Now, I’m not saying he was lazy about everything. He worked at his computer business like there was no tomorrow: hour upon hour, tapping at the keyboard, taking online classes on programming, doing encryption and decryption for his clients’ projects and so forth. They paid him via electronic bank transfers, once a month, how much I had no idea. But his work consumed much of his day. And he was a slob. His shit was strewn everywhere: clothes, packs of cigarettes, wads of paper, his computer and all its wiring and headset. The shelf over the bathroom sink was stacked with his stuff: toothbrush, hair gel, deodorant and hairbrush, all of it. Not an inch of space left for me!
Then there were his cigarettes. I don’t smoke, never have. What’s the point? You’re only ruining your health. But the kid puffed like a chimney; at least a pack a day. At my place, I’d make him sit by the window and blow the smoke outside, but the stink still got in the apartment. His hair and clothes smelled of tobacco, and so did his breath when I kissed him. A time or two, I gave him some shit about the cigarettes, but he only shrugged and said, “I enjoy nicotine and don’t want to give it up.”
Another thing: I’m always horny in the morning. When I’d wake up, I’d want to feel him up and jerk off, maybe suck his cock. But he didn’t like it when I touched him at that hour. He’d push my hand away. “Don’t shoot a load on me,” he’d tell me, or some such crap And I’d lie there thinking, Hey, I’m giving this punk a place to stay in San Francisco—paying for the food, beer and all of it—and he’s griping ’cause I want to jizz on his ass? What kind of bullshit is this?
The kid could eat, too, tons of food for such a little guy. I nicknamed him “Dagwood” because he’d raid the fridge two or three times a day. He’d build these enormous sandwiches of ham, cheese, cucumber, onion and such—huge sandwiches. I hit the supermarket most every day, just to keep up with him. And did I mention the beer? I won’t call the kid a drunk because he wasn’t. I never saw him drunk. But he liked beer, and not the kind I drank, but some Czech brand. He’d always grab a six-pack at the store and place it in the cart. I paid for it every time, of course. I paid for stuff he drank whenever we went out, as well.
We went out often.
The World Cup matches occurred during this period, and the kid was a fiend for soccer. If Germany, Italy or France played in a match, we had to go see them on a large-screen TV, at some bar patronized by Europeans: weird people wearing soccer jerseys and speaking French or whatever.
I’m sure soccer’s exciting if you played it as a kid. But I didn’t, and I found the sport rather boring. Still, I sat there for hours at a time, watching this crap while the kid smoked cigarettes, drank beer and hollered at the screen along with the rest of the folks in the place. At the end I’d pick up the tab and shake my head, feeling a bit like a fool. Again, I asked myself where this was all headed. We’re so different, me and the kid. Is he the right guy for me?
Somehow, despite his many flaws, I still liked him. He had a good sense of humor; we traded jokes and found many things to laugh about. He drew funny cartoons of himself and me doing stupid shit, like disco dancing or reading comic books to each other on the sofa. Every day, he’d let me bathe him in the tub. I’d scrub his back, his legs and feet, his armpits and ass crack and his genitals. Then I’d shampoo his hair. He’d groan when I massaged his scalp; it was all very sexy.
And despite our age difference and the newness of our friendship, our conversations clicked as if we were old buddies. I spoke of my life in Cincinnati and various jobs I’d worked. I talked about ball games and bowling and the horse track.
Mostly, though, he talked about his parents. “They’re constantly criticizing me,” he said. “My dad’s a bully, too. He used to whip me with a belt when I was younger, ’til I got old enough to fight him.”
It seemed the kid had been a loner most of his childhood and adolescence. His only friends were people he’d met over the Internet—his “cyber pals” he called them. These were kids he’d never actually met in person; he’d just talked with them in chat rooms, which I found rather odd. How can someone be your friend if you’ve never heard his voice or shaken hands with him?
Okay, okay…he was twenty-one and I was forty-one. I know kids today are not the same as when I was young. They dwell in a different world, don’t they? They don’t play pickup basketball games; they play something called World of Warcraft on the Internet, instead.
It’s a different time, I’d tell myself; accept him for who he is.
Sex with the kid was the best I’d ever had: explosive, sweaty sessions that made me shout like a crazy man when I came. He was uninhibited; he liked it when I talked nasty to him. I’d call him my “fuck boy” and my “sweet little cocksucker” while I pinched his nipples and slapped his ass. I’d have him straddle my face and I’d lick his hole while he squirmed and panted like a dog in heat. Honestly, I’d never felt so close to someone, both physically and spiritually.
And it wasn’t just about sex. He was someone I could talk with every day, someone to share meals with. So what if he ate like a horse? Living with him and his appetite was better than living alone, wasn’t it?
Ummm…
I had friends come up for the weekend—an old coworker from Cincinnati who’d moved to L. A. with his girl—and we four hung out together. I mean, the apartment was small and we lived close, real close. My L. A. friend made comments about the kid: how the kid’s shit was strewn everywhere like the apartment was his and not mine. How the kid did not help clean up. And then one night my friend—the guy from L. A.—said he did not think the kid was entirely innocent. For twenty-one, he seemed pretty shrewd, my friend said. And I tucked this observation into the back of my mind; I mulled it over and over.
That was another thing: the way the kid did not help out. I mean, he’d brought a limited amount of clothes with him, so they had to be washed every few days. I had a washing machine and it wasn’t a big deal for me to wash his stuff along with mine. But one day I asked him to help with the clothes and he said, “I don’t know anything about doing laundry. My mother does it for me.”
I thought: You’re twenty-one years old and you don’t know how to wash your clothes? And who am I, your goddamned laundress?
I didn’t understand his behavior toward his parents. A week into his stay, he hadn’t contacted them a single time. One day, I said, “Don’t you think you should call home? Just to let them know you’re okay? You can use my cell phone.”
He said, “My parents don’t give a shit whether I’m dead or alive. They just don’t care, and why should they? I’m not even their real kid.”
Sad, eh?
Then there was his work. Like I said before, each day he’d spend hours and hours on his laptop, tapping away at the keys and staring into the screen with his brow furrowed. He’d only take breaks to smoke cigarettes or make a sandwich. Then it was back to work. Aside from our sex sessions, our visits to the supermarket and our evening meal, he had little time for me. I saw all the tourist stuff—the Golden Gate Bridge, Candlestick Park, Sausalito and Fisherman’s Wharf—by myself. And he kept on eating those goddamned sandwiches and drinking beer. His shit continued to be strewn about my apartment, like flotsam after a shipwreck, and I grew damned tired of it.
Finally, one afternoon, I confronted him. He sat at the desk in his boxer briefs, tapping on his keyboard, his gaze fixed on the laptop screen.
I said, “Turn off that fucking computer. Let’s talk.”
He looked up. “About what?”
“Us,” I said. “How come I’m spending so much time alone?”
Staring at the carpet, he hunched his shoulders. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“You’re at that keyboard twelve, fourteen hours a day, unless a soccer match is on. Can’t you make more time for me?”
He jammed his hands between his thighs and didn’t say anything.
“Come on,” I said, “talk to me.”
A tear spilled out of one corner of his eye.
He blinked and another spilled out.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “What is it?”
He leapt to his feet and the desk chair fell over. His face was distorted and brick red. He cried, “I’m doing my best here, but it’s hard. This ‘living together’ business is new for me. I don’t know who I am—not anymore—and I’m not sure where I belong.”
I rested my hands on my hips and made a face. “I don’t get what you just said,” I told him. “Exactly what does that mean?”
Without answering, he ran into the bedroom and slammed the door shut.
I stood there shaking my head.
Human nature’s strange isn’t it? We want something—a new car, a piece of ass or whatever—and we crave it so badly we ache. But once we get whatever it was we wanted, the specialness fades and we take it for granted, like electricity or indoor plumbing. Then we start dreaming of something else: an item we don’t already have, a thing that’ll be tough to get.
After three weeks, that’s the way it became with the kid and me. I mean, if I’d seen him on the street a month earlier, I’d have taken out a loan just to buy a night in the sack with him. But now, even though he lay next to me each morning, I didn’t care. I was tired of his shit everywhere, tired of looking at his damned hair gel and toothbrush on my bathroom shelf. I was sick of watching him devour the contents of my refrigerator, and weary of being ignored. Sure, he was cute as hell in his own way. Our sex was great, too. But I had reached the limit of my patience.
So, I brought up the subject of his departure with him, and when I did his eyes watered. He said he didn’t want to leave. He said Willow Creek was a shit hole, that he hated living there.
“I prefer living with you in San Francisco,” he said.
I sort of lost it, then. Words spilled out of me. I told him, “Look, this whole thing’s not working. I want a boyfriend, not a part-time sex buddy. I need someone who’ll take walks with me, watch TV with me, that sort of thing. It’s what I expected when I invited you down, but it hasn’t happened. Plus, this apartment’s small, and it’s always cluttered with your shit. You don’t help me keep house—you haven’t once washed a dish—and it’s not fair. Why don’t you take a bus back to Willow Creek and let your mom take care of you?”
He didn’t try to argue. He only hung his head.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll go, if that’s what you want.”
So he packed his shit into his computer bag and backpack. (How did he get it all in there? It had practically filled my whole damned apartment.) Then he stood at the front door, fresh tears glistening, and we traded the lightest of kisses before saying good-bye. Moments later, he descended the stairwell and entered the street.
I closed the door and pressed my forehead to it. I held the knob and shook my head, while my eyes itched and my stomach churned. You blew it, I thought. Once again, you’re flying solo. Is this how it’s always going to be? Will you die a lonely old man in a nursing home? Why can’t you be more flexible?
I fought an urge to run downstairs, to chase the kid down and tell him to come back. “We’ll work things out,” I’d say. But I didn’t do it; I stayed put. Common sense told me things would never go smoothly between us, not unless he altered his behavior.
And leopards never change their spots, do they?
Summer drew to a close. I returned to Cincinnati and found work at a warehouse. I ran a forklift five days a week, had weekends to myself. Fall arrived early, and leaves on the trees turned shades of gold, brown and red. The air smelled fresh; it felt good on my face while I waited for the bus in the morning. The Reds played first-rate ball—they’d make the playoffs for certain—and I went to a few games. I painted all the rooms in my apartment, and this consumed much of my free time. I even volunteered at the Children’s Hospital three nights a week, shelving books in the library.
Then, on a rainy Saturday afternoon in mid-October, my doorbell rang.
I crinkled my forehead. Who could that be? A door-to-door solicitor? Someone looking for directions?
The kid stood on my doorstep, soaking wet, wearing his usual clothing and backpack, and clutching his laptop computer bag. A raindrop hung from the tip his nose. His dark hair was plastered to his skull and stubble dusted his chin and cheeks. Behind him, rain clattered on the sidewalk; it sheeted off the eaves of my apartment building, creating quite a din.
His gaze met mine. “Can I come in?”
How could I say no?
Moments later we occupied my sofa. The kid had shed his wet clothing; he’d dried himself with a towel, and now he wore the towel about his waist. I studied his lithe physique, recalling our sexual encounters, back in San Francisco. Due to the gloomy day, my living room was full of shadows, but I didn’t switch on a light; I wasn’t ready for brightness. The kid’s sudden appearance had caught me off guard. Why was he here? What did he want?
“I would’ve called,” he said, staring into his lap, “but I was afraid you’d have told me not to come.”
I didn’t say anything.
He looked up and gazed into my eyes. “I’ve lived on the street in San Francisco, ever since I last saw you. It hasn’t been easy.”
I made a face. “Why didn’t you go back to Willow Creek?”
He frowned. “I can’t; I burned my folks’ house down, the night before I met you. They weren’t home—they weren’t injured—but if I went to Willow Creek tomorrow, the sheriff would arrest me for arson.”
I thought, Holy shit.
“How come you torched their house?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Think about it. You already know why.”
I thought back to all he’d told me about them: his adoption, their secrecy about it, their constant criticism, and the beatings. Of course, I thought, I know exactly why.
He said, “I’ve done all kinds of things to survive: day labor, hustling, even stealing. I lived in a shelter, mostly. My lack of a home destroyed my computer business.”
I nodded while licking my lips. “Why are you here?” I said.
He looked away then back at me. He said, “You’re the closest thing to a family I’ve ever had and I’ve missed you. I want to live with you again, if you’ll have me.”
I shifted my weight on the sofa and chewed my lips. One side of me, thought, Come on: give the kid a chance. But the other side said, Don’t do it. He’ll only disappoint you, like before.
“Look,” I said, “I like you and all, but—”
“I know I did wrong,” he said. “I wasn’t fair to you. But I’ve changed since then; I’ve grown up.”
“How’s that?”
“I quit smoking, for one. I learned how to do laundry—you wouldn’t have to do mine anymore—and they taught me how to wash dishes at the shelter. I can clean toilets, too.”
I couldn’t help myself; I chuckled and shook my head, thinking of what an idiot I’d been, letting him go in San Francisco, just because he was different from me, and because I felt certain he’d never change his ways.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I answered.
Then I ran my fingers through his damp hair.
That was a year ago.
The kid got a job; now he busses tables at Red Lobster while earning his GED. We split the housework fifty-fifty and take turns cooking dinner. Every evening, we do dishes together and he takes out the trash. Each night, we make love in my bed, and—
Oops: I meant our bed.
No, he’s not perfect. He leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor and his shoes lie in the hallway each morning, for me to trip over. But that stuff’s not as important as I once believed. I think if two people love each other and need each other, everything else becomes secondary in importance.
He’s a good kid, and you know something? Maybe he’s not the only one who’s changed.
Maybe we’re both leopards who’ve earned new spots.
SPORN
Davem Verne
It seems like everyone
is going gay these days. Celebrities and politicians, athletes and priests. Cultural synergy has finally caught up with the fact that it’s okay to come out. But honestly, it’s getting to be like the wild, wild west! Everyone wants to plant his own rainbow flag and marry a closeted queer.
I promised Evan that I would go gay soon, but I lied. I lied so he wouldn’t annoy me with talk about his gay life and all his gay friends and fantasizing about me as his gay lover. If I let him, he’d plead my gay case to the Supreme Court and publicly out me.
“That will only backfire,” I warned him. “You can only tame me with love.”
He listened and took me to bed. And with my pants down to my knees, I reluctantly agreed to take that first step and tell a few friends that I liked boys.
But sadly, in the real world you can’t make gay promises.
Being straight is all I have; it’s all I’ll ever have. Sometimes I feel going gay is a social event hosted by a well-paid queen and I’m decidedly against showing up. I can fake it, no doubt. Get on TV; smile bright-eyed, wink and tell the whole world what a fabulous homosexual I am. But that’s not me. Not the real me, anyway. I’m a straight boy. A pussy-bred hot rod with a breeder bone.
That’s before Evan calls me.
“Hey, baby maybe. Are you ready for wedded bliss on my gay ass?”
I hesitate and reply, “Can we fuck it over?”
Later, sniffing between my legs, he growls and agrees.
Nature invented holes so wild boys can play. And I’m a holy fucker—while Evan is a soft sucker. But he’s better than most girls I’ve dated. He takes smooth advantage of my straight meat by blowing me in the dark, on the sofa and in the bedroom where we can’t be seen. It’s all kind of passive aggressive and I feel mostly used, but I let it happen because I’m between girls these days.
“Get over here!” he growls on the phone. “And bring me a dirty dude magazine with a rated-X cover. I want you to squirm at the check out!”
Wild Boys Page 8