The phone rang at 3:56 a.m. I was sitting on the couch staring at my reflection in the turned off television screen. In front of me was the ceramic cocaine tile, but there was no coke to be had. I don’t know how much I had done in the night that was now over – all of it; it was all gone. I had switched to Southern Comfort and warm milk when I got home. My stomach hurt from skipping dinner.
It was the first day of the New Year, the first day of the new decade. The only person I could imagine calling me at this hour was Anita. We didn’t spend holidays together, but constantly talked on the phone. I pictured her twitching in bed, as coked up as I was, her fiancé Roscoe passed out beside her; he was more of a pothead than a coke head like the two of us.
me: Happy fuckin’ New Year, bitch.
A voice I didn’t recognize responded.
he: Hello?
me: Hello. Who’s this?
he: August.
me: Who?
he: August Collins. I’m sorry, is it too late to call?
I had given him my number a couple of hours earlier. Why had I given him my number? It had something to do with my coke-induced New Year’s Resolution: Be more like Charles Hatch, more compassionate…
me: No. It’s all right. I thought you were somebody else.
he: I’m sorry.
me: You don’t have to apologize for that.
he: –I’m sorry.
me: August…
He chuckled nervously.
Is everything okay?
he: No—I don’t know—I don’t think so. Spider threw all my clothes out on the sidewalk.
Spider was August’s boyfriend. I didn’t know anything about August except for that, and I learned an awful lot about that during our short walk from the Adonis to Port Authority, where August caught a subway down to his apartment near Penn Station.
Suffice it to say that drugs were involved – the bad kinds. August arrived home late from work on New Year’s Eve, upsetting their plans. Spider was acting erratic, tripping, freaking, looking for his stash of heroin. August didn’t know until that moment that Spider was a junkie. When Spider threatened to kill August, August left, went to Times Square to watch the Ball drop, and then into the Adonis – where I was dropping balls left and right – looking for a place to dry off, warm up and rest for a while.
There were few rules at the Adonis; most had come about since I started going there, band-aids on the aids epidemic. Some theatres closed down, others instated Safer Sex Guidelines; bowls of condoms were planted in all the sex theatres by Gay Men’s Health Crisis. They went mostly untouched. Security was hired to safeguard against unsafe sex. The security guards were Middle Eastern men, relatives of the owners, in black t-shirts with security in glowing white letters on front and back. As far as anyone knew, they were all straight men and were therefore a bit reluctant to poke too deep into the dark corners.
Mostly, they kept men from sleeping in the theatre seats. They were overly aggressive in their style of waking sleepers, often mistook people for sleeping when they weren’t. Case in point: I was cruising a man in the center section from the side section, my head down so as not to commit until I got a look at the cock that was coming out of his pants. Suddenly, a Pakistani man was shoving me by the shoulders from behind with both hands. We had a heated exchange of words, but I knew that the security guards had all the power in the building – I had seen men physically tossed out onto Eighth Avenue for talking back – so I walked away and avoided sitting.
New Year’s Eve was always disappointing anyway. I had been going to the Adonis for five years, had spent most New Year’s Eves there. There were always too many out-of-towners, bridge-and-tunnel guys, some of whom were likely straight and looking for fags to bash, but even the homos knew little about the etiquette of cruising for anonymous sex. They talked too much, stood in the back of the room smoking their menthol cigarettes, loudly judging passersby.
I only had a couple of encounters all night long, neither of them worth recounting (in one case I had lowered my standards and allowed a pudgy to suck me, but lost my erection looking down at his flaky baldness). The fact that I continued cruising instead of going elsewhere – perhaps home – was the effects of too much cocaine and a deep-seated sexual addiction. I kept promising myself, “One more round, and if there’s nothing, I’ll leave.” But I broke my promise again and again.
In the balcony, something like rage overcame me when I happened upon a couple of security guards roughing up a skinny blond kid who had obviously been asleep. When I arrived they were verbally assaulting him; he was covering his head like they were punching him, and I wouldn’t put it past them to do such a thing, particularly in the relative privacy of the balcony and with two of them together egging each other on.
I stepped into the huddle, accessing the fury from my earlier encounter. The guards turned on me, told me I was banned for the night. I said to the frail blond stranger, “Come on!” He followed me out and stayed with me as we walked down the sidewalk.
he: What was that?
me: Those guys are assholes. The bigger one has been fucking with me all night. I was sick of his shit.
he: Well, thanks.
me: Don’t mention it.
he: I didn’t know you couldn’t sleep in there.
me: Yeah, it’s one of the ironies of New York.
he: What do you mean?
me: If you’re hanging out in an illegal sex club you gotta be having sex.
he: That was an illegal sex club?
me: They weren’t showing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, in case you didn’t notice!
he chuckled: Yeah, I noticed.
me: You’re from out of town…
he: Houston.
me: Texas! A cowboy.
he: Right….
me: I thought I detected a little accent. You’re a long way from home.
he: Yeah, well, I might be back there soon enough.
me: You aren’t too sure about that?
he: I’ve had a bad couple of days. A bad couple of months, actually.
me: You live here?
he: Since October.
me: In that outfit? I thought you were just here for New Year’s Eve.
he: These are my work clothes.
me: You’re a waiter.
he: Bartender.
me: Where?
he: Giggle’s.
me: I’ve never heard of it.
he: It’s a tourist trap.
me: You want to come over to my place?
he: What?!
me: Let me guess, you have a boyfriend.
he: I think so.
me: You’re not too sure about that either?
he: I’m not too sure about anything right now.
He stopped walking. It took me a few steps to notice. I turned around.
me: Is everything okay?
I had to ask.
For some reason August’s sad story inspired me to offer him my phone number. On the outside, I was being resolutely compassionate, but on the inside, I was thinking sex. I hadn’t got off on New Year’s Eve, and was feeling a bit superstition about what that might mean for my 1990.
August pulled a pen out of his fringed leather jacked and wrote my number on his shivering hand. I imagined it would rub off before he got home, or perhaps his crazed lover would see it, become enraged and chop him up into little pieces. The cops would be calling me; that kind of shit happened all the time in New York City.
But no, he called. I reluctantly gave him my address, took a courtesy shower and sloshed the last dribbles of Southern Comfort into my watery milk cocktail. He hit the buzzer downstairs and I let him in. As I listened to him tromp heavily up the six flights of stairs I kept telling myself it wasn’t too late to lock the door, turn off the lights and hide.
I opened the door before he knocked. He was holding an armload of laundry, wet from the street and staining his tuxedo shirt gray.
me: What’s this?
he: My clothes. Or what’s left of them. Hobos were going through them.
I sighed, a bit too loudly.
me: Come on in.
he: I’m really sorry about this, Randy. I don’t know anybody else.
me: Leave them here in the foyer. I’ll show you where the laundromat is in the morning.
I couldn’t believe my ears.
he: I don’t know what’s happening to me, Randy.
me: Me neither.
Pause.
Come in and have a seat. Would you like a drink? I’m out of booze but there’s Orangina.
he: Water would be good.
me: I only have tap water.
he: That’s fine.
me: I don’t have any bottled water.
he: Tap water is fine.
I pointed him to the couch and went into the kitchen. When I got back to the living room, his jacket was on the couch and he was standing in the middle of the room tenting his shirt and pants in pinched fingers, shaking them goofily, apparently trying to dry them.
me: I would offer you a change of clothes, but…
he: Oh, right. Don’t worry about it. These will dry eventually.
me: Do you want some coffee or something?
he: No, thanks; that would keep me awake.
(That’s what I was thinking.)
Do you mind if I crash here?
me: It looks you already did.
he: Pardon?
I pointed at the pile of clothes in the foyer.
me: It looks like you crash landed.
he: Oh. I’m sorry about that.
me: Don’t start with the sorrys again. I’m just being a bitch. You’ll see.
he: Oh, no, I’m very grateful.
me: Do you wanna get out of those wet clothes?
he: –A cat!
Tunacat had entered the room and was making his way to the visitor.
me: You’re not allergic, are you?
he: I don’t think so. I’ve never had a cat. What’s his name?
me: Tuna.
he laughed: Your cat’s name is Tuna?!
me: Well, Tunacat, but Tuna for short.
he: That’s funny.
me: It’s a long story.
Tuna rubbed against August’s leg; he reached down and petted him.
he: Is he a he?
me: You won’t see a girl pussy in my bed!
he: What?
I made a face.
Oh!
He laughed; it turned into a big yawn.
me: You can sleep in my bed if you want.
he: The couch is fine.
me: It’s not long enough for you.
he kicked off his shoes and spread out on the couch: I don’t mind.
me: And I don’t have any extra sheets.
he: This is fine, really.
me: My bed’s a queen; it’s very comfy.
he: I don’t want to put you out.
me: You won’t.
he: Are you sure?
me: Do you want me to beg?
he laughed nervously: Beg? No.
me: –Oh, I forgot about this.
I handed him his glass of water then pointed him to the bedroom.
Go ahead and get in bed; I forgot something.
I went back to the kitchen to get my watery cocktail. When I got to the bedroom he was down to his tuxedo pants. His chest was flat and hairless, except for a few sprigs around his nipples. I downed my drink wishing there was more.
He timidly slid his polyester pants down his long beanpole legs. He was wearing boxer shorts so there was no way to assess what he had down there. I undressed to my boxer briefs and got in bed, leaving my glass on the bedside table. He followed suit on his side and climbed in next to me, smiling uncomfortably.
I was trying to work up a sexual interest in this stranger in my bed – the first – but it wasn’t happening.
He rolled over and embraced me. It wasn’t romantic.
he: Thank you, Randy.
me: Don’t mention it.
I didn’t exactly hug him back. He retreated to the unused side of the bed.
he whispered: I know this might be kinda weird for you. It’s definitely weird for me. But I really, really appreciate your kindness.
me: You’re welcome, August.
It sounded odd coming out of my mouth.
he: Or maybe you do this all the time.
me: Nope. Definitely not. This is a first.
he looked me square in the eyes: Is everything okay?
me: So far, so good.
I stared at the ceiling a moment, snapped off the lamp then stared at the phantom ceiling floating above me. Tuna hopped on the bed and made his way like a little motorboat to the visitor.
he giggled: Tunacat…
I didn’t say anything. August shifted in the bed petting the cat. Suddenly, he said, “Sorry,” and became very still. I didn’t respond. He wasn’t keeping me awake. I was just awake. I looked at the bedside table – 5:28.
The cat kneaded the covers a while then found his place at the foot of the bed between the visitor and me. August’s breathing grew steady and louder. I whispered his name. He didn’t answer, so I made my move, a slow hand across the space between us until I bumped against his leg. He didn’t respond to my touch so I continued my path, over his leg until I felt fabric, his boxers. I dug at the front until the fly parted and let me in. I felt pubic hairs but no genitals. I went deeper, toward his crotch and found the shaft hanging between his legs. My heart raced; he had a huge dick!
I pulled my right hand out, turned on my side, slid my left hand over and up the leg of his boxers. The head of his penis touched the sheet between his legs. I squeezed it lightly and it pulsed back. I did it again and it started to swell and rise.
I dove under the covers and dragged August’s boxers off of him; he was no help at all, completely passed out. I took them all the way down and off so I could spread him open a little. Tunacat jumped off the bed.
August’s penis was long and thick like a black man’s, but he didn’t smell musky like a black man; August’s crotch had the faint odor of urine. I didn’t care; I had smelled worse. It swelled in my mouth and slid down my throat, lubricated by my phlegm.
As I sucked, a weight landed on my head. I thought it was the cat. Then August’s hips rose toward me; he was awake, fucking my face. Before long he croaked out in a sleepy voice, “I’m coming.” I could feel him trying to pull himself out of my mouth but I latched on with lips and tongue and drank down his orgasm.
When he started going limp, I crawled back to my pillow, smiling with the scratchy bitterness of semen on the back of my tongue, I could see in the blue haze of the dawn light that he was reciprocating. I giggled.
me: Thanks.
he: That was unexpected.
me: I couldn’t help myself. It’ll help me sleep. Sorry.
he: No, don’t apologize! It was great. Oh, my gosh! –Just unexpected.
A week passed and August Collins was still in my apartment. A couple of days after he arrived he had gone back to Spider’s to get the rest of his belongings; he brought them to my place in beer boxes. Left behind were two four-by-four-foot oil paintings. August’s mother was a well-known artist in Houston, and even though they weren’t on speaking terms, he loved the paintings because they were of his younger sister June.
I woke up to Tunacat’s hungry cries growing louder and louder then suddenly stopping at the sound of his saucer being placed on the kitchen floor. August was feeding him. I didn’t have any good reason to be annoyed by that, but I was.
I pulled on my pants and shirt, peed, made my way out of the bedroom.
he: Hey! Good morning!
He tried to kiss me.
me: I haven’t brushed.
he: I don’t care!
me: I do.
I pulled away.
I told you I’m not a morning person.
he: I know, I know. Would you like a cappuccino?
me: Okay. Please.
he: Go sit in the living room, I’ll be right out.
He had found the cappuccino machine I bought and used once – or tried to – and put away in a cabinet. Spider had one like it so he knew how it worked.
Tunacat ran out of the kitchen and found me lying on the couch when the cappuccino machine started hissing. After a while, August arrived with a tray carrying two perfect cappuccinos and a plate of biscotti he had brought from work the night before. He set the tray on the coffee table. I started to sit up; August waved me down and sat on the floor. He was in his boxers and a long sleeve shirt.
me: Aren’t you cold?
he: No. It’s comfortable in here. And I’m warm-natured.
I carefully carried a cappuccino to my mouth and sipped the foam. He leaned up to get his cappuccino and when he leaned back, his dick fell out of his boxers to the rug. He nonchalantly tucked himself in.
me: Because of that!
he: Pardon?
me: Your schlong. That’s why you’re warm-natured!
he snickered: I don’t know about that…!
me: It keeps me warm at night.
he: Well, I’m glad I can be of some service to you!
me: Honey, I service you, not the other way around.
he: I’m talking about repaying you for your kindness.
me: Repaying me?
he: Since you won’t let me help out with rent.
me: August.
he: I know, I know, “It would be too much like I live here.”
me: Right.
he: Right. I get it.
Pause.
I’ll start looking for my own apartment soon. If I don’t go back to Texas.
me: That’s not what I meant.
he: I know. But I gotta figure it out soon.
We sipped our cappuccinos and ignored the biscotti.
me: But why Texas?
he: Because that’s where I’m from.
me: So. I’ll never go back to Florida, not in a million years.
he: Yeah, well, you don’t have to. You have a life here.
me: I didn’t always. I had help. And now I’m trying to help you out.
he: You’ve been very helpful, Randy. I really appreciate all of your help. But I don’t know if I can stay here. I don’t know if I can afford it.
me: Let me talk to my friend Charles. Maybe he can find you a cheap place to rent nearby.
he: I don’t know if I want to live alone.
me: You can get a roommate. Or a cat.
he: Yeah, maybe.
Pause.
Maybe what I meant to say was I don’t know if I want to be alone.
me: What do you mean?
he: …Can I tell you something, Randy?
I shrugged.
Something important… Something big?
me, suspiciously: I don’t know…
I sat up; he joined me on the couch.
he: I’ve been thinking about this for a while.
me: You have, have you?
he: Yes.
I picked up a biscotti.
me: Okay…
I opened my mouth and bit it.
he: I think I’m falling for you.
I inhaled – a short, sharp gasp – the biscotti hit the back of my throat and lodged there. My cappuccino sloshed all over us. August yelped. I jumped up coughing and ran to the kitchen, grabbed an Orangina out of the fridge, opened it without shaking it, slugged it down. August ran in after me, started pounding me on the back. I turned around and put my back against the wall so he would stop. He stood in front of me anxiously as I coughed and breathed through my nose and held a finger up as a signal that I would be okay…eventually.
me: Whew!
he: I’m sorry.
me: For what?
he: Did I make you do that?
me: Because you said you were falling for me?
he: Yeah.
Pause.
me: Yeah, I guess you did. I don’t know.
he: I’m sorry.
me: Stop apologizing!
he: I’m sorry. –I mean, okay!
I handed him a roll of paper towels.
me: Make yourself useful.
He took the towels to the living room. I went to the bedroom and took off my pants and underwear.
he called out: Do you want me to make you another cappuccino?
me: No.
I pulled on my pajama bottoms and went back. He passed me on the way to the kitchen with the towel roll and a wet brown wad.
he: Are you sure?
me: Yes. Come back in here.
He joined me on the couch again.
What do you mean when you say you’re falling for me?
he considered his words: I love you.
me: Isn’t this kind of sudden?
he: I don’t think so. I’m in love with you, Randy.
me: We’ve only known each other a week, August. A week tomorrow.
he: It feels longer.
me: Yes, that’s true.
he: Are you serious?!
me: I didn’t mean it in a good way.
he: Oh.
I chuckled.
me: I didn’t mean it in a bad way, either.
He went to the bedroom and came back naked, stepping into his blue jeans.
Where are you going?
he: Nowhere. I’m just getting dressed.
He tucked himself in.
me: Are you tired of me staring at your dick?
he: No. –Yes. I mean, no. That’s not why I’m getting dressed.
He sat down.
me: Well, I have to admit that I’m in love with your dick.
he: Don’t say that, Randy.
me: Why not? It’s the truth.
he: I love you and you love my dick?
me: Well…?
he crossed his arms: You’re making fun of me.
me: No, I’m not. It just seems too soon. To me.
he: Well, you’re wrong.
me: What about Spider?
he: What about him?
me: Weren’t you in love with him a week ago?
he: That’s different.
me: How so?
he: It just is. He’s an asshole.
me: So am I.
he: No you’re not. Not like him. You’re just being difficult.
me: Like an asshole!
There was a long silence between us. I looked out the window.
me: It’s snowing!
We both jumped up like kids and stood at the window for a while without speaking. Finally, I did.
What does this mean to you, August?
he: What does what mean?
me: This big announcement. Why are you telling me this?
he: Because I want more.
me: More snow?
he: More us.
me: More us?
he: More relationship. More commitment.
Long pause. I was thinking about what this could mean for me. We hadn’t had anal sex yet because August had some antiquated idea that that was reserved for people in committed relationships.
me: Are we talking about sex, August?
he: Huh?
me: Are you talking about more of a sexual relationship?
he: I guess so. That, too.
me: Well then, you can count me in!
he: It has to be a commitment, Randy.
me: Okay.
he: It has to be monogamous.
I was getting a boner. I rubbed his dick through his jeans. He smiled.
We have to be monogamous.
Pause.
Okay?
me: I’ll tell you in the morning.
I resisted letting August incorporate his things into mine. I let him put his clothes in my closet and dresser drawers so we could hide his mismatched thrift store suitcases under the bed, but the rest of his stuff – his knickknacks and whatnots – stayed packed in beer boxes stacked in a corner under a piece of fabric he brought with him from Houston. Spider disappeared, and the paintings with him; August never saw them again.
On June 1st, on his sister’s seventeenth birthday, August called her at their mother’s house. It sounded like a cheerful call, but when he got off the phone he asked for a hug and broke down crying in my arms. I tried to comfort him, and in the process noticed that it was time for him to leave for work. I thought he would appreciate me pointing that out. He left for work angry with me. He said he wasn’t angry, that he was only sad about June, but we had been “boyfriends” for three months, I knew how he was. Or believed I did.
Actually, I didn’t really know him at all. I think he would have been willing to open up to me, I think he wanted that more than anything, but for him a relationship like ours had to be 50/50, give and take. He was neurotic about equity. It was one of his less admirable qualities.
My friends liked him. Charles liked him; Anita and Roscoe liked him enough to want to double date with us. It was definitely a benefit of my relationship with August, getting Anita back in my life. I wanted to keep that alive so I played along. But when he left for work after calling his sister, I suddenly felt crowded. My clothes were all squished into the closet; there was no breathing room in my dresser drawers. And there was that ugly stack of beer boxes.
After contemplating it a while, I took August’s jar of matchbooks off of the fabric covering the boxes, as well as his ashtray shaped like a shiny pink pair of lungs. I untucked the fabric from the wall and let it flutter to the floor. I carried the top box to the closet, piled our shoes into the middle and stuck the box in the corner.
Curiosity set in. I opened the top flaps and peeked at the contents: junk. A flower made from twisted wire; Mardi Gras beads; pictures of a brunette girl, from very young to pre-teen, some with a familiar looking blond boy; a Texas license plate.
I carried another box to the closet, opened it. More of the same: half-used candles; playbills from Broadway shows and programs from Off-off Broadway theatres.
The third box of four was heavier than the first two. Inside were hardback books, paperbacks and spiral notebooks, lots of them, their smashed and mangled wires glistening in the closet light. I leaned against a wall and slid a notebook out. The cover was lime green and had august and the Roman numeral 3 printed under it in neat block letters. I took out another: tangerine, august 7; and another: apple red, august 4.
This was wrong. I knew it was, but I couldn’t help myself. I realized what my college roommate Zeke must have felt like when he discovered my private journals on the shelf over my desk.
I opened to the middle of number 4. Both pages were packed with handwritten block letters. Three underlined words near the middle of the page caught my eye: on the stage…
I flipped to another page, which alternated between block letters and handsome cursive. I read this:
The swimming pool goes up around me on three sides, the audience in front…
The notebooks, nine in all, were filled with similar themes about the stage; shows August had seen, ideas he had for shows of his own. He was a huge fan of Laurie Anderson, had her autograph on a program from a show in Houston the summer before.
The later notebooks featured more and more performance ideas. One I remember vividly was called “dummy.” In it, August proposed to drink lemonade while the song “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” played, during which he would pee himself in a “snappy” tan suit.
I became so enthralled with the reading that I didn’t hear the key turn in the door. Tunacat jumped off the bed and ran to greet August, and I knew in that very frantic moment that he had arrived and I was caught.
I gathered up the notebooks and shoved them as quickly as possible into the box, but they wouldn’t go. August appeared at the closet door.
he: Hey.
me: Hey! –You’re home early.
he: Not really. It’s three.
me: Really?!
he: What are you doing in the closet?
I laughed but he didn’t.
me: Are you still mad?
he: I’m not mad, Randy. And I’m better now.
I stood and gave him a proper kiss.
me: Head rush! Whoo…!
he: Are you all right?
me: I stood up too fast.
I sat on the bed. August turned around and saw the upset stack of beer boxes.
he: What did you do?
me: Oh. I was gonna move some of your stuff into the apartment, so we can get rid of these boxes.
he: Really?
me: Yeah. It’s time to incorporate, August!
he sat next to me: That’s amazing… Wow!
My heart was racing. I realized two things: My lie was working, and I was totally screwing myself.
me: I didn’t get very far in the incorporating process, though, because I dropped the box with your books in it, and they spilled everywhere, and as I was picking them up, I accidentally saw something that caught my eye and I couldn’t help myself. It was something called “Dummy.”
he: “Dummy?”
me: It made me laugh out loud. But I know it was rude of me to look at your private stuff. I’m sorry; I won’t do it again, I swear.
I couldn’t look at him. I kept my eyes closed tight.
he: Really?
I nodded.
It made you laugh?
I opened my eyes and faced him.
me: Yeah.
he: That’s cool.
me: You’re not mad at me for reading your journal?
he: No! I’m honored. I would love for you to read my stuff, Randy. I’ve been wanting to say something for a while, but I didn’t know if you would want to. It’s just a bunch of craziness.
me: No it’s not. –I mean, what I read wasn’t. –I mean, it’s crazy, but it’s good crazy! Are you an actor?
he: No. I was supposed to be a painter. I’m nothing.
me: I think you should consider it.
I read Charles and Anita some of August’s scripts while he was at work and they both thought they were weird, but great. The three of us came up with a plan to turn August into a performance artist. Anita knew some people who put on a performance festival in a big warehouse in SoHo in the late summer that she thought she might be able to get him into; Charles knew a friend of a friend of Andy Warhol who was a performance artist turned director named Lorax. He had been born a girl named Carol, had had her breasts removed but still didn’t have a dick. Charles believed that August and Lorax would be perfect together, what with their queer identities and family issues.
August started spending a lot of time with Lorax in his apartment in Sunnyside Queens as they worked on August’s one-man show, which was scheduled to debut at Anita’s friends’ theatre with the title “august chagrin,” August’s new stage name. Lorax was big on redefining oneself.
I was happy to have my apartment to myself, and wish I hadn’t stupidly invited August to put his knickknacks and whatnots all over the place. I felt like I lived in a junkshop and considered having a sale.
Despite myself, I also missed the sex. I had trained my boyfriend to be a pretty good lover, and in exchange he had somehow trained me to not crave anonymous sex. But now I was alone.
As the performance date drew closer, August started sleeping on Lorax’s couch during the week and only coming home Thursdays through Saturdays for work.
One evening at a Sink party at Charles’ loft, I cornered Anita and talked at length about how much I missed August. She thought it was cute that I was so lonesome, and was glad I had a boyfriend because she was worried about boys who hung out in places like the Adonis. “aids is a real threat, Gotta, even if you are as safe as you can be.” Then she kissed me on the cheek and stumbled home to her waiting Jamaican cock.
Spike and Charles were deeply engrossed in a business conversation and I was too wired to join in, so I said my goodbyes and headed home. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere because I found myself standing under the big blue Adonis marquee.
Joe Gage’s “Working Man Trilogy” was playing. Three movies for the price of one: Kansas City Trucking Co., El Paso Wrecking Co., and L.A. Tool & Die. As far as I could recall, I hadn’t seen any of these movies. The only other option I had was going home to feed a cat that seemed to miss my boyfriend even more than I did. Fuck him! Fuck both of them!
Eartha wasn’t working the ticket booth anymore; she hadn’t been around for a couple of years, and the management couldn’t seem to keep anybody there for more than a couple of weeks at a time. The wicker chairs in the lobby had long since disintegrated, been removed, and were not replaced, so the lobby was a big empty room with thin, faded carpet and dusty black statues.
The woman in the booth had red hair like mine, but it probably wasn’t her natural color; otherwise, she wouldn’t have complimented me so much on my hair. She was nice enough, with a big dirty smile on her pimply face. I managed to smile back though I felt strong pangs of guilt about what I was doing behind August’s back, about what I was doing to “us.”
The smell of cigarettes, bleach and pine cleaner hit me as I entered the auditorium. It gave me an erection; my ass crack was sweating in anticipation. It was like stumbling upon a forgotten childhood playground that was completely intact. Here was the familiarity and excitement I’d given up for the love of a pale, skinny white guy with a porn-sized cock but none of the know-how.
There was magic and mystery at the Adonis that warm summer night. A light-skinned black man mumbled something as he walked past and headed down the aisle. He looked back a couple of times, then tipped his chin my way as he found a row, stepped in and sat. I picked up my jaw and started after him. He reminded me of Rich White of my youth, the spitting image of a grown up Rich (had he grown up), tall and sinewy and wanting me to join him.
I sat two seats away from him; he immediately got up, moved next to me and patted my knee. It was too dark to see if he had a mole on his nose like Rich did, but close up in the blue reflection of the movie, he looked even more like my childhood flame.
In Rich White style, he unzipped himself, pulled out his thick, uncut tool and waggled it to get the blood flowing. I knelt before him and slurped him down while unbuttoning his pants. He lifted his ass as I tugged and slid them to his ankles. His crotch smelled like he hadn’t showered in days, like he’d been running around some trailerpark in hot weather, working up a good stink. I sucked his dick, licked his balls, kissed my way up to his belly button – an outie like Rich’s, with a trail of thick, curly hairs below it and above it. I followed the trail up to his chest, dipping back occasionally to lick the crystal clear pre-cum that oozed out of him.
I sucked on his nipples, chewed a little bit; he liked that. I unsnapped my jeans as I worshipped his body, slid my jeans to the floor, stepped out of them, out of my sneakers, climbed up on the arms of the theatre seat Rich was sitting in, holding his hard cock away from his body. Without a second thought, I lowered slowly onto his perfect little statue.
August crossed my mind. We had only started fucking without condoms two months earlier after negative hiv tests and a sworn promise of monogamy. Before August, when the bowls of condoms arrived at the Adonis, I had done my best to practice safe sex. But this was different; this was pre-August; pre-aids. Rich and I went way back. I would’ve given up everything to have this again.
We fucked for at least an hour; one movie ended and another started; I came three times. I had never cum more than once during any sexual encounter with one partner (including August), and had never cum more than twice in one night. We attracted a crowd, and not just the pudgies; all kinds of men encircled us and distracted the guards and circle jerked to our 3-d porn show. I thought Black Lake Bottom would be a good title for it.
When Rich was finally ready to erupt, his breathing deepened and the familiar little grunts started. I hopped off at the last moment possible and let his nuts explode on my face. Others in the circle climaxed at the same time; some were close enough to lean in and cum on me, hitting me on the back, the arms, in my hair. There was applause. Rich pulled me down to his face and kissed me deeply, our tongues swirled together. I thought I might pass out.
While I was in the men’s room cleaning up, Rich disappeared. I wandered up and down the aisles a couple of times, up to the balcony and back, but he was gone. Like always. I told myself it was better that way. I walked home and slept like a baby, and even missed August a little more than usual.
The following Thursday night, when August got home from work, I attacked him with a passion that had gone out of our relationship. He didn’t question it, just joined in and enjoyed himself and me. We fucked again Friday morning before I went to work, and Saturday morning when we woke up. Apparently something had been rekindled by my infidelity. I got the feeling I might actually be falling for August.
But that was the last time we had sex. August called me the following Thursday morning at work as he often did. He was pleasant but not his usual chipper self. When I asked him point blank if something was wrong, he told me he had crabs. I tried to play jealous, asked him if he and Lorax had been getting intimate, or if maybe Lorax was hanging out in some trashy transsexual bar. But we both knew that they were from me. It dawned on me while we talked that I had been scratching my crotch a lot in the previous twenty-four hours.
I called August back from a pay phone on the street, apologized and lied that I had gone to a xxx video store and masturbated alone because I missed him so much. I told him I would get the medication to take care of the problem, and that I would take the next day off from work so we could deal with it together.
I left the office at five, stopped at Duane Reade for Rid, went home and washed the sheets and towels and all the laundry. August got home from a very uncomfortable night of work and we shaved our crotches and applied the stinky medication as we talked. We talked for too long; August asked too many questions; I got my facts mixed up and the lie became obvious. He was more upset than anything that I had lied to him. He gave me one more chance to clear the air, to tell the truth. I had been lying so long, I wasn’t sure what the truth was. I told him a much less romantic and much less detailed version of what had happened at the Adonis. August wanted to believe me.
he: Did he wear a condom?
me: We didn’t fuck. It was more just kind of mutual masturbation, a big circle jerk.
There was a long pause. August didn’t ask any more questions; he smoked a joint and went to bed.
The next morning, he told me to go to work, that he needed time by himself.
When I got home that night, August was gone. He had packed up all of his stuff and left. All that remained of him was a note in his beautiful handwriting on the coffee table. In it, August apologized for not being a better lover; he took half of the responsibility for whatever had happened; he said he needed time to figure out what to do. In the meantime, he was going to stay at Lorax’s. He left me the number (in case I didn’t have it) and signed the note, “With love always, august—”
I wadded up the note and tossed it at Tunacat on the far side of the room; he was a sucker for wads of paper.
Not this time. He jumped out of the way and came to me on the couch with worried meows. I stroked him awhile and tried to figure out how I felt: sad? guilty?
Relieved. My apartment was my own again. My life was my own. I poured myself a Southern Comfort on the rocks, called Charles to arrange for cocaine, and stopped at his loft on my way out on the town, not giving any clues as to what was going on in my life. I kissed him on the cheek and headed to the glittering lights of the Adonis.