed for the second mortgage to rehab the kitchen and the bathroom. That doesn’t make his taking the money okay, but it does indicate it wasn’t a plot from the start. To be honest, I like to think of him as the bad guy. Which is easy enough to do when he’s a couple miles away with his pathetic loser boyfriend. It becomes a lot harder when he’s standing right in front of me.
When he arrived that morning, I could tell he’d gone to some trouble with his appearance. He wore a shirt I’d bought him a couple years before and cologne that I’d originally bought for myself but allowed him to co-opt when I liked it better on him. He held two large paper cups full of coffee. I took mine gratefully.
“Where did it happen?” he asked.
“In the garage.”
Without asking permission, he marched through the torn-up kitchen to the back door, which opened into the garage. I followed him tentatively. When we got to the garage he looked around. He took in the now destroyed track Eddie had hung himself from. Jeremy looked at it a moment, then checked out the rest of the garage. Things had been moved. There were footprints in the dust that had drifted in from the street. A few pieces of crime scene ta
pe were stuck inside the garage door. But other than that, it didn’t look like much had happened.
“Do you think it was a sex thing?” Jeremy asked, while studying the cement floor -- as though he might come across a semen stain that would answer his question.
“He was wearing his clothes.”
“How’d you meet him?”
I hesitated. Part of me knew I should just go ahead and lie to Jeremy. But I’d never been able to lie to him. I knew if I tried I’d just bungle it. “I ordered up a massage to celebrate the anniversary of our breakup.”
Jeremy frowned a little. He always frowned when he was thinking hard, and out of character actions on my part always made him think hard. “So he was a hustler?”
I shrugged. I didn’t feel like making a distinction between guys who threw in a little sex after a massage and guys who skipped the massage all together.
“I thought you were broke,” Jeremy said. “How were paying for a hustler?”
“I only paid him once. And I had to skip the electric bill to do it.”
“So you hired him once and afterwards he wanted to date you?” The way he said it made me feel like something wasn’t right about my relationship with Eddie -- and not just the fact that he’d never given me his right name. I might have given it more thought right then and there if Jeremy hadn’t said, “I’m impressed.”
He looked me up and down, re-assessing me. It made me uncomfortable, so I walked back into the house. Jeremy trailed behind me. I regretted not lying about the situation.
“So how was it?” he asked.
“Awful. Someone killing themselves in your garage isn’t all that fun.”
“No, I meant the massage.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is so my business. According to the state of California we’re still partnered.”
I could have countered by asking about his sex life with Skye, but I was afraid he’d tell me. I kept my mouth shut. Jeremy put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Look, I’m just trying to keep it light. I know this must have been terrible for you.”
He seemed sincere when he said it, and without thinking I stepped forward and put my arms around him. I buried my head into his neck, and I nearly started crying. I managed not to by biting down on my lip and taking a few deep breaths. It’s too humiliating to cry in front of your ex. When I caught my breath, I tried to pull away, but Jeremy pulled me closer. He kissed my neck, then turned my chin with a finger and began to kiss me. Kissing Jeremy was like sliding into a warm bath. It was familiar and comfortable and incredibly sexy all at once. His tongue was in my mouth, and we were pushing ourselves together so hard I was afraid we’d each walk away with bruised lips. My hands roamed his body. He wasn’t as angular as he’d been when we first met, but he was still tall and lean. Almost immediately, I could feel his erection straining against the waistband of his jeans.
I pulled away from him and walked into the living room. I sat down on the sofa, a bit uncomfortably because my jeans grabbed at my hard on. Jeremy sat next to me. He was close enough that I knew what he was thinking.
“This is a bad idea,” I said.
“Yeah. It is,” he agreed. Then he leaned over and kissed me again. His lips were so hot I wondered if he was running a fever. I pulled away and ran a hand over his face, feeling the familiar shape of him. Looking into each other’s eyes, it felt like some kind of deep communication, though I couldn’t tell you what we were communicating. Other than I’m here. You’re here.
Jeremy pulled my T-shirt over my head. He ran the ends of his fingers down my shoulders, across my ribs, over my nipples. Pulling me closer, he wrapped his arms around me and slid one hand into my shorts. He slipped his other hand into my hair and kissed me again.
“God, you smell incredible,” he said.
I slipped my hand into his jeans and took hold of his stiff prick. There’s something to be said for the excitement of a new conquest, the variety of many lovers, but when it comes down to it there’s nothing as sexy as knowing someone and fucking them over the course of years. I liked knowing that when I hooked a finger beneath the head of his penis and flicked it that he’d gasp a little, then lose patience and pull off his jeans so I had better access to his cock.
After he slipped off his jeans, Jeremy got down on his knees. He eased himself between my legs and unzipped my shorts. I’d been so lazy, I hadn’t bothered with underwear. He pulled out my dick, smiling as he said, “Long time, no see.”
Before I could come up with a snappy rejoinder, he had me halfway down his throat and I couldn’t think about anything except how amazing it felt. While he sucked me, I flicked his cock with one of my feet. His prick was short, thick and flared dramatically at the head. It got hard really fast and stayed that way even after he came. Sometimes I wondered if he was ever truly flaccid.
I pulled Jeremy to a standing position and started sucking him. While I did it, I held tight to his balls and squeezed gently. He moaned exactly the way I knew he would. After I worked them a while, I slide my finger back, behind his balls, and found his anus. I rubbed it with a circular motion until his hips began to move.
Getting off the couch, I pushed Jeremy onto it. I lifted up his legs and began to rim him. I licked him until he was slick, then I made my tongue as stiff and hard as I could and slid it into him. He grabbed the back of my head and held me there.
Moments later, I came up for air. I slipped a finger into him, easily locating his prostate. I gently rubbed it until it hardened. Then I slipped another finger into him.
“I want you to fuck me,” he said, his voice hoarse and raspy.
I pulled my fingers out of him and replied, “I’ll get a condom.”
The look on his face said that he didn’t want me to. We’d never used them when we were together. But he knew if we got into a discussion about all the reasons we should be using a condom, the whole thing would be off. He smiled and said, “Well, hurry up then.”
I ran into the bedroom and pulled a condom out of the nightstand. I grabbed the bottle of lube and rushed back to the living room. Jeremy was leaning over the back of the sofa with his ass arched in the air. It made a pretty picture, and he knew it.
“Fuck me from behind.”
I rolled the condom on. Dabbed some lube in my hand. Then drizzled some into the crack of his ass. Seconds later, I slid into him. I placed my hands on his buttocks and began to thrust. He pushed his ass back to meet me.
“Slap me,” he whispered.
I whacked him hard on his right buttock. Hard enough to raise a pink hand print seconds later. Jeremy was moaning again and whispering an occasional, “Yeah, that’s it. That’s it.”
Sweat began to form on my forehead. It wasn’t that hot, but I was exerting myself more than I usually did on the elliptical at the gym. I ran my hand up and down Jeremy’s spine. Then I said, “Turn over.” I wanted to see the look on his face while I fucked him.
He flipped over, and I pushed him into a corner of the couch. Pulling his legs up, I rested them on my shoulders as a jammed my cock back into him. Eyes locked on mine, he reached up and ran his hand across my face while I fucked him. I pushed forward so I could get better leverage, allowing his legs to splay open and bounce with each thrust.
The harder I fucked him, the more he liked it. I couldn’t help thinking he was asking me to punish him somehow, as though if we just fucked hard enough our problems would disappear. I jerked him with one hand. His dick was so hard, I wondered if it hurt.
“Squeeze my neck,” he whispered.
“What? No.”
“Do it.”
I was getting close, and fucking him, even in a harsh punishing way, was too perfect to stop, so I did it. I slipped my right hand around his throat and squeezed. A moment later my left hand joined it. I continued to pump into him again and again. Pounding him.
Grinding him into the couch. His mouth stretched open as he gasped for air.
His hands reached up to his neck and tried to pull mine away, and just as they did, I felt his sphincter contracting and looked down to see him coming all over his belly. I released his neck. He gasped. While he struggled to catch his breath, I gave him a few hard, merciless thrusts and came.
Almost immediately, I felt uncomfortable with what we’d done. I went into the bathroom to dispose of my come-filled condom. There were so many things wrong with this. It had been totally hot, and part of me wanted to just focus on that. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t pretend that what had just happened was okay.
I went back into the living room and began to put my clothes on. Jeremy was lolling on the sofa, his belly covered in come. With a dirty smile, he said, “You’re still pretty good at that.” His voice was a tiny bit hoarse.
“What was that choking thing?”
“I read about it somewhere. Wanted to try it.”
“Why didn’t you try it with Skye?”
Jeremy shrugged. “He’s not good at change.”
I almost laughed. It sounded like Skye was every bit as vanilla as Jeremy had accused me of being. I sat down in a chair and wondered when Jeremy might get dressed.
He got up and started wandering around the house naked, checking it out. I realized I really wanted him to leave. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to spend time with Jeremy, it’s that the morning had actually been almost okay when I thought about it. He’d come over to comfort me and then we’d had some really good sex. I wanted him to leave because the longer he stayed the more likely he was to screw the whole thing up.
Jeremy came back to the sofa and said, “You know, I miss this place.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly.
“I miss you, too. That’s just more complicated.” He gave me a look and bit his lip. “Matt, I’ve been thinking about something.”
Here it comes, I thought. He wants to get back together. The sex had been hot, and despite the number of times he’d talked to me about dissolving our domestic partnership, he hadn’t done much to actually make that happen. I didn’t want to get back with him, though. Too much had happened.
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