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Send to a Friend   Printer Friendly Format   Leave Feedback   Read Feedback   Hooksexup RSS Sal and I met in New York about a year ago. We have mutual friends. His best friend and my best friend met at a full-moon party in Thailand. He's working in New York and I'm living in San Francisco, so we didn't see each other again until a week ago, when we showed up at the same Burning Man party somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, Potrero. He was done with his residency and working at a hospital in the Bay Area. I was doing what I always do. Writing sometimes, working less, dancing most.     As with most doctors I know, Sal is happily coexisting with a fairly serious drug habit. For some reason, I find this fact more interesting than troubling. Maybe I have too much faith in medical judgment, or too little in my own.     In any case, I like Sal immediately. He's sweet and silly and sharp, even when fucked up. He has this laugh that's like a little boy's giggle. It gets me. We only kiss that night, in that way that ecstatics do, all love and no urgency. Sal kisses too fast. He tells me later it was

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probably the coke. Still, I'm not convinced. So when he asks me out for dinner, I hesitate. Plus, I already have plans to stop by a friend's house for drinks. But he persists, so I give him a two-hour slot and make him promise to get me to Aisha's by 9:30.
    Dinner is great. Tapas in the Mission. Sal smells good. Looks sharp. Laughs often. I drink my share of an excellent bottle of syrah.

I lose my mind when making out in cars. Maybe it's the gear shift up my ass.

As promised, he gets me to the Haight by 9:15. I thank him with a kiss, which he returns and I lengthen. I should mention that I lose my mind when it comes to making out in cars. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's because I wasn't allowed to date in high school. Maybe it's the gear shift up my ass. Ten minutes later, we're still in the car, and I ask if he's got a condom. No matter that until ten minutes ago, I had no desire to have sex, let alone with Sal. He doesn't.
    "Too bad," I say, with some amount of relief and regret.
    "I have some at home," he offers quickly.
    "Yeah, but that's not here, or now," I say even quicker.
    We kiss some more. He's super-hard. I can feel him. Bigger than I expected. Not that that's my thing. It's just that it's nice when it's obvious.
    "I'll have you back at Aisha's by eleven," he says, his hand going down my jeans.
    "I have my period," I say, wriggling away. It's true.
    "I don't care," he says, his hand unwavering in its path.
    "Oh . . . " I say, and right there, the deed is done. Signed. We're driving.
    Sal lives in a house in Noe Valley owned by a gay couple with six cats. Sal's own cat is the seventh. The eleventh tenant is an alternative nutritionist. I mention a slight cat allergy. He tells me about their rigorous cleaning schedule, the weekly maid, the lack of carpets, and besides, one of the cats is an outdoor cat. Right. That leaves six. We park on a steepish hill and climb the stairs to the house. The front door opens.
    "I need to talk to you, Sal," a man says urgently.
    "Sure," Sal says easily, "That's Jack," he says to me.
    "Alone," the man says abruptly.
    "Okay," Sal says, surprised, as he's pulled inside the house. I stand and watch as the door is shut firmly in front of me. I turn around. San Francisco winks and twinkles below me. Perfect, I think. I should have quit while I was in the car. But it's about to get better.
    Sal opens the door and exclaims, "One of Jack and Davin's cats is dead."
    "Oh, God," I say, feeling a bit petty for my thoughts.
    "Come in," he says, disappearing into the house.
    The house is gorgeous even in the dark. Sal is in the kitchen listening to Jack speak quickly and brokenly. I can hear snippets of their conversation.
    " . . . only five years old . . . maybe poison . . . just got home . . . lying on the kitchen floor . . . "
    I stand in the dining room, allowing my eyes to adjust. There's a woman standing close by, looking into the kitchen. She must be Summer, the alternative nutritionist.
    Summer looks at me. "You shouldn't be here."
    You don't know the half of it, I think to myself.

As the door swings open, all cat heads turn simultaneously toward us.

    She gets up. "You can wait in the living room," she says, and leads me into a plushly modern room in the front of the house.
    I pace the room, wondering if it will take longer to call a cab or catch a MUNI bus back to Aisha's.
    Sal appears. "They're taking Moses to the vet. His body is still warm. He might still be alive."
    "Do you need to go with?" I ask, "Because that's totally cool, if so."
    "No," he says with slightly more force than necessary, "Summer's going. And besides, someone has to be home for when Davin gets in."
    I stand there uncertainly. I'm not feeling very sexed-up anymore, but Sal is apparently unwilling to give up at this stage. But first he shows me the TV room where they've locked up the other cats, in case Moses ate some poison that's still in the house. Inside are many cats, draped over furniture, stretched out on the floor. As the door swings open, all cat heads turn simultaneously toward us. They remain staring as Sal closes the door. Surreal.
    Sal's bedroom is on the small side. It has a slanted roof that's kind of annoying, even if you're average height like me. But his kisses are slower this time, and I haven't gotten play in a while, so my resistance fades as quickly as he can take off my clothes. I peel off my underwear, trying to hide the white pantiliner stuck on the inside. Luckily, I'm on the tail end of my period, so I'm not about to bleed all over his sheets. But still, I say it. To remind him. "What if I bleed all over your sheets?"
    "It can all be washed," he says without hesitation, and heads south.
    I don't know any boys who'd do this. I'm touched. And a little paranoid. Okay, a lot paranoid. Enough to know that I'm not going to come easily. Plus a door just banged downstairs. I remember Moses and pull Sal reluctantly away from my clitoris.
    Sal isn't a whole lot taller than me, maybe half a foot. Perfect height. But that's probably because I dated someone his height for seven years. My smell isn't very strong on his skin, so I relax. Maybe my period's done after all. He's broad too, and very strong. His kisses are demanding. I like demanding. Makes me feel less so. I ask about the condoms again. I'm such a sucker. Sex doesn't even make me come, but it's intimate and communal. He leans over me and pulls a condom packet from his bedside table.
    "But I don't want to have sex yet," I say, hoping the foreplay isn't already over.
    He tosses it aside. I wonder whether he should have put it on anyway. Especially since there are some things I like to do, like rubbing a hard penis against my clit, that makes it difficult for said penis to remain noncoital. Sure enough, soon enough, Sal is inside me.
 

"You're fucking kidding, right?" I say, feeling wetness begin to descend inside me.

   "Sal, this is unprotected sex," I say.
    "I get tested every week," he says, breathlessly, "At the hospital. I'm clean."
     Right. And it does feel good. Not orgasmic or anything, but pretty damn good. Sal comes in like a minute. Great. And now there are multiple voices coming from downstairs.
    "Where's the bathroom?" I ask, hoping I haven't just gotten myself a UTI.
    "Downstairs, by the kitchen."
    "You're fucking kidding, right?" I say, feeling wetness beginning to descend inside me.
    "Jack and Davin want to put one on the second floor, but they haven't yet. Sorry."
    I pull on my clothes in a hurry, shove my underwear into my pocket, and follow Sal downstairs. He stops to have a chat with Summer.
    " . . . maybe an aneurysm . . . " she's saying, not sparing me a glance.
    What is her problem, I wonder as I hurry past and into the kitchen, Maybe she has a thing for Sal? The kitchen is warm and cosy, plants everywhere, but it's the bathroom that's a wonder. Beaded curtains, elevated toilet, sparkling tiles, clawfoot tub. So very fem. I love it. But there's a second door that's open, leading into what is apparently Jack and Davin's bedroom. Jack is lying on the bed.
    "Sorry," I say awkwardly, as I shut the door. And I am sorry, for so many reasons.
    I kick off my shoes, peel off my jeans and socks and climb into the tub. I crouch by the faucet and turn on the hot water. From the other room, I can hear Jack start to cry. Blood and come oozes out of me, rushes down the drain. I look up at the ceiling. There are painted stars up there, bright yellow.
    Fuck, the water's too hot. But I feel like it will do the trick. You know, the trick of washing away disease. Even though Salinger says he's clean. And I even believe him. Either way, I'm going to the city clinic tomorrow. They have drop-in services and anonymous online notification. Classic San Francisco: casual sex and elaborate technology.
    The beaded curtains clink against each other, and Jack keeps crying, and crying and crying.  n°

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©2006 Abeer Hoque and hooksexup.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Abeer Hoque is the winner of the 2005 Tanenbaum Award for nonfiction and the 2006-7 Fulbright Scholarship. Her stories, poems and photographs have been published in ZYZZYVA, 580 Split, The Pittsburgh Post Gazette, Switchback, Bullfight Review, The Daily Star, Prose Ax, and Drunken Boat. She was born in Nigeria and lives in Barcelona. Her work can be found at www.olivewitch.com.