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This is all perfectly understandable from an evolutionary standpoint. At the level of biology, after all, an erection will often appear at a totally useless moment. Like a capella wood. I wonder about this. Toward the end with my ex, when it was all going to hell, I sometimes had trouble in that department. And then at other times, like right in the middle of one of my shifts at the copying place where I worked, I’d go stiff as pig iron. Just the feeling of the copier humming against my crotch would be enough.
George lifted his hands and said: “Flip, please.”
So now I had some things to consider.
I wondered, first off, if George knew what was up. He was pressing down on the upper half of my butt, so there was some possibility that he felt contours, especially when he pushed down. But did this awareness bear any relation to his sudden order, command, what have you, that I turn over? Maybe this was the whole point of a gay massage parlor, for the guy to get you worked up like this, then have you flip and work the old manual release, or whatever, without ever actually saying anything, because if you say something then it becomes solicitation and the cops can bust you, but if it’s just this little understood arrangement — wink wink — then it might as well just be two friends who got a little carried away with the Jergens in the privacy of their own place.
But then maybe George knew nothing about what was going on, in which case he would, most definitely, when I flipped. And, in either case, how would he react? Was this a relatively normal thing, given the way he was touching my body? So that any embarrassment was entirely a product of my self-consciousness? Or would George take notice of my boner and feel some secret pride by withholding acknowledgement? Or was I right the first time around? That George would fix his sights right on the old pup tent, and say, in his deep Slavic voice, something like, Well, what are we having here? A leetle visitor to the house of George who perhaps needs some rub-rub to relix? Or worse.
So actually, there were a lot of things to consider.
George stepped off his footstool and moved behind me. I could hear him humming along to the music, waiting. “George,” I said. “I have to use the bathroom.” This sounded sort of muffled, because my face was still buried in this little hole thing. So I lifted my chin and said, a bit too loudly, “Do you have a restroom, please?”
George frowned. He was one for frowning.
“Sorry,” I said.
“In the hall,” he said. “First door.”
I inched my boxers back up, took hold of the towel George held out and flipped over in this spastic ju-jitsu fashion, making sure to keep the towel moving. George started humming again, a sort of sour tune.
“Sorry,” I said. “I have a very small bladder.”
George just pointed to the hallway.
I was relieved to find that the bathroom had a kind of office feel to it. The soap was in one of those industrial dispensers, the bright pink jism-y stuff. A can of air freshener was discreetly placed atop the toilet tank. My boner wasn’t going anywhere, though, so I figured my best bet was to divert myself. The options were pretty limited. I grabbed the air freshener and began reciting in this goofy TV announcer voice Pete and I used to do: Like nature in a can! Why walk outside, when outside now comes in the form of a toxic aerosol spray!
No one in Lauderdale understood my sense of humor. My girlfriend would just wrinkle up her face and pretend to laugh. About the only person who really got it, other than Pete, was this Roger Pruitt, a friend of mine in college. We used to sit around and smoke a great deal of Thai Stick and make these stupid-ass tapes. Mr. Fartowski grills his wife’s toy poodle. Shit like that.
I liked Rog quite a lot, actually. He was a lot less macho than the guys at the frat house, the guys I played soccer with. He knew how to scam a girl. But he was subtle about it, not so hell-bent on living in the world of men — a place where you can’t even touch another guy without being considered suspect and sports are this great big deal, the line my dad is always pushing. Rog was the kind of guy I wish I still knew, I guess.
But things ended strangely between us. One night, I stayed over at his place. I’d gotten pretty wasted and didn’t feel like walking all the way back to frat row. I might have been having some problems with my girlfriend at that time; I don’t remember exactly. Rog was cool. “Just crash here,” he said. “You can move the futon onto the floor.”
I remember Rog’s place because it was a fourth-story apartment overlooking a Dunkin’ Donuts. We used to go down, nice and toasted, order a dozen donuts and trip out on the scene, which was often sad and compelling, filled with guys we considered dangerous characters, drunken townies, mumbling outpatients, small-time herb dealers, cops with loose-hanging guns.
So Rog and I got into our separate beds, but we were both still buzzed, and somehow — I honestly don’t remember how — we got onto the topic of homosexuality. Rog knew I dated girls, and I knew he did. I’d had a crush on his last girlfriend. But then Roger said he figured I might be bisexual, sort of asked me whether I might be. I was a little put off, offended I guess, at the implication that maybe I put out those vibes. But Rog was a good guy and we always had a good time, doing these stupid imitations and so forth, so I tried to see things from his perspective, to realize that he wasn’t making any kind of value judgment, just asking.
I didn’t say anything for a little while. Rog had said this quietly. I remember that he leaned over the edge of his bed, that I could see the outline of his mouth in the dark, the way it was open just a bit, like he was waiting for an answer, or was maybe about to say something else. But before either of us could say anything, we heard this horrific banging, and I bolted up.
“What the fuck is that?”
Rog laughed. “Donuts, dude.” He got up and moved to the window. I followed and stood beside him in the dark. We were both wearing boxers and that was about it. The noise kept coming, clang after clang.
“It sounds like they’re attacking someone.”
“No, man. That’s just how the baker does it. He lays the dough out on these huge cookie sheets and slams this tube down over and over. That’s what makes the holes.”
“He sounds like a pretty frustrated dude.”
“Yeah,” Rog said.
Then suddenly the donut man was done and there was this silence, one of those very loud silences, and I could see that Roger had turned toward me and for a second, or, like, even half a second, I could see the rationale, that we really did understand and like one another and that really, when you sliced it right, moving into the physical realm wasn’t the biggest deal in the world, it was just the body doing its own kind of goofing around. Then something snapped back into place, a sort of protective shell or something, and I turned quickly and lay down on my futon. I could tell Rog was still standing there by the window and I felt shitty, blowing him off like that, though I didn’t know what else to do. It’s not like they sell a manual for these situations.
I heard Roger settle onto his bed. He was breathing like he might be pissed.
After a while I said, “That was an interesting question you asked before. The thing is, I was never really attracted to men, I guess.” Roger didn’t answer. I leaned over. He was on his side, curled away from me.
The whole dynamic reminded me of certain nights with my brother, actually. Not the weird stuff; just the way we used to talk late into the night when we were little kids. Only now Roger was asleep, or pretending to be asleep, and I remember lying there in the dark for a long time thinking to myself: Pete would never have done that to me, left me alone like that, because we had an agreement that if either one of us needed to talk more or felt a little scared — or even lonely — and needed to slip into bed with the other one, that was fine. That was no big deal. It was one of these things we never even talked about, never had to talk about.
So I got a little sad, is what I’m trying to say, a little choked up, right there in George’s bathroom, thinking about how close my brother and I had been, and how we never even spoke anymore, and how my dad got all bent out of shape when Pete came out, which was pretty obvious because he stopped speaking to anyone for about three months. I hadn’t said a whole lot to Pete myself. I didn’t know what to say. I was afraid I’d insult him somehow. But I wondered if there wasn’t something I should say, if my silence wasn’t its own kind of insult.
George didn’t seem to have missed me. He told me to lie on my back and did a blitzkrieg on my chest and thighs, giving the whole groin area a wide berth, which made me worry for a second that George had felt my hard-on earlier. Then all at once he said: “Okay. Lie still and breathe ten times. Come out when you are ready.” I could hear him pad off, then I heard a familiar voice in the distance, chatting with George. There was a third voice too, which I couldn’t quite make out.
I was a little disappointed that the massage was over. I’d just gotten sort of used to the idea, really. I dressed slowly and made my way to the front of the apartment. Paul was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, speaking to George and a plump woman in sweatpants that matched his. In the background, a little boy was puttering around, curious but embarrassed.
“Here he is,” Paul said. “How’d it go, amigo?”
“Fine,” I said. I felt a little overwhelmed. “Good.”
“Ready to go?”
“Sure, let me just pay.”
“It’s taken care of,” Paul said.
“He is one man with worries,” George said, and he laughed, pantomiming how he’d worked me over. “But he has, at least, a good friend.” His wife smiled, showing us her lovely crooked teeth.
As we headed downstairs, I wondered about that last comment, what George meant exactly about my having “a good friend.” Right at that moment, I wanted to tell Paul about what had happened, the strangeness of it all, but I didn’t know if I could explain it without somehow giving the wrong impression.
“I thought we were trying to get you loosened up,” Paul said. He gave me a gentle punch in the shoulder.
“Yeah,” I said. “I am loose. I feel better.” And for that little while there, stepping into the sudden brightness of the afternoon with Paul, I did feel better. I felt right as rain, if that makes any sense. Like a man starting back toward some important loss. Sore in the bones, a little unsteady, but on his way. n°
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