The End of Billy Knight

by Ty Jacob

  Lying on the couch with his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, Mike took in the quiet slide of Dale in his green silk robe, followed by the louder rustling of Sasha, the jingling bracelets and smell of perfume. She put his morning cup of coffee down on the table beside the couch. He never once opened his eyes, and she didn’t try to wake him. Dinner the night before had been silent and forced. Sasha had drunk too much scotch, apologizing several more times about the shirt.

  Now, as soon as the door shut and the key outside turned in the lock, he opened his eyes. He waited a few moments to make sure Sasha didn’t come rushing back, looking for her sunglasses or her car keys, then he sat up. He walked over to his bag and pulled out the calendar he’d bought back in Denver. He wanted to double-check, just to be sure. There, next to a picture of Mount Elbert, was today. It was April 21st.

  He was too nervous to eat, so he drank the coffee, jumped in the shower, and left. One of the addresses on the brochure the doctor gave him was in West Hollywood, just over on San Vicente. He decided to walk. He wanted to be outside, wanted to move.

  When he stepped out onto the sidewalk, the noisy morning wrapped around him. There was never much traffic on Orlando Avenue, but he could hear the cars over on Melrose Avenue to the north. He turned back and looked at Dale’s building – dusty beige and unimpressive, a two-story concrete thing with tiny windows. Someone began yelling down the street. A car honked on Melrose.

  For a moment Mike found himself actually longing for the absolute stillness of Brewerton, the calm way the mornings unfolded, the crickets becoming still and the birdsong opening slowly. There was a way the light hung in the trees there. He’d yet to see that in LA, and he didn’t think he ever would.

  He walked down the alleyway that ran behind Dale’s building, passing service entrances for shops on Melrose, and then he stepped out into the heat and noise of Melrose Avenue itself. He walked by a hair salon and a bookstore, looked in the windows of expensive furniture stores. He passed the discreet entrance to the Manhole Sauna, which he’d visited a couple of times, just for fun. It was open twenty-four hours, and an older man was going in now.

  Near the Lighthouse Café he bumped into Kerry on the street, one of the other guys who stripped at Exposé. Kerry looked hung over and tired.

  “Just getting home?” Kerry asked, his curly blond hair catching the sun. His body was lean and strong and tall. Even hung over and tired, he was very handsome.

  Before Mike got sick they’d done some overtime together, each of them down on their knees in front of an English guy named Simon. Kerry had a green and blue tattoo on his left hip. “It’s an Egyptian ankh,” Kerry had explained, as they were undressing in Simon’s hotel room, Simon watching nearby. “It means eternal life.”

  Here in the daylight of the street, Mike thought of Kerry’s left hip.

  “I just got up,” Mike finally answered. “Thought I’d go for a walk.”

  “A walk? In LA?”

  “Yeah. You know, just around.”

  Kerry shrugged. “That’s cool. I just got away from a trick. He wanted me to stay all night, wanted me to sleep next to him.”

  “Just sleep?”

  “No. First I fucked him.”

  Mike thought about the clinic. “Well, I gotta go.”

  “Right. Your walk.”

  “Are you working tonight?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. I’ll look for you.”

  Kerry smiled. “Cool.”

  Mike moved on. He came to the enormous Pacific Design Center, which everyone called the Blue Whale, and he turned and headed up San Vicente Boulevard until he got to the other side of West Hollywood park and reached the clinic.

  It wasn’t as clean and new as Doctor Barbara’s office had been. There were no potted plants in the corners, no art on the walls. The carpet in the lobby was grey and worn. A woman at the front desk said hello and gave him a code. He was Y7349A. In a small room he gave the code to another woman who talked to him about safe sex and took his blood. He watched the silver needle going in, watched his blood fill up a small test tube with red.

  She said, “What would you do if you found out you were positive? Do you have a support system? Friends or family you can talk to?”

  “I’ve got lots of friends,” he said. “I’d deal with it. I’d be okay.”

  She told him to save his code and come back in a week for the results. He made an appointment with the woman at the front desk, and then he left.

  18. El Mexicano

  THIS WAS THE third shop Sasha had entered that afternoon, and she was in a hurry. She hoped desperately that they would have what she wanted. There were rows and rows of running shoes, tennis rackets, and golf clubs all around her. She felt like she was back in the boys’ locker room of her high school gym, surrounded by the trappings of an athletic, masculine world she loved to look at, but where she would never belong.

  The sweatshirts were hanging on black plastic hangers toward the back. There were grey ones, black ones, white ones. Finally she found a red one. It wasn’t the same. Across the front, in large white letters, was the word ‘Champion.’ But she smiled to herself, thinking of Mike’s favorite gay top, Luke Champion. This was perfect.

  On her way to the register, a rack of tiny Speedos distracted her. Sasha loved Speedos. For a long time she’d dreamed of making a film about a randy swim team who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. There would be sexy shots of men doing the butterfly naked – the swimming stroke she found the most powerful and erotic – and there would be sex in the pool, in the showers, everywhere. And of course there would be a hairy-chested coach with a whistle around his neck, demanding to be serviced by his star swimmers.

  Standing in front of the rack, touching black nylon now, she thought of Mike. He deserved a tiny swimsuit for his perky little butt. She found a medium and walked up to the counter, her hands full of red and black.

  As she smiled to the sales girl, her mind was in several places. How silent and awkward dinner was after the incident last night. How happy she hoped Mike would be when she gave him these little presents. But there were other things on her mind as well: confirming the reservation for tonight and, most importantly, getting to LAX by 5:30.

  A week ago, when Steve first mentioned that a director and two models were coming in tonight from New York, she’d been irritated. Steve was always looking for directors for his successful series, Muscle Party. He was currently filming Volume 5. A different director filmed each scene. Sasha had been begging Steve to allow her to direct a scene for the series, but he said no. It was criminal that he was flying in a director when he had her, the wonderful Sasha Zahore, right under his nose.

  She handed over her credit card to the sales girl and was pleasantly surprised to find she hadn’t yet exceeded the limit. She took the bag and walked quickly out to her car. If traffic wasn’t too bad, she still might make it to the airport on time.

  The director Steve was flying in was Blane Handsome, and Sasha hated him not only for being successful, but for being five years younger than she was. He had no right. He and his two models – a top and a bottom – were arriving for a weekend of LA fun before they filmed their scene for Muscle Party 5 on Monday. In spite of her irritation, when she’d learned last week that Steve was flying people in, she volunteered to help out immediately. She was determined to make herself indispensable, by whatever means necessary. It wasn’t until Steve asked her to arrange dinner that she realized she could turn it all to her advantage. She’d promptly booked dinner at El Mexicano.

  * * *

  At the age of eighteen and new to Los Angeles, waiting tables at El Mexicano had been Dale Smith’s first job. Under a ceiling strung with brightly colored piñatas, he served enormous burrito platters and frosty margaritas. He didn’t mind the work, but he couldn’t bear putting on the dreary uniform every day – a boring white shirt and black pants.

  The first time he showed up wearing a skirt,
he was a nervous about how his boss would react, but he just couldn’t help himself. It was such a fantastic skirt – bright yellow, full and ruffled, trimmed with burgundy ribbon. He wore a white blouse with it, and full makeup, a jet black wig in an attempt to look Mexican, open-toed sandals, and then he finished it all off with a beautiful orange sash.

  His boss was the man who owned El Mexicano – a Cuban man named Jorge who worked long hours in the kitchen to support his wife and two small children. Dale liked Jorge because he pretended to be Mexican in front of the customers, in order to give his restaurant an air of authenticity.

  On the day Dale showed up in drag, Jorge stood stock-still and took a long look at him. It seemed as though he was about to yell at Dale, but then he broke into a smile that was clearly flirtatious. “Beautiful,” he said. “You are like a big piñata. My customers will love you.”

  From then on Dale came to work in drag every day, and he was so thankful for Jorge’s acquiescence that two weeks later, when Jorge began hinting that he was in need of a blow job because his wife refused, Dale was more than happy to oblige. After he was done, Dale got up off his knees, wiped off his chin, and said, “From now on, call me Sasha.”

  Sasha made far better tips than Dale, and she had a lot more fun. “Buenos tardes,” she would say as she approached her table. Sometimes she would curtsy. Sometimes she would turn her head to show off a miniature sombrero pinned to her wig, or earrings shaped like tiny guitars. As she took orders for enchiladas and quesadillas, she made jokes and got people laughing. She spoke conspiratorially with the women and called them “girlfriend.” She flirted with the handsome straight men out on dates. “Ay caramba!” she would say, directly to the man’s face. “Muy guapo!” Her hand would go to her chest, and she’d flutter her fake eyelashes feverishly. Then she’d turn to the girl he was with and add, “Mmmm, honey, when you’re done with him, would you mind sending him my way?”

  Soon customers were showing up to see Sasha as much as to eat Jorge’s food, and the other waiters became jealous. All the customers wanted to sit in Sasha’s section, so Jorge offered her a job as hostess. From then on she greeted everyone at the door with a spectacular smile, seated them, and wandered around asking people if they wanted another Corona, Dos Equis, or perhaps a pitcher of margaritas. She helped clear dishes when the waiters got busy, and she chatted briefly with each table, making sure everyone was in on the fun. With Sasha working the floor, eating dinner at El Mexicano was like being at a carnival, and Jorge’s business took off.

  The sole reason Sasha quit after three years was because the job made it too hard to do drag shows. The work was exhausting. The kitchen didn’t close until eleven. By the time she got out it was usually close to midnight. Although she tried, it was difficult to run to clubs after that and give an audience her best.

  Jorge said he was very sad to see her go, and in the years since they’d managed to maintain a kind of ongoing friendship. Sasha frequently took people to El Mexicano to have a good Mexican meal and check out the new drag queen hostesses that Jorge hired in his never-ending attempt to fill her place. An astute businessman, Jorge had once explained, “This is now our point of difference.” Years ago he’d moved the restaurant down the street to a bigger, more upscale space. Even at the new location Sasha always walked in as if she belonged there. She would sashay through the door with her head high, dismissing the new, substandard hostesses with a wave and heading straight into the kitchen to speak to Jorge, who would greet her warmly. After closing time, in the kitchen or in Jorge’s car, she still indulged him in a friendly blow job now and again, which she enjoyed giving as much as he enjoyed getting.

  * * *

  Sitting in traffic on her way to the airport, Sasha felt a little conflicted. Her lasting fondness for Jorge made her feel bad about what she was going to do in his restaurant. Nevertheless, it was an obvious choice to book Steve’s dinner party at El Mexicano. The food was still good – better, she thought, than when she’d worked there – the margaritas were fantastic and the girls at the door made it fun, even if they were a bit bland compared to her. Most importantly, at no other restaurant would she be able to do what she needed to do. Really, she had no choice.

  It was 5:45 when she pulled into short-term parking at LAX. She walked inside and went immediately to a phone booth, where she called Jorge to confirm her reservation.

  “Hola, Sasha!” Jorge said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you, my big piñata.” After all these years, he still called her this from time to time, affectionately, and Sasha didn’t mind. Sometimes she called him “my little Mexican sausage” in return. She confirmed her nine o’clock reservation, wished him well, and hung up the phone.

  There would be six people at the table that night – Steve with a new young lover Sasha hadn’t yet met, Blane Handsome, the two New York models, and of course herself. In an uncharacteristic act of generosity, Steve was paying. No doubt this was because Blane had directed the movie that won Best Gay Video at last year’s Adult Entertainment Awards. It featured two incredibly muscular men making tender love on a New York rooftop, dressed as jewel thieves. These were not, unfortunately, the models that were accompanying Blane today.

  Sasha suspected that Steve was paying for dinner in an attempt to woo the award-winning director to do even more work for Cougar. But as far as she was concerned, it wasn’t Blane’s directing that made that scene win the award. It was the two models, who were so obviously into each other, and who looked very good in black – but even better out of it.

  She had agreed to meet Blane at the luggage carousel, and she saw him from a distance now, recognizing him from photographs of the Adult Entertainment Awards in Rod & Shaft magazine. He was a tallish, appropriately handsome man who had broad shoulders. She could tell just by looking at him that he was as dumb as a box of rocks.

  With him were the two models. They were like pathetic puppy dogs at Blane’s heels, carrying his luggage and yapping yes-Blane-yes-Blane every chance they could. It made her stomach turn. Nobody, not even second-rate talent, should behave with so little self-respect. If her models ever became that sycophantic she would slap them, one by one, over and over, until they stopped.

  She took a deep breath and walked in their direction, waving with a tiny finger wiggle and a tilt of her head. The two models came over to her immediately and introduced themselves by their porn names, Max Pole and Phil Dass. With names like that, it wasn’t hard for Sasha to figure out who was the top and who was the bottom. She liked Phil’s name in particular; her only regret was that she hadn’t thought of it herself.

  Max was tall and well built, but had a permanent, goofy smile on his face, as though he was continually confused and too embarrassed to say so. Phil was a pale redhead, which Sasha liked because you didn’t see many gingers in gay porn. But really there was nothing special about either of them. There was no sparkle, no electric fire. Nothing like her Billy.

  “Thanks for picking us up, Miss Sasha,” Phil said. “It’s super nice of you.”

  There was such a look of wonder on Phil’s face that for a moment Sasha actually suspected he might never have met a drag queen before.

  “Not a problem, doll. And you can just call me Sasha.” She winked.

  While she asked the two about their flight, Blane Handsome hung back, some distance away, scowling arrogantly and refusing to walk over. Eventually Sasha was forced to approach him. She put her hand forward in her most lady-like way, palm down, and as Blane reached out to take it she quickly moved it upwards, so the back of her hand approached his mouth, almost obliging him to kiss it. He did, and Sasha smiled victoriously, pleased with herself that in her small way she’d already begun to subjugate him, like the Pope making a Cardinal kiss his ring.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Blane,” she said.

  She waited as they gathered up the rest of their luggage, and then she led them to her car. She carried nothing. They were to stay at Steve’s, and as she drove
up the ramp onto the San Diego Freeway she asked questions about the films they’d made. She quickly learned that this was to be Phil’s first sex scene.

  “So you’re a virgin?” she said into the rearview mirror, winking back at Phil.

  “Not exactly,” Blane interrupted. “Half of New York State has had that ass.”

  “Lovely,” Sasha said, and continued asking questions to make conversation. More than anything, she knew, people liked to talk about themselves. It soon became clear that this was especially true of Blane.

  “I’ve lost count of the films I made,” he said, never once looking at Sasha as he spoke. “I’ve made so many. Must be over sixty now. Damn fine films, every one of them.”

  “Oh my,” Sasha said, merging into the faster traffic. “That is impressive. And how many of those films have won awards, Blane?”

  Secretly, she already knew the answer.

  He pushed his jaw forward. “Best Gay Video last year for some great rooftop sex in my film The Family Jewels. Very hot.”

  “Of course. Silly me. How could I forget? So, of those sixty-odd films, is it just the one award?”

  “Well, I’ve been nominated for quite a few.”

  “And how many have you won, doll?”

  He paused. “Ah, just the one.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said quickly, as though she sincerely regretted causing him any embarrassment.

  After being trapped in the car with Blane talking non-stop for what seemed like an eternity, they finally approached Larchmont Village and she pulled out a piece of paper. Steve’s assistant, Günter, had drawn a little map. As she turned on Windsor Boulevard and saw the house, a little spasm of resentment ran through her. It was a beautiful faux-Spanish villa, all white stucco and red tile roof, with three graceful archways framing the porch. Although it wasn’t the largest house in the neighborhood, it still reeked of money. Off toward the end of the street, up in the distance through the hazy smog that hung over LA, the Hollywood sign was visible in the hills.