by Kage Alan
Who wasn't lately? If someone didn't have his or her own personal issues to dwell on, listening to Tristan and his orgasm poems was certainly bound to bring up a few, especially the latest one.
Speaking of Tristan, we watched as he walked in and headed towards the bathroom while we finished taking our jackets off.
"Sex."
Ryan raised an eyebrow.
"At least I think it's sex."
We shoved our gear into a booth and sat down.
"I saw her this morning at breakfast,” Ryan said. “The lady asked her how she wanted her eggs. You know what she said? ‘Fertilized.’”
"What did the woman do?"
"Gave her sunny-side up."
I wished I knew why Kim was so obsessed, but she wasn't offering any insight and I dared not ask considering what I was holding back from her and hadn't bothered to come clean about yet. Half of it was that I didn't want her to kill me and the other half was that I was ashamed.
"I guess we're all a little emotionally strung out right now. One wrong word is all it seems to take to set somebody off."
"Cheetos!” Ryan pulled out a bag from his backpack.
"Insensitive bastard!” It was as if he'd read my mind.
"I was going to share, ya moody prick.” He changed the subject. “So, what was so important that you had to blow me off on the phone for last night?"
"Something came up.” He didn't seem satisfied with that. “An emergency."
"What? MTV show an old interview with the Go-Gos you couldn't miss?"
"No. I had to do ... you know...” I leaned in closer, and he leaned further back, wondering what I was going to say. “A number two."
"Why do I ask?” Ryan rolled his eyes. “Speaking of numbers,” he sighed, “what are your Top Five Singles this week so I don't have to read about them in the paper?"
"Well, Ryan...” I used the best announcer voice I could muster. “...I'm glad you asked. Coming in at number five this week is ‘You Came’ by the lovely Kim Wilde, moving up a notch into the number-four spot is Camouflage's ‘The Great Commandment,’ clinging to number three continues to be Transvision Vamp's ‘I Want Your Love,’ a surprise upset at number two is Pete Wylie's ‘Sinful’ and the new number-one song on our countdown is ‘We Are What We Are’ by our German friends The Other Ones."
"Transvision who?” Ryan didn't have a clue who any of them were.
"Vamp. Jerry, my friend from Hong Kong, introduced me to them."
"You have a friend in Hong Kong?” He stared at me. “Never mind. I have no freaking clue who these groups are, how you ever heard about them or if you're even making them up.” He changed the subject. “So, what did you think of Tristan's latest poem, ‘Orgasm Sixteen?’”
"I'm trying my best to forget about it.” The last thing I wanted was yet another reminder of what I'd done. Tristan couldn't skip reading that particular one, could he? Oh, no. He had to read it. He had to share it with the class. He had to get the entire experience, such as it was, completely back asswards.
"This one was definitely more comical than the others.” Ryan chuckled.
"I didn't notice."
"You didn't think it was funny how he described screwing that little number?” He flopped his hands around to demonstrate the mental picture he'd put together of the event. “How did he put it? The little grunts, the total submission and worship of his body, the chanting of his name, the begging for more...” Ryan sighed in total appreciation. “You could tell he really enjoyed it."
"Yes, it was very one-sided, and I feel confident saying I highly doubt there was ever any name-chanting going on.” Writers were supposed to write about what they knew, and the jackass wasn't even getting that right.
"Hell, even I was getting wood!"
"All right, that's information I didn't need to know.” I was embarrassed for the both of us now. “If you think he sounds so great, you go sleep with him.” Let him see what it was like not to breathe for ninety seconds.
"Yeah, that's about as likely as you sleeping with him.” Ryan looked away. “Personally, I think the guy is definitely weird, especially after all the stories I've heard about him."
"Stories?” I stammered. “What stories? There are stories?” There were stories?
"Just weird stuff, things that wouldn't interest you.” He saw that I really wanted to know. “I heard people talking about him last semester, but I didn't know exactly who he was until recently. Anyway, they said he's kind of a slut."
"A slut?” I peered at him. “Isn't it kind of strange to call another guy a slut?"
"What do you want me to call him? A gigolo?” Ryan stared at me. “There may be a lot of jiggling going on, but trust me, if he's anything even remotely close to how I heard him described then he's a slut."
"And you couldn't have mentioned this to me, oh, say, sooner?"
"Does it matter?” Something caught his attention. “Speak of the sphincter."
"Don't let me interrupt."
Tristan startled me and slid into the booth right next to Ryan. “I can sit here and start writing number twenty-one. The big question today, though, is whether I call it ‘Orgasm’ or ‘Climax.’”
Well, at least I no longer had to wonder if he'd caught the reference to himself in my vampire story.
"If you'd said that in class, I might've been amused.” Actually, if Tristan had said that to me in class, I might have just decked him. Then, too, after what Cathleen said about my story, anything anybody else could say would just kind of pale in comparison.
"Don't you want to know what I thought of it?” he baited me.
"And your cry-baby, whiny-ass artistic opinion would be?” Ryan jumped in. “Wait...” Something occurred to him at that moment, probably the very same thing that had occurred to me. “Didn't you just read ‘Orgasm Sixteen’ in class?"
"Yeah.” Tristan knew where this was going.
"And...” I followed Ryan's train of thought. “...didn't you say you had Twenty to read to us for the next class?” He nodded. “And didn't you just leave class, use the bathroom and come out here?” There had to be an explanation for this. It was going to be a strange explanation, but I was sure there was one.
"Yeah.” He grinned mischievously and reached down to adjust himself under the table.
Who the hell had been in there with him? Ryan and I hadn't been talking very long, so at least Tristan's timing was consistent. We looked back over at the bathroom, but there was no way we could be sure if whoever had been in there with him was still there or long gone. He couldn't have had some prearranged meeting, could he? People didn't do that sort of thing, did they? In a public bathroom? What the hell was next? Rest stops?
"I meant to ask you something the other night.” He looked at me. “What's your sign?"
"Do Not Enter,” I shot back. Ryan would have fallen out of his seat if he'd been able to, but Tristan was unimpressed.
"Oh, get over it!” He watched in dismay as I refused to give him the reaction he was looking for. “He who lives by the sword has a hell of a lot more fun than he who never bothers to take it out and use it."
"He who lives by the sword is simply shot by those who don't. Haven't you ever seen Raiders of the Lost Ark?” I glared at him. “Why are you here?"
"Why am I here? Come on, Andy,” Tristan cooed. “You know I'd go to the ends of the earth for you."
"Yes, but would you stay there?” The amused expression on his face faltered, and I knew I was starting to wear on his nerves. It was just a momentary twitch, but it was there and I now knew he could be flustered. It was a good feeling. “I don't like you, Tristan. At all."
"Oh.” He smiled smugly. “I know you like something of mine, all right."
"Really? I'd tell you to get a clue, but you seem to suffer from CDD—clue deficit disorder.” He was unbelievable. “I may not be as experienced as my cousin in California, but what happened there was special, and it had some real meaning. You—you make me feel like a sequ
el to some franchise you're creating."
It didn't cross my mind before I went spouting all that off that this was all news to Ryan. What he must be thinking...
"What do you think about this?” Tristan turned to Ryan. Okay, he was wondering the same thing, too.
"I think you're the reason the gene pool needs chlorine.” Okay, so that's what he was thinking.
"The two of you are pathetic!” Tristan snapped. “When are you going to realize when it comes down to it that you're no different than I am?"
"Excuse me.” I interrupted. “The proctologist called. They found your head.” That took him by surprise.
"You obviously can't appreciate me for who I am and what I have to offer.” Tristan stood up and actually had the balls to look indignant.
"They have names for what you are and what you offer, only they're not legal in west Michigan. Buh-bye now.” I stared at him until he turned and left in a huff.
"You really...” Ryan started. This was sincerely not the way I wanted to come out to my friends.
"Yes,” I told him. It was better to just admit it and get it over with. “I—"
"...slept with your cousin?” He looked completely repulsed. “That's illegal in west Michigan! I'd sleep with Tristan before I'd sleep with my cousin."
"Huh?” He hadn't put it together yet after all, and that meant I still had a chance to come out my way. I needed to throw him off-balance just a little bit more than he was. “These feelings are new for you, aren't they?"
"I hate you."
"Get in line.” With that, I turned and left, too.
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7
My room was a fortress of solitude. Well, maybe more ineptitude than anything else, but at least nobody could bother me here. If Tristan followed me back thinking he was going to get another piece of me, I didn't have to answer the door. If he called, I could turn the ringer off and let the answering machine pick up. The easiest way to avoid any of this happening at all, though, was just to do what Miss Kim did and get rid of the body. Ah, happy thoughts!
I hung my jacket up in the closet and looked over at the answering machine. The light was on, and I counted off the number of times it blinked: four. Whoever called must have been really annoyed if they tried back three more times. Ah, they were so unsuspecting. I lifted up the top of the machine and pushed the button that allowed me to listen to my prerecorded message.
"Hello?” A few seconds of silence passed. “Hello?"
That was usually enough time to throw the other person on the other end off. Either they were stumbling to repeat what they'd already said or they were suspecting that there was trouble in the line.
"I'm sorry, could you speak up?” Now they definitely suspected trouble. A few more seconds of silence passed.
"Um, you know what? There's something wrong with the line. I can't hear you, but if you can hear me, why don't you hang up, wait a few seconds and then call back. Hopefully the connection will be better. Okay?"
They undoubtedly thought I was waiting for them to shout something into the phone in some vain attempt to let me know they heard and understood me.
"Great.” The caller usually hung up right after this, but I left a few seconds of silence on afterwards just in case they waited and heard the machine.
It was time to see who my victim or victims were.
The first caller hung up before the beep. Caught! The second call was dead air, too. Yes! Third call, dead air. I was going to bed happy tonight! Fourth call ... a voice. This wasn't just any voice, either, but rather the strained sound belonging to an extremely mentally unstable, inebriated and deranged member of the Frank Sinatra era.
"Andy!” The voice blared through the speaker at me. “You know damn well who this is! This is Grandma, and I'm not calling back a fifth time. You can call me!” She struggled hanging the receiver up at least four times before getting it right, and the slew of foul language still coming out of her mouth would make Sam Kinison blush.
All I wanted was a little happiness and peace and quiet this evening. Was that too much to ask for? The phone rang, and I threw my hands up in defeat. Maybe nothing was ever peaceful and peace was just an illusion. Swell, now I was annoyed and depressed. The phone continued to ring, so I summoned whatever self-control I still possessed and picked it up.
"Hello? Hi, Mom. Oh, classes are fine. Yeah, everything's great. I'm meeting lots of new friends, going out ... getting drunk and laid a lot on the weekends. No ... No, that was a joke, Mom. What do you mean, which part? No, I haven't been drinking. Mom ... Mom! Stop cheering. I haven't been doing that, either. There's nothing wrong with me. I've ... I've got my writing, my work ... and ... and ... my writing. I just don't need the hassles of a relationship right now, and sex without one doesn't hold any value for me. Excuse me? What do you mean it's therapeutic? I don't care what you read in Reader's Digest. No, I know you're trying to be helpful and I appreciate that, but there's nothing wrong. I'm fine. Besides, sex never cured anything. No, I'm not talking from experience. Mom, I'm not proliferous. What? No, I said it right. Yes, I did. No, I'm not promiscuous, either, whatever that is. How many times do I have to tell you that everything's fine?
"Okay, I'm sorry. I'm lying. Everything sucks! I'm flunking out of school, my professors hate me and the women won't even look at me. I guess I'll never get married, and I'll suffer from dead semen backup for the rest of my pathetic life. No, I don't need to talk to somebody! I was being sarcastic. What? Sarcasm. It's a humorous and biting ... Dead semen backup? It's when ... What do you mean use my hand? Dad? When did Mom give you the phone? She's complaining that I don't make sense? She just doesn't understand sarcasm, that's all. Sarcasm. It's a humorous and biting ... Oh, never mind.” I decided to change the subject. I still had an elderly next-door neighbor back home who loved me!
"How's Mable? What do you mean she's pissed at me? I didn't do anything! Well, okay, I might have done that. All I did was suggest ... What? She believed me? God, there's one in every town. Look, all I told her was that if she didn't let the summer air out of her bicycle tires and put winter air in, they'd explode. It's not my fault if she thought I was serious. Have I ever said a serious thing to her in my life? I take it you told her the tires wouldn't explode? The gas station attendant did? Okay, so she found out. What's the big ... Well, what did she take it up there during a blizzard for? Yes, I might have exaggerated things a bit. Frostbite? She can't possibly blame me. She called me that? Yep, she's blaming me.
"Oh, speaking of someone who's pissed, Grandma called. Oh, she told you? I don't think she liked the message on my machine. She told you that, too? What else did she say? That I need discipline? Tell her not to tease. No, don't tell Mom to tell her. Because she won't get the humor in that. Yes, I was being funny. No, you're not wasting your money. I'm not going to grow up to be a comedienne. Yeah, I'll talk to you both later. Love you, too. Bye."
Okay, time for a recap. What wasn't working in my life? My alcoholic grandmother was annoyed with me, my elderly neighbor back home was blaming me for her frostbite, my mother thought I was sexually repressed based on an article in Reader's Digest, my father thought I needed to masturbate more often, my low self-esteem was once more giving me the finger, my best female friend on campus was going to hate me for sleeping with one of the many men she fantasized about, my best male friend thought I was into inbreeding because I slept with my cousin by marriage only and the guy I slept with who my best female friend fantasized about was a total slut who wanted to have meaningless sex with me again.
Now, what was working in my life? I wasn't on academic probation. That pretty much summed everything up. Maybe life wasn't always sandy beaches, loud dance music and great-looking cousins by marriage only, but it should be.
I finally drifted off into an uneasy slumber and prayed I would remember why I was bothering to get up in the morning before the alarm went off. After all, could this possibly get any worse?
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8
A week and a half of pure bliss went by, the kind one needs to fool oneself into thinking exists because it really doesn't. I wasn't having much luck with writing another short story. The only way I was going to pass this course was if I could come up with something that really dazzled Cathleen, something that went for the throat and wasn't that giant slimy mutated earwig Rueben last presented us with. Perhaps it came as no great surprise that Ryan and Kim were struggling with their own stories, too. Even Tristan had been strangely quiet. He was probably still busy licking his wounded ego ... or having someone do it for him. What mattered is that he was leaving me alone.
Yet another week came and went, but I couldn't think of a single interesting or original idea. What had happened in my life that could be mistakenly identified as dramatic? I was convinced that not one interesting thing had ever happened to me in my entire existence. I'd never really been anywhere, and I'd never really done anything. My God, I had to be the most boring gay boy in the world! The only time I really ever felt full of life was...
Was in California with Jordan. Okay, there was some drama, but it was kind of depressing and not very humorous. Or was it?
Jordan really hadn't done anything funny, but I'd certainly looked like a complete ass. Maybe I was on to something here, and hopefully it wasn't that I looked like an ass a whole lot more often than just when I was out of state. No, there was a story here, and I did have my moments of pure idiocy.
Ryan, when he would talk, claimed to be writing about a young straight boy who comes of age, so why couldn't I write about a young gay boy who comes of age? Of course, I wasn't exactly young when I came of age, but I'm sure it added a touch of the pathetic to my story much like it did my life. Heh-heh ... I'm pathetic. It just sounds funny.
I pulled out a piece of paper and started scribbling down some notes. Apparently, I wasn't the only one coming alive again. Kim finally snapped out of her trance and decided to throw a party in honor of one of her sisters who was up for a visit, which was perfect because an old friend of mine from back home was going to be here as well. Kim didn't get along with this particular sister very well, and the party was probably an excuse so she could drink and forget she had to put up with what she called her “opinionated-thinks-her-shit-don't-stink-lower-dwelling-sibling-from-my-gene-pool."