by Gavin Atlas
Tristan smiled and Paul knew Tristan felt pleasure every time he saw Paul bristle with protectiveness. He manipulates me so much.
“I brought you the videos I mentioned,” Tristan said, digging into a backpack. “I said I wanted you to look at them to see if you thought I shouldn’t do these kinds of scenes. You know, if you think they’re bad for me emotionally.”
Paul hesitated before waving Tristan off. “Oh…I…I can’t take those. It will be more productive if you just describe your emotions to me. Keep a journal like I asked you to and see if it helps you figure out whether the scenes are harmful.”
“Oh, I have my journal, too!” Tristan beamed as he handed a notebook to Paul. “See! I’m trying to get better!”
Paul nodded. When Tristan was happy, Paul was guaranteed to have an erection. There was nothing sexier than when Tristan appeared animated and content. “Yes. You’re doing the work all right.” Paul rubbed his damp hands on his pants. “Let’s strike a bargain. I’ll look at your videos if you promise to go to a meeting before our next session.”
“It’s a deal,” Tristan said, brimming with enthusiasm. Tristan reached out to shake Paul’s hand. As their skin touched, Paul felt a shiver. No one is this innocent at age twenty-two. It’s an act. It’s all an act.
* * * *
The following Tuesday, after seeing his own patients, Paul returned to Jack’s office. Once again he appeared in rumpled clothes Jack felt were far too casual to be appropriate for a psychiatrist. He used to look forward to sparring with Paul, but now his forehead creased with tension as he watched the younger man slouch in the wing chair like a glowering teenager.
“Any progress?” Jack asked.
“I did get Tristan to go to a sex addicts’ meeting this week.”
Jack sat up straighter. “Really? That’s a big breakthrough! Congratulations.”
“But he said he had to leave early for another video shoot.”
Jack pretended to take notes and instead made a series of angry black X’s on Paul’s file. “Let me ask you, have you mentioned to him that living here in Los Angeles, a city with an expansive porn industry, isn’t the best environment for his recovery?”
Paul tilted his head dismissively. “I’m sure I must have.”
“Is he working in therapy? Is he actually trying to get better?”
“He’s the best patient I have left, Jack. To be honest, I’m worried. Recently I haven’t been happy with myself as a therapist, and I think some of my patients sense that.”
Jack felt his anger drain into pity. “I…didn’t know that. You said he’s the best patient you have ‘left.’ Does that mean…? I didn’t know.”
Paul looked at his shoes. Jack knew Paul hadn’t wanted to expose new self-doubts, but now he continued. “The good patients, the ones that work, like the one I call Susan. She’s, well, bless her, she said she felt so much better thanks to me, and we really had a very strong and promising closure. And then Friday I received a signed release to send her file over to Deborah Ling’s office, so you know that felt humbling.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Deborah Ling? I’m surprised Deborah has availability for new patients, what with that article that came out…”
Paul shot Jack an irritated look. “Not the point, Jack.” Paul fidgeted and pulled his Marlboros from his pocket. “The ones that have stayed are the ones that don’t want to get better. How I wish I could pass them off to Deborah Ling and see if she can resist strangling them.”
“But the one you should be giving up—”
“Stop pushing!” Paul yelled. “God. I need to tell you something.” Paul took a deep breath. “I saw a video of his.”
“We agreed you wouldn’t do that!” Jack stood up and stomped to the coffee maker. “I don’t want to hear about it.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. “I saw Tristan get fucked by five men. It’s called The Bottom That Saves America. It’s really quite clever.”
Jack sighed. “How patriotic.” He faced away from Paul and studied his antique map.
“Yes, he saves the nation with his ass. He was a guard at a nuclear missile silo. A group of terrorists overruns the place, and they’re starting to push buttons when Tristan uses reverse psychology on them.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Tristan says he’s heard these terrorists always fuck their captives as a form of torture, and that was a fate worse than death. So the terrorists get depraved looks on their faces—”
“Paul—”
“And they all take turns fucking him—”
“Paul—”
“And that rump is giving each of them the thrill of a lifetime. They’re so into pumping his ass, they don’t even notice when American reinforcements sneak up.”
“Paul!”
“After defeating the terrorists, the Americans celebrate, of course, by fucking his ass some more!” Paul began shaking his head from side to side and wildly thrusting upwards with his crotch.
Jack slammed down his coffee mug so hard it cracked. “My God, Paul!”
“Jack, you can’t have hot buttons! You can’t! You’re my therapist! You’re not allowed!”
“You’re pushing them on purpose! Like the terrorists in your video.”
“Maybe if they get pushed too often, they’ll stop working,” Paul said quietly.
Jack returned to his chair. “Tristan isn’t his real name, is it? You’re using the name of his sexualized persona.”
“What’s wrong with that? He prefers Tristan Carcer to his real name.”
“Tristan Carcer? Interesting. Did he come up with that?”
“Yes.”
“Tristan derives from the Middle French. It means ‘sadness.’ And Carcer is Latin for ‘prisoner,’ I believe. Sad prisoner?”
Paul stroked his chin. Jack could tell Paul hadn’t realized Tristan’s name had any significance. “He changed it from Tristan Vencido,” Paul said. “He didn’t feel right pretending to be Hispanic.”
“Which is Spanish for ‘conquered!’” Jack fumed. “Any way you look at it, he is plainly saying his name is ‘victim.’ Yes. Exactly. He indulges himself in…in…a profound victim complex through these movies and the men he meets in bars or on phone lines.”
Paul slowly shook his head. His eyes were unfocused. “If you could only see him naked—”
“Why would I, of all people, care to see him naked?”
“You’d understand. His body is literally…incredible.”
Jack looked up, alarmed. “You’re scaring me. If you don’t stop seeing him, then I will be forced to—”
“Do not have my license to practice suspended,” Paul intoned. “I’ve been your patient for years now, and the only reason I haven’t earned your trust is that you’re prejudiced. You’ve decided homosexuality is a problem.” Paul mashed his cigarette into the amber ashtray. “Jack, you’re old. Homosexuality was declassified as a disorder years ago. When are you going to catch up?”
Jack folded his arms. “I don’t believe homosexuality is a problem. I believe it’s a problem for you. And tell me if I’m wrong, but I think the real difficulty is the complications in forming relationships caused by your choice of profession. What about your homework from last week?” He really didn’t want to report Paul, but he would if he must.
“Homework? Our time is up, by the way.”
Jack huffed. “Social events with men who aren’t off-limits.”
“Oh, right. I thought about going to the Date Machine program, but I worry about running into clients at those things. Same with the bars.”
“You see why I maintain your profession is a complication?”
Paul sighed. He looked at the window. The weak sunlight revealed the haze of smoke in the office. Jack could see Paul wavering, nearing the point of capitulation.
“Please, Paul.”
“All right. I’ll tell him he has to see another therapist.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, relieved. “Thank
you.” He wouldn’t have to break his perfect record of always “fixing” his patients.
Paul trained an angry look at Jack. “Time’s up.”
* * * *
Paul could barely speak. Tristan reclined on the couch, a new boyish haircut made his black locks almost impossible not to ruffle. Every time he saw Tristan’s blue eyes, he remembered the look of sheer pleading on his face each time he was topped. Paul had seen several videos now.
Worse, Tristan had worn sweatpants with a large hole in the seat and no underwear. He lay with his knees up, seemingly unaware he exposed himself. Seeing Tristan’s ass on film had made Paul’s mouth water. Seeing it in person was excruciating.
“I ran into a couple of the senior guys from high school who fucked me when I was a sophomore,” Tristan said, looking at the ceiling. “They came up to me at the bar. They had evil grins on their faces, and they kept looking at each other like they had an inside joke about me.” Tristan shifted, the movement allowing even more visual access to Paul. Tristan hung his head in apparent shame. “They said they’d like to tag me again while they were in town.”
“Did you let them?”
“Yes. I tried to say no, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.”
“Sometimes to take care of ourselves, we have to disappoint other people,” Paul said to Tristan, possibly for the fiftieth time. He hoped the frustration hadn’t leaked into his voice.
“It hurts so much when you tell me no,” Tristan said, still looking at the floor. “I don’t want anyone else to have to feel that.”
Paul put down his pen, swallowed and stared at Tristan in silence.
“Everything okay, Doc?”
Paul continued to stare, unblinking. He looked at Tristan’s rump and bit his tongue. In his head, he saw an image of a giant house of cards collapsing. I can’t handle this anymore, Paul thought. Paul closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He inhaled and then looked straight at Tristan. “You know. You should give up.”
Tristan’s eyes widened in surprise. “I should?”
Paul stood and walked towards his patient. “Give up. Stop fighting the addiction. You’ve lost the battle.”
“I have?”
“Yes, give up. Just let every man fuck you as much as they want. Like you always say, it’s the only thing you’re good for.”
Tristan’s breath became rapid, and Paul could see through Tristan’s sweatpants he was now erect.
Paul reached down and ran his fingers along Tristan’s exposed crack. “I’m no longer your therapist. I’m one of the many guys who fucks your hole.”
Paul ripped Tristan’s sweatpants farther until his entire ass was exposed. Tristan obediently raised his legs while twisting his torso to retrieve a bottle of lube from his bag. Then Paul continued to tear the fabric until Tristan’s privates were uncovered, not caring Tristan would have to leave the office exposed.
Paul grabbed the bottle and lubed Tristan furiously as if there were only seconds to get inside him before he’d change his mind. Tristan pulled off his white t-shirt and struggled to remove the destroyed sweatpants while Paul unzipped his trousers.
“I can’t believe this is happening!” Tristan said between moans as Paul plunged inside him. The sex was manic. Paul kept up a tremendous pace, savaging Tristan with each huge thrust. As Paul watched Tristan jerk himself off, the patented pleading, vulnerable look on his face, Paul thought of all the men he’d heard about or seen fuck Tristan in the past two years. None of them knew Tristan the way he did. None of them deserved Tristan’s body as much as he.
Paul continued to pound Tristan’s hole for nearly ten minutes, enjoying the sounds of Tristan’s authentic gasps and cries, until Tristan convulsed in spasms and came in large spurts on his chest. Seconds later, Paul shot inside Tristan, grunting. Sweat beaded on his face as his head craned to the ceiling in ecstasy.
As he began to detumesce, Paul regained control of his mind. “Was it worth losing me as a shrink?” he asked between swallows of air.
“I loved that so much,” Tristan said, still keeping his legs in the air. “I’ll be okay this time,” Tristan said. “I won’t get sad, I promise. Especially if, maybe, you keep fucking me. You know. Come hang out now and then.”
“We’ll see,” Paul said. He had longed to give Tristan a kiss for the last two years. He ruffled Tristan’s hair and pressed his lips softly against Tristan’s forehead. His skin was so soft. He smelled of talcum and soap.
* * * *
“Why are you here with a suitcase?” Jack asked as Paul entered the room, dressed for weather much colder than Los Angeles was having.
“Remember my fantasy of going to a bus station and asking the ticket agent to pick a city? Any city?”
“Yes.”
“Toledo, Ohio. I’m leaving in a couple of hours. For good.”
Jack blinked. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“I fucked him. I broke down and fucked Tristan. It was…as amazing as I thought it would be.”
Jack dropped Paul’s file. “Oh my God.”
“He…he wore sweatpants with a hole in them, and I just broke. I couldn’t stand it any longer.”
Jack smacked his forehead. “I can’t believe this. What are we going to do?”
“We? Why do you need to do anything?”
“I have to suspend your license! I’ve heard of cases where the therapist went to jail. And for not stopping you earlier, I might as well suspend myself! God, my career down the drain.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “I hope one of these days you’ll shut up about your brilliant career. And I’m not going to jail. Just…away.”
“What are you talking about? A bus ticket is your idea of a solution?”
Paul heaved a sad sigh. “Tristan…told me he loves me, and he’d never do anything to hurt me. Usually, the pleasure, for someone like Tristan, of being perceived as good enough to fuck—”
“Not fuck, Paul. He’s your patient. It’s rape.”
“Fine, good enough to rape then,” Paul snapped. “The pleasure from the approval lasts a week or more. I have figured out his pattern. Then the other side of the victim cycle swings down, and he’ll be crying again and feeling abused—”
“And he’ll be right!”
Paul swallowed and looked away. “It’s not…rape. It’s at worst inappropriate conduct, and I’ll lose my license. He knows he wanted it so desperately. Knowing him there’s a chance he’ll be too ashamed to press charges. He never has before.”
“Listen to you. You wanted to take care of him so much at one point, and now you’re abandoning him.”
“Being where I can’t touch him might be what’s best for Tristan. I know I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
Jack walked around his desk to the phone. He flipped through an old rolodex. “This is completely unethical. I must report you. I’ve never allowed anything like this in thirty-five years. I’m not starting now.”
“Then you tarnish your own work as a mentor, don’t you? Even if Tristan does come forward, all you have to do is deny I told you anything. Destroy any records that show otherwise. Tristan doesn’t know you exist.”
“What about the Review Board? Or the police?”
Paul nodded. “He’s a sex-addicted porn star. I suspect the Review Board will have trouble believing him. And there’s no reason for the police to become involved.”
Jack paused to consider Paul’s points. “If you’re so confident that nothing bad will happen, why are you running away?”
“If I stay, I will fuck him again. And again and again. I couldn’t possibly stop myself. Eventually, something bad would happen. I’ll stop being the special man, the one who doesn’t screw him, and sooner or later, he’ll have an episode where he sees himself as my victim. I don’t think I could bear that. I couldn’t bear not being special.”
“You love him. Oh, no, Paul.”
“But it’s a selfish love, isn’t it? I’ve told him I have a fami
ly emergency, and that I’m leaving for a while.”
“Under the circumstances, I’d…recommend you head someplace where I know someone I can refer you to, for your sake.”
“Ah, so you…actually approve of my plan to skip town?”
Jack glared at Paul. “I don’t approve of any of this. Don’t you feel any regret?”
Paul looked down. “There are a thousand regrets, but now that I’ve had him I understand everything. The mad obsession all his men seem to have. All I can think about is seeing Tristan’s ass in those sweatpants. And the biggest regret, the one that sears my mind with pain, is that I won’t be able to fuck it every day and night.”
Jack picked up a stapler and slammed it down on his desk. “Your time is up.”
“Kicking me out early? I understand.”
“Tell the ticket agent to pick again. I don’t want to know where you are.”
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
“I’m sorry, too. You’re the biggest failure of my career.”
“No one will know.”
“Go now, Paul. Your time is up.”
Hercules to the Rescue
How was I supposed to work when the Cramers’ son was always walking around the house practically naked? The place was supposed to be empty during the repairs, but their boy, Dylan, had just finished finals at the University of Miami and had told his parents he needed to stay in town to find a job. Never mind that Hurricane Ava had torn half the tiles off the roof and took most of the north wall from the bedroom next to his.
“How the hell am I supposed to talk on the phone with you guys making all that racket?” he yelled while my assistant on this job, Alex, sawed away at the tree branch that had come through the wall. Dylan only wore tiny gym shorts and pumped a small barbell with his left hand, an angry expression trained on the two of us.
I looked at him calmly. “That looks like a cordless phone, buddy,” I said. “It would be easier for you to take your call downstairs than it would be for us to move the tree.”