Drawing Blood

by Poppy Z. Brite

  Trevor thought Zach was looking straight at him as he began to sing.

  In fact, Zach had left his glasses in the dressing room and couldn’t see much beyond the first four rows of people. But he could feel Trevor in the crowd, could feel a long invisible strand of electricity flowing between them, tapping into the web that connected Zach with Terry, R.J., and Calvin, sending tendrils through the audience and infecting them as well. It was a silver-blue energy, as galvanizing as a slug of moonshine, as effervescent as a champagne chaser.

  He opened his mouth and felt the energy come blazing up his spine as he let the words fly. He barely knew what he was singing; his photographic memory gave him back the lyrics and his reptile brain translated them into pure emotion without ever processing their meaning. He twisted the syllables, stretched the long sounds, pushed his voice way down deep to match the bass, then sang with the guitar, high and hoarse and clear.

  The crowd pushed right up to the stage. A few kids up front were already dancing. Zach let their movements tug at him, flow over him. Soon he was dancing harder than any of them, remembering to breathe, keeping his voice strong, letting the music control him.

  The young upturned faces were sweaty, eyes half-closed, lips parted as if in ecstasy. This was like making love to an enormous roomful of people all at once, like taking control of all their pleasure centers and squeezing hard. It was his best fantasy gone one better. No one was jealous. Everyone was getting off, and getting him off. And somewhere right in the middle of it was his one true love.

  “I gotta bad reaaaaction,” he moaned, lips brushing the mike, letting his voice crack a little, thinking of Billie Holiday. “Gotta bad reaction to yoooou … gotta suck your poison every night, gotta swallow too …” He was improvising on the lyrics now as the song ended. Calvin caught his eye and gave him a very dark smile.

  The next number on the set list read simply “FUNKY BLUESJAM.” Terry had told him to vamp around, make up his own lyrics if he wanted. His shirt was already soaked. He peeled it off as the band eased into a slow, sexy groove. The crowd whistled and hooted. Zach closed his eyes and tilted his head back and just stood swaying at center stage for a long moment, leggings riding low on his hips, lights playing over the sweat on his face and chest and rib cage. He felt them looking at him and he let them look.

  Slowly he brought the mike up and started singing again, letting his voice skitter and scat over the music, only gradually beginning to form whole words and lines. “Where the bars never close … And the neon screams … And the smell of whiskey gets in your dreams …”

  A boy was dancing front and center, head thrown back in abandon, red-gold hair shaved close on the sides and spiked with sweat, pale skin flushed. His eyes met Zach’s and held them, almost defiant. Zach knew that look, had seen it plenty of times in the Quarter. It said, I am as beautiful as you, and I know it. The boy wore a thin white T-shirt and loose, low-slung faded jeans. The edge of the shirt pulled up as he danced, revealing a maddening stretch of flat hairless belly, a heartbreaking curve of hipbone.

  “Where the gutters run red by the break of dawn … And the boys get paler as the night wears on …”

  Suddenly he saw Trevor in the crowd, not dancing, just standing still in the sea of bodies, letting himself be jostled, gazing up at Zach. His face was intent, but calm; he was taking all this in now to be remembered and maybe drawn later. Zach lost the thread of his lyrics, wailed and sobbed wordlessly for a while. He felt like a torch singer in some smoky little dive in 1929, high on Prohibition liquor and the reefers they were rolling backstage.

  He gave Trevor his most smoldering smile, put the mike back on the stand and ran his hands over his face, through his hair. Trevor smiled back a little uneasily, as if afraid people would notice where Zach was looking. But his gaze never wavered. He had to take everything in. The artist as eyeball, thought Zach: lidless, as raw to the touch as an exposed nerve, but seeing and processing all.

  The next couple of songs were Gumbo standards with a country-Cajun flavor. Zach whined his way through them thinking of Hank and Patsy and Clifton Chenier, wishing he had a bottle of bourbon, a pair of black steel-toed cowboy boots, and a bushel of tabasco peppers. Terry whaled his skins without mercy, and R.J. moved his feet for the first time that evening. Zach could tell this was the stuff they really loved. They played the blues fine, but they were country boys.

  Next came another jam, R.J. and Calvin getting into a riff that was like something out of an old spy movie, sinister and slinky, octopussy; Terry laughing behind the drums, striking up a strip-club beat. Zach hung on the microphone, tilted his face to the lights and closed his eyes. The world was red and gold, sweat and smoke, pain and joy.

  The first set was over too soon. Zach stared over at the crowd, unwilling to turn them loose even for twenty minutes. Trevor caught his eye and pointed toward the bar. Zach held up his open hand—Be there in five—and reluctantly left the stage.

  Entering the backstage room was like walking into a sauna. The other three musicians were as sweaty as Zach, and as buzzed. The little cubicle was saturated with their energy. The smell was like an electrical storm in a locker room.

  Terry slung an arm around him. “Good show. Man, you really know how to work a crowd.”

  “It feels great.”

  “You’re a natural,” R.J. told him. “Terry could sing ‘Bad Reaction’ for the rest of his life and never get ’em riled up like that.”

  “Aw, fuck you,” said Terry. “I’m just a drummer working overtime. Zach’s a singer.”

  Basking in the praise, Zach started to grab a Natty Boho, then realized he had finished his first one onstage and his bladder was full. “Is there anywhere I can take a piss back here or do I have to fight my way to the rest room?”

  “Yeah, if you go way back behind the stage, there’s a little bitty John in the far corner. Nobody’s supposed to know about it because it doesn’t have a sink, but you can piss there.”

  Zach took off in the direction Terry had pointed him. A narrow L-shaped hall hooked away into the bowels of the backstage area, virtually lightless. Zach trailed his hand along the wall to keep his bearings. The cinder blocks felt cool and moist beneath his fingers, as if he were descending into an underground cave. Eventually he came to an open door, felt around until he found a light switch, and beheld the dankest, saddest little water closet he had ever laid eyes on. It was clean, and that almost made it worse: a bathroom this desolate needed roaches and mildew to liven it up. He hated to imagine Kinsey back here scrubbing the toilet.

  Zach peeled his leggings down. The stream of pee sounded very loud going into the rusty water, and he realized his ears were ringing. As he readjusted himself, a knock sounded at the door. 7 bet I know who that is, Zach thought.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Calvin.”

  Bing! You win the trip to Acapulco and the set of steak knives too. He opened the door a crack and saw a sparkling eye, a shock of bleached hair, half of a grinning mouth.

  “Just wanted to see if you were done. I gotta go too.”

  Zach let Calvin in and turned to leave. Calvin stepped right up to the toilet, tugged his pants down, and let fly. Huh, Zach thought, so he really did have to piss.

  But as Zach was halfway out the door, Calvin said, “Hey, Dario?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That was a fuckin’ brilliant set. You look great onstage,”

  “Aw hell, I just like to sing. You guys are the musicians.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re about as humble as me,” Calvin flushed the toilet, pulled his leggings up to a point just above the line of his pubic hair, then turned and in one smooth motion grabbed Zach and pinned him against the wall. His chest pressed against Zach’s, slick with sweat. His hands slid up Zach’s rib cage and his thumbs grazed Zach’s bare nipples, then tweaked them gently. Zach found himself instantly, crazily aroused.

  Calvin’s lips brushed Zach’s. “Do you want this as bad as I do?” he
whispered.

  “Well—yeah, but—”

  Calvin’s mouth closed over his, hot and lush, full of the golden taste of beer. His tongue slid, searched, teased its way into Zach’s mouth. For several seconds they kissed with sloppy abandon. Calvin’s unshaven face scoured him, abraded him. It would leave scratches. Zach didn’t care.

  He felt Calvin’s hips nudging against his own, Calvin’s dick getting hard against him, pushing into his bare stomach. Almost automatically, Zach moved his hips so that their hard-ons were pressed together, separated only by two thin layers of cotton. The concrete wall was rough and cool against his back. The noise of the club was a dull subliminal roar far away.

  He suddenly wondered why in hell he was doing this.

  The question was jarring. It made him realize that since the moment he’d said yeah, but and Calvin had stopped his mouth with a kiss, he hadn’t had a single thought in his head. Not for Trevor, not for himself, not for anything but his own damned mindless pleasure. Zach knew he had often used sex like a drug. But until now, he’d never consciously known that he used it to make himself stop thinking.

  The shame of that knowledge washed over him like a caustic wave. But on its crest came a second realization. Being with Trevor didn’t make him feel that way, didn’t short-circuit his thought processes or cut off his emotions. When they made love Zach’s perceptions intensified and his consciousness seemed to expand. Before, fucking had always been like slamming a door on the world. With Trevor it was like opening a thousand doors.

  And that meant he wasn’t getting anything here that he couldn’t get a thousand times better at home.

  Zach felt a pang of regret as he broke the kiss and pushed Calvin away. Calvin was what he used to think of as a sweet catch, a beautiful bad boy with a guitar, and in the old days Zach would have loved to take an all-night tour of Calvin’s personal heavens and hells.

  But whether he liked it or not, those days were gone for him. He couldn’t do this to Trevor. Furthermore, he didn’t even want to.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.” Calvin tried to push back against him. His eyes were wild, his breath coming fast. He was obviously horny to the point of pain, and Zach felt for him. But there were plenty of adorable boys out there, fairly stewing in their own juices. A handsome blond guitarist could take his pick.

  “No. I can’t. I’m with somebody, and you knew damn well I was.”

  “Hey—” Calvin twitched one shoulder in the most insouciant of shrugs, but his eyes were hurt. “Saw you lookin’, was all. Just tryin’ to show the new kid a little hometown hospitality.”

  “I know I was looking. ’Course I was. You’re gorgeous.” Calvin’s eyes softened a little. “But I’m with Trevor, okay? We’re solid. I love him.”

  Calvin sniffed. “You fall in love pretty fast, don’t you?”

  “Not really. It took me nineteen years.”

  “Aren’t you scared he’ll freak out and murder you in your sleep?”

  Zach laughed. “No. If Trevor decides to kill me, he’ll make sure I’m awake for it.”

  Calvin considered this dubiously, “Whatever,” he said at last. “You wanna kiss me one more time?”

  “Yes,” Zach told him honestly. “But I’m not gonna.”

  He ducked under Calvin’s arm and left the guitarist staring after him. As he fumbled his way back along the hall, the noise and the energy of the club grew stronger with every step he took. He felt the invisible thread of his lover pulling him, drawing him.

  Zach had done plenty of things he was proud of: survived on his own since he was fourteen, hacked his way into systems that no one else could crack, bailed his friends out of jail and wiped their records clean.

  All of that was fine. But he couldn’t remember the last time a decision not to do something had made him feel so good.

  “I sold a story to Taboo!” Trevor shouted over the din of the bar.

  Kinsey’s slightly harassed expression became an enormous grin. “That’s great! Have a Coke! Hell, have two Cokes!” He slapped them down on the bar in front of Trevor, then held up an apologetic hand and hurried away to serve the customers lining up for beer. Trevor pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and dropped it into the tip jar while Kinsey’s back was turned.

  Zach had given him a wad of cash this morning. Just in case you need anything in town, he’d said, pressing it into Trevor’s hand. When Trevor protested the amount—over a hundred dollars—Zach only looked disgusted. Money is just stuff you trade for things that you want, he had told Trevor with the air of a person explaining that two plus two equals four. When you need more, you get it. It may not grow on trees, but accessing a bank account is a hell of a lot easier than climbing a tree.

  Trevor looked around the crowded bar, but saw no sign of Zach. Probably he was still backstage getting stoned with the band. Trevor didn’t think Zach would mind if he joined them. To his own surprise, he was actually beginning to develop a taste for pot. Possibly because it was such a vital component of Zach’s body chemistry. But maybe, Trevor thought, he was also ready to start altering his consciousness instead of just exaggerating it.

  He grabbed his two Cokes and started making his way back toward the stage. Halfway there, he passed Calvin going the other way. Trevor just nodded, but Calvin reached out and stopped him, put his hands on Trevor’s shoulders and leaned in to speak loudly in Trevor’s ear. “You’ve got a real sweet boyfriend. He sure does love you. Better hang on to him.”

  Then he was gone into the crowd. What was that all about? Trevor wondered. But Calvin had fucked with his head enough. He didn’t care what the guitarist thought of him. Terry and RJ. were better musicians anyway. Calvin’s playing had plenty of glitter and flash, but none of their Southern soul.

  Trevor let himself into the dressing room and Zach was there, barechested, sleek as a seal, resplendent, taking a long toke on a fat, fragrant joint. The room was already crowded with friends of the band, but Zach saw Trevor right away. He held the smoke in his lungs as he passed the joint, crossed the room, put his lips against Trevor’s, and exhaled a long, steady stream of smoke into Trevor’s mouth. A shotgun.

  Trevor abandoned his Cokes and ran his hands down the curve of Zach’s spine. His fingertips came away slick with sweat. He touched them to his mouth, tasted salt.

  “Do you want to go somewhere?” Zach whispered in his ear. Trevor nodded. Zach pulled him through the door, along a dark passageway, into a tiny, ill-lit bathroom. They slammed the door and leaned against it, groping and squeezing and clawing at each other, kissing madly. Then Trevor was kneeling on the hard cement floor, licking Zach’s stomach, using his teeth to pull down the leggings, gripping Zach’s hipbones like handles.

  It only took about ninety seconds. “Oh Trev,” Zach gasped as he came, “oh god I needed that, thank you, thank you …”

  “Sure.” Trevor wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Can’t be a real rock star without a backstage blowjob.”

  Someone knocked.

  Trevor felt Zach’s body stiffen. He got to his feet. Zach tugged his leggings up and backed away from the door. “Who is it?”

  “Us,” said a chorus of sheepish voices.

  Zach opened the door. Terry, his girlfriend Victoria, R.J., and Calvin were standing just outside looking embarrassed. “Sorry,” said Calvin, “but the break’s almost over and we thought you might want some of these.” He held out a plastic bag half full of mushrooms. They were pale brown streaked with iridescent blue—the psilocybin—and gave off a crumbling earthy smell.

  Trevor saw Zach’s hand start to reach forward; then he paused and looked uncertainly back at Trevor. “I like mushrooms a lot. Have you ever done ’em?”

  Trevor shook his head.

  “Well … they’d give you plenty of ideas, that’s for sure.” Zach stared at Trevor, then back at the bag. “Can I have some for later?” he asked.

  Calvin pulled the bag back.
“You can buy some. I’m not giving them away if you’re not gonna do ’em with us.”

  Zach’s eyes met Calvin’s. Though these two probably were attracted to each other, Trevor realized, that wasn’t exactly what was going on between them. It was rather that they understood each other as any creatures of the same species will, especially if it is a dangerous species.

  “Okay.” Zach pulled out a handful of twenties. “How much?”

  “Well … oh, fuck it.” Terry, R.J., and Victoria had all started staring at Calvin reproachfully as soon as he mentioned money. “I don’t care. Just take a handful.”

  Zach was nearly laughing as he reached into the bag. “Thanks, Calvin. That’s real nice of you.” Their eyes were shooting silver daggers at each other, but on another level they seemed to be positively enjoying the exchange. Trevor had spent the past two days diving into Zach’s character like an unfamiliar river, eager to let it flow over him, to let its current carry him along. Now he was beginning to realize that it had secret tributaries and strange deep pools he might never fathom.

  Zach wrapped his mushrooms in a twist of toilet paper and gave them to Trevor to hold. Trevor stowed the little bundle deep in his pocket, then wiped his fingers on his shirt. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to eat those nasty-looking things. Bobby had liked his hallucinogens, Trevor knew, but gave them up soon after he stopped drawing. And Crumb had done all sorts of drugs, though he claimed in a recent Comics Journal interview that they had affected his draftsmanship.

  But what had Trevor thought earlier? Hyping his consciousness with caffeine had helped him prowl around the edges of his past, but he had not yet penetrated to the heart of it. Maybe it was time to start altering his brain, laying open his very cells. Maybe then he would know enough so that he could leave with Zach, if Zach had to go.