by Ty Jacob
Kerry looked at him. “Nick?”
“Nick Demachio. Just some guy. Another hustler.”
“So he’s your roommate?”
“We fuck all the time,” Mike said, in spite of the fact that it was no longer true.
Kerry glanced down at the table, and he seemed so disappointed that suddenly Mike felt sorry for having lied.
“But he’s not my boyfriend, if that’s what you mean.”
Kerry’s face brightened. “Good.”
When they’d finished their drinks, Kerry suggested they walk down to the beach. Mike didn’t want to leave yet, so he said okay.
There were people in lounge chairs and on towels in the sand, mostly men in Speedos, a few women in tiny bikinis. The waves rolled in. The smell of the ocean was everywhere. Mike took off his shirt and shoes, and Kerry did the same. They walked along and talked, passing by a pink and yellow beach patrol station that looked like a spaceship fallen from the sky, hunky lifeguards instead of aliens at the helm.
“There are so many hot muscle guys in South Beach,” Mike said.
“And they all need a personal trainer.” Kerry laughed. “You’re still the hottest one on this beach. Anywhere you go. You have always been the hottest guy.” Kerry reached out touched Mike’s back.
Mike smiled. It was nice to feel Kerry’s hand on his skin after so long.
“I’d like it if you were in South Beach more often,” Kerry said.
Mike stopped walking and turned to look at him. Over Kerry’s shoulder palm trees moved in the wind. A pale blue building across Ocean Drive caught the sun. “Kerry, what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s going on here?”
Kerry shrugged. “We’re catching up.”
“What do you care about me? I thought I was just another fuck to you.”
Kerry winced. “You were never just a fuck to me.”
“It didn’t seem that way when you left.”
“Listen, I fucked up. I really fucked up. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it, about you.”
“You could have called, or sent a post card.”
“I should have. You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. I didn’t think you’d respond.”
“I probably wouldn’t have.”
“See, what good would it have done? But now here I am.” Kerry stood there and held his arms out into the air like he was putting himself out on display, hoping to be chosen.
49. Couch Potato
DALE WAS SPRAWLED out on the couch, eating potato chips in front of the TV. There was a pile of laundry on the arm chair that needed to be folded. The floor was scattered with newspapers and magazines. Sitting on the coffee table were the dishes from this morning’s breakfast, which he’d also eaten in front of the TV. It was early in the afternoon now. The only things on were children’s shows and sports. He flipped through the channels and finally settled on a handsome park ranger who was talking to a group of kids about alligators. “Alligators are a kind of lizard,” the man said.
Dale mumbled toward the television, “Oh, Mr. Ranger. Shut up and suck my dick.” Then he shoved a handful of potato chips into his mouth, wiped his salty fingers on his shirt. He chewed and sighed. There was no way around it. He was miserable without Mike.
When the commercials came on he walked down the hallway, past Mike’s closed door, and into his own bedroom. He looked at the calendar hanging on his fuchsia wall, where he’d marked September 15th with a star. Today was already September 29th. Mike would be in South Beach now. And he’d back in LA in just two more days. Things would be better then.
50. Hit Me
MIKE WATCHED AS Kerry unlocked his apartment door.
“Are you sure you’ve got time?” Kerry asked.
“I said the driver doesn’t pick me up until seven. I’ve got time.”
Kerry held the door open for Mike, and Mike walked in. As he closed the door behind them, Kerry said, “You seem a little prickly, sort of on edge.”
“I don’t really know why I’m here.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“No. I want to.”
“I’m not sure you do.”
They were in a small front hallway, painted pale green. Mike’s back was to the apartment. He saw a black-and-white photograph of a sidewalk café on the wall to his left.
“That’s my café in Paris,” Kerry said. “It’s in the seventh. I used to go there a lot. I had a lot of free time in Paris, when Burt wasn’t there.”
Mike looked at Kerry, at his new thickness, the old familiar blond of his hair. “Ever since I saw you in that changing room last night, I’ve been feeling like I want to hit you and hug you all at the same time.”
Kerry stepped closer. “So just hit me and get that part over with.”
Mike didn’t move.
“Seriously,” Kerry said. “Fair enough, too. I deserve it. Hit me.”
Mike wanted desperately to do it, to punch him hard in the face, perhaps give him a black eye, something that would hurt and show. Kerry seemed completely vulnerable, open. He was honestly going to let Mike do it, wasn’t going to dodge or block the blow. There was such a powerful tenderness in the way he stood there, waiting to be punched, that Mike felt something inside him change. The hard-edged fist in his imagination softened, melted. He reached out and touched Kerry’s chin, pulled him close and hugged him.
Kerry leaned down, put his face down into the crook of Mike’s neck, and breathed in. He moved his head up and kissed Mike gently on the mouth.
Mike remembered Burt saying that Kerry was such a tender fuck. He doesn’t fuck. He makes love. And Mike felt a little edge of anger rise up again, but he pushed it away. He decided to pay close attention, as he opened his mouth and felt Kerry’s tongue touch his, to see if what Kerry was doing was fake, if it was just a question of technique.
Kerry reached down and tugged lightly at Mike’s T-shirt, and Mike raised his arms, allowing Kerry to pull the shirt up over his head. Kerry’s mouth went down to Mike’s chest and kissed his nipples. Mike looked up at the ceiling, at the photograph on the wall. He touched the back of Kerry’s head.
When Kerry stood tall again, he took Mike’s hand and walked through a doorway to the right and into the bedroom. He immediately undid Mike’s shorts, pulled them down, got on his knees, and took Mike’s dick in his mouth. Kerry was very good, there was no question. This was technique. For a moment Mike almost believed that this was all there ever had been between them. Two professionals having sex. It felt good. That was all. But then Kerry looked up, his lips still around Mike’s dick, his head moving back and forth, and in his blue eyes Mike saw something else, something definitely not technique, something multi-layered and unstated but entirely sincere.
By the time they moved onto the bed, Mike had forgotten about trying to pay attention to Kerry’s technique. He was just there. He climbed down between Kerry’s legs and began sucking his dick. He watched the old familiar blue-green ankh come closer as he relaxed his throat and Kerry pushed slowly in, stroking the back of his head and moaning. It felt fantastic to have Kerry inside him this way. He let Kerry fuck his mouth for a long time. Then they rolled around together and kissed, felt the new contours of each other’s body. It was like becoming reacquainted. Eventually, Kerry knelt over Mike and jacked off until his cum was running warm down Mike’s chest.
Kerry looked down and smiled, tousled Mike’s hair, and Mike smiled back. In that moment there was no doubt in his mind that Kerry was the most amazing man he’d ever been with, and not simply because of the physical pleasure, not because of the technique. There was an attachment that Mike had never felt with anybody else.
“What do you want me to do for you, to make you come?” Kerry said.
Mike looked up at him. How was it that after all these years here it was again, so suddenly, this feeling with this man – all connectedness and safety? Mike was overwhelmed by
it. It had returned with such strength that it seemed it had never actually left him. It had somehow been lying dormant under the surface of his skin all this time, just waiting for Kerry to touch him again.
“Hold me,” Mike said, and Kerry sat back and put out his arms. Mike leaned back on Kerry’s chest, felt Kerry all around him, and then jacked off while Kerry stroked his sides, kissed his neck. When Mike came, it somehow all made perfect sense, as though Kerry had never really gone away at all, as though this was of course what they should be doing, as though they’d just woken up in their bed together after a long, comfortable sleep. Mike relaxed back into Kerry and felt an old, weightless joy return.
Kerry reached up and wiped off Mike’s chest with his hands, rubbed it across his own chest, then pulled Mike down beside him and spooned him. They lay like that for a long time in silence, both of them still covered in each other, Kerry’s dick slowly softening against Mike’s ass, until they were almost dry.
“Move to South Beach,” Kerry whispered.
Mike turned toward him. “What?”
“Move here. So I can be with you more.”
“Jesus.” Mike shook his head and turned away, but he pulled Kerry’s arm around him again. “It’s really good to see you, Kerry. But that doesn’t mean I’m moving across the country for you.”
“Don’t you like it here?”
“That’s not the point.”
Kerry sat up. “What’s the point then? You could get a job as a personal trainer. Or whatever. Keep making porn. I don’t care. Just move here.”
“You dumped me, remember? You left me in the worst possible way. I’m not moving here for you. And besides, it’s been years. I hardly even know you anymore.”
“Of course you know me. It’s just me. But I’m smarter now. I know what’s worth keeping.” Kerry smiled.
“I’ve got my life in LA.”
“What exactly do you have there?”
“You know. Movies. Clients.” Mike thought about it for a moment. “Dale.”
Kerry got up off the bed, walked out of the room, and came back with a warm washcloth. He wiped off Mike’s chest, then his own. He took the washcloth back to the bathroom and then came in again, sitting down on the bed and stroking Mike’s arm. “Burt told me something,” he said. “Years ago. You should know. It’s about Dale.”
Mike closed his eyes. “What about him?”
“Remember that first night when Sasha showed up with Burt at Exposé?”
“Yeah. How could I forget? Burt ogled you the entire time.”
“Well, Burt paid her to introduce us.”
Mike pulled his arm away and sat up. “What are you saying?”
“It wasn’t a coincidence that they showed up together that night. Burt was looking for someone to take to Paris. Sasha introduced him to me as a possible candidate. When it worked out, when I agreed to go to Paris with Burt, he paid her.
“You’re saying she pimped you?”
“Well, yeah. Except I didn’t know it. Not until years later, when Burt told me. She called it a finder’s fee.”
“Bullshit Kerry. Sasha knew how I felt about you.”
“I think that’s why she did it.”
“Sasha would never do that to me. Burt’s lying.”
“Why would Burt lie about that? What benefit is it to him?”
“He’s full of shit.”
“Mike, she wanted you for herself. She wanted to get rid of me.”
Mike looked through the open doorway and into the hall. He couldn’t believe that he’d let his guard down, that he’d allowed himself to imagine he felt connected to Kerry again – this man who’d already left him once, who’d always hated Sasha. He should have punched him when he’d had the chance. “You’re a fucking asshole, Kerry. You’re making this up because you want me to hate her. You’ve always been jealous. I told you Dale’s like my family. He’s always been closer to me than you.”
“Burt paid him a thousand bucks.”
“Fuck you. Fuck you for saying that.” Mike got up out of the bed and started putting on his underwear, then his shorts.
“What are you doing?” Kerry asked.
“I’m leaving. I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on you again.”
“You’re totally over-reacting. Don’t go like this.”
Mike pulled on his shirt and quickly sat down on the bed to put on his shoes. He said nothing.
Kerry looked upset. “Mike, you’re too loyal for your own good. Look, I’m sorry. I forgot that in your book Dale is this holy man who can do no wrong.”
He felt Kerry’s hand on his shoulder, and he pulled away. When he’d tied his shoes, he simply stood and left. Kerry was still calling out to him from the bedroom, even as he slammed the apartment door.
51. I’ll Take Care of You
DALE HAD BEEN boiling an orange for over two hours now, peel and all, and the kitchen had a bright, citrusy smell. He lifted the lid to the pot, saw that the water itself had turned a clear orange color, and he pushed a fork into the fruit. It was soft, as it should be. He drained the water and set the orange aside to cool.
Mike had called early that morning. Dale hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet for work, and at first he’d been furious to hear the phone ring at such an hour, but when he heard Mike’s voice coming from the answering machine down the hall, he jumped out of bed, ran to the front room, and answered immediately. Mike said he was calling from Fort Lauderdale, just before heading to the airport for his flight back to LA, and he was calling just to ask Dale if he could see him that evening. Dale’s spirit lifted with that small request. Suddenly the early intrusion was charming.
“Of course,” said Dale. “Of course you can come to dinner.” He didn’t care that it was actually Hump Night and he had to perform, or that he was supposed to work and wouldn’t normally be home until after five – not enough time to make dinner between coming home and going out. It didn’t matter. Mike had called. As soon as he hung up, he’d called Cougar to say he was home sick, and then he’d started boiling the orange.
Now he cut the orange in half and pulled out the little beige seeds, then dropped the entire unpeeled mess into the blender, along with six eggs. He was making a cake for Mike. He mixed the cocoa, sugar and ground almonds in a large silver bowl, folded in the orangey egg mixture and then poured it all into a springform pan. He put it into the oven right away. When it was done he would start the lasagna, making the tomato sauce himself, chopping the fresh vegetables. This entire meal would be from scratch. Only the best for his Mike.
Most of the day went by that way, cooking and cleaning, although he did run out once to buy some things he was missing, and to get a good bottle of wine. He wanted this night to be special.
By the time Mike rang the buzzer that evening, everything was ready. The citrus smell of the kitchen had faded, replaced by the fragrant oregano and basil and tomato of the lasagna now baking in the oven. The house was spotless, with the exception of his room, so he kept the door shut. The dining room table was set, the candles were lit, and Lotte Lenya was playing on the stereo – her gravelly German voice like incense hanging in the air. The chocolate orange cake was proudly displayed on a round cake platter on the kitchen counter, dark brown chocolate topped with powdered sugar and orange zest. It was lovely.
Mike walked in wearing a pair of ripped blue jeans and an old grey tank top. Small spots of skin showed along his thighs through the ripped denim. He was covered in muscle now, and tanned. He looked incredible, as he always did, no matter what he wore. He gave Dale a hug that was larger and longer than what Dale had expected. Lately Mike had been so distant, so to feel this hug now – it was heaven.
“Sit down with me and have a glass of wine,” Dale said. They sat in the front room and Dale asked all about the Bullfight tour, how it went. Mike said he’d liked Miami the best, but didn’t exactly say why.
Seeing Mike sitting on the old leather couch – those patches of thigh showing, the tank top r
evealing just a little bit of his chest, graced by a small silver chain around his neck – Dale felt incredibly at peace. This was where Mike belonged, here, with him, dinner in the oven and wine in their hands. This was how it would be again, all the time, soon.
“I’ve missed you while you were gone,” Dale said.
“I’ve missed you too,” Mike said, but it was quick and Mike looked away. Dale wondered if it was really true.
It was over the starter course – rocket salad with crumbled feta and roasted pine nuts – that Mike said, “I saw Kerry in Miami.”
Dale felt the words like a blow to his body. “Oh. Is that bad smell still around?” He picked at his salad. “I thought Kerry was still living off Burt’s largesse in Paris.”
“He’s back. He’s been in Miami a couple years. South Beach.”
“Did you fuck?”
Mike shrugged.
“Damn, you’re easy. You were probably down on your knees before he even said hello.”
“Dale, listen. He told me something. Is it true that Burt paid you to introduce him to Kerry?”
Dale set his fork down. He couldn’t believe Burt had told Kerry. Discretion was usually Burt’s forte. “Mike, do you honestly think I would do that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Look, it’s no secret I never liked that Cory, or whatever his name is, but you were ga-ga for him. I wouldn’t do that. More salad?”
“No, thank you. You’ve never liked any of my boyfriends. You absolutely hated Rafael.”
“Ricardo had the brain of a retarded albino newt. I can’t help it that you have astonishingly bad taste in men.” Dale stood up to clear the salad plates. Mike stood to help, but Dale said, “No, you sit. You’ve been touring and working hard, dancing that little ass off. It’s time somebody waited on you.”
Mike sat back down. “Thanks.”
“Now, we’ll have no more talk of that Kerry, or that Burt.” Dale walked into the kitchen.
Mike called out. “So you never got paid to introduce Burt to Kerry?”
Dale was already putting the salad plates in the sink. It dawned on him that that this was why Mike had come here tonight, to find out if this was true. He yelled back into the dining room. “Mike, please! Give me a little credit, will you? Are you ready for my out-of-this-world lasagna?” He stood by the oven and dished out the lasagna in enormous portions, accompanied by steamed broccoli drizzled in fennel-infused olive oil. He set the plate in front of Mike and poured him another glass of wine.