Sarx

From 1995: It’s a long post or else a short story told in the second person. That was very popular back in the 80s and 90s. The subject matter is a little adult. But I think it’s time it saw the light of day.

© 1995
It begins with a phone number. You’re standing in a bar. It could be a sports bar or a dance bar or a leather bar - the type doesn’t matter. In fact it needn’t be a bar. You’re on a bus, say, or maybe at a private party. So there you stand. You look across the way and there is a Nice Guy. Cute, chatting with friends, he sees you and smiles. You smile back.

Later, broken off from his pack and entourage, he comes up to you, smiling, with a wary look in his eyes - like maybe he’s known you for years, or else he wants to meet you, just maybe. The Chat is meaningless small talk. What do you do? Where are you from? Do you come here often? What’s your sign? It’s all one Chat and everyone does it. You’ve done it a million times and so has he. He seems very good at it and you wonder - is he a seller or a buyer? You find yourself looking to buy. He takes your phone number. You have another drink or a cup of coffee - what ever is socially acceptable where you are and when you are. Then he says goodbye and you smile like him and it moves on from there.

A month goes by, he doesn’t call, and you forget about it. There are too many smiling men; too many who catch your eye to worry about one, only one. Then you see him again. Perhaps it’s another party, perhaps it’s the same bar or a street corner or he’s a friend of a friend of a friend who does the introductions and you each laugh and say you’ve met. It all starts up again.

This time he’s hurt and needful. You’re what he needs, and what gay man doesn’t like to be needed? You smile and he gets touchy. You comment that he hasn’t called and he laughs. You keep talking and suddenly you’re starting to like him, to wonder why it is that this should be so - this is, after all, the asshole that didn’t call. So you get colder than normal, even for you, and you laugh off in the distance. He reminds you of all the answers you gave him and you remind him of all of his answers. You’re impressed that he remembered. You’re impressed that he even remembered you. You find yourself hoping - against your better judgement - that he is impressed with your memory as well. You’re impressed with him and his job and his life, it’s only his patter that annoys you and his earlier distance compared to his current seeming intimacy.

So then it happens: He apologizes for not calling, with a plausible excuse at that, and he gives you his phone number and says to call him. You ask: “Is this a dateable phone number or a fuckable one?” He raises one eyebrow and you explain: “Are you looking for a companion or just a lay?” His reply: “Call me and find out.”

By the time you get home, he’s already called. The message is really simple and it reminds you that he is a quiet man - anyone that outgoing has got to be Secretly Shy. Not that he says that, mind you, just that that’s the Way Things Work. You’re an Honorable Man, so you sleep first and the next afternoon, you decide that you will, in fact, call him. But not today. Tomorrow. So you’re surprised when he calls again. You end up talking for an hour or two and he’s funny and charming. You decide it’s a Dateable phone number and you’re happy with that.

Good dates happen often enough in the City. Sitting at work, you decide you want a Memorable Date; a date that will go down in the history of dating as a Prime Example of what two serious adults can do when their hearts and minds are in the same place. What is it, you wonder, that might do this? Can you find it in your heart to let time run its course? Go slow, you say and then you take your pulse and check a little card - descendant of the Mood Ring - to see if you’re tense. It registers brown-black: a Bad Sign, and then the phone rings.

He says hello, and then he plans out the date with you. You let him have his way when you can. It’s not going to get planned beyond meeting and having dinner and you can’t stay the night. This last hasn’t yet crossed your mind, though you had hoped for a little fooling around.

You go to the Appointed Corner and Wait. Everyone knows how to do this. You stand. The clock ticks. You look at busy commuters coming down from their day. The clock ticks. You reach into your bag and remove a book. The clock ticks. The book is good. Perhaps it’s by your favorite author on the planet, but your mind is racing. The clock ticks. Will he show? Will the clothes you wore - new-bought yesterday - please him, impress him, make him horny or turn him off? The clock ticks. You re-read the same four or five paragraphs four or five times losing yourself and your place just because the light changes and you have no idea where he might come from. The clock ticks. You scan the opposite corners, wondering for only a moment if you happen to have chosen incorrectly. The clock ticks. A man of the right height comes up from the subway. You do not see his face but you can tell from the walk that it is not him. You let your eyes follow the wrong man, past you and around the BAM! Your eyes run into him, standing secretly behind you for a time. He smiles as you jerk in unfeigned surprise. Off you come from the Waiting Clock, ticking like the Final Jeopardy! theme tune. On you go to the Date Clock, a clock that might be a couple of hours long, or a night, or a couple of weeks, or a life time.

Neither being really hungry yet, so you decide to go for cocktails at a Public House of Gay Repute on Christopher Street. There, quiet conversation and hand-holding get interrupted by the occasional appearance of Making Out and Dirty Talking. Others stare at you as if you and he each had three heads. Then, smiling at the others in their unluckiness, you move on to dinner: Thai and imported beer (from Thailand) that turns your stomach and makes you long for Budweisser. You share a plate of appetizers, each offering the other half of favored treats and scrumptious surprises. You each indulge in a chicken dish of Notable Spice, deciding that kissing is not yet more important than a Happy Mouth, but important enough that you each order a nearly identical dinner so as not to allow one mouth to surprise the other.

Conversation is muted because of the diners on either side and the nosey waitrons. No one likes to realize that even in Greenwich Village, there are places that prefer a Straight Crowd. Yet each of you manages to talk about his day. You share your characteristically good day and he kind of avoids the whole question while at the same time making you feel like he listened and appreciates what it is you do. Perhaps he even finds it interesting. The check comes and with no struggle what so ever, you split it down the middle, fifty-fifty, and move on to the next stage of your evening: dessert.

On the walk to dessert you ask several Pointed Questions which have been welling up from the Abyss for some time now. These questions - attempts at putting your soul in touch with his - are best summed up by a quote from that movie in the mid-Eighties. What was it? My Beautiful Launderette? “Who is she? Who was she? And Whom does she hope to be?” He eyes you suspiciously and dodges by saying he never has such conversations on the street.

You find yourself in a trendy artsy caf, sipping capucchino and eating tiramisu. He promises then to answer truthfully any question you might have. Does he want a relationship? Does he want one with you? Well, and he considers, yes, but with you? He’s not sure. He says its about trust and time. It’s something you understand and you say so. But, and he watches you as he asks this, can you live it?

The conversation moves to more familiar realms as the waitron bustles in and out, escorting more people to your private little corner. A much stiffer couple listens in horror to your conversation while they turn faux attention to the cups of coffee before them; unable to even move as you discuss ropes and handcuffs with him.

You part on the street. A kiss and a thank you make up your goodbyes. A date it was. Was it memorable? You seem to remember every word and you’re happy with that.

Now you enter strange territory. In your memory you know what comes next. You’ve met, you’ve discussed, now you fuck. You’re so sure of this that you actually buy condoms in preparation for the Second Date. What you don’t see coming is that what he wants is about to become equally important to you. Your wants are now only equally important.

What do you want? You’re not even sure. Ok, everyone wants a relationship. Hell, everyone wants The Relationship, right? What does that mean? What does a truly bonded couple, a relationship, The Relationship, mean? You rush headlong into an Abyss into which you’ve never been.

The Next Thing is more time on the phone. You evaluate. In a week of phone calls you discover that sex is not all you want out of this guy. On the phone, you spend an evening discussing religion. Another evening is spent discussing your cooking skills and a third evening discussing phone sex. Not having phone sex, mind you, discussing it, as a joke and a phenomenon: almost every time you say something that might be the Wrong Thing to Say in phone sex, he presses the star button. Beep! You would have been connected to some other asshole. No, to the first asshole, because this guy seems really sincere.

On a Sunday, as you cook dinner, he calls. You mention that you’re making tacos and refried beans and he asks you to come over and bring the food because he wants some. You think about it, long and hard. You know what you want. You also know what your body wants to do with this man who makes you horny just by saying hello. So you decide to go, with your best intentions, but you grab your condoms anyway.

What happens is, he likes your cooking and he likes your company and you cuddle watching cable cartoons and then you come home; and you’re happy with that.

Now you enter a hard place. The Third Date. You feel like it is uncharted territory. It’s odd for you to be here without so much as a blow job to keep you company, to find out if you’re totally interested in this guy: just only in it for sex or just only in it for friendship? You’re boggled. You grab the condoms before you go to work and you traipse off to have a day at the office before dinner and cocktails.

You spend the day at the office, mentally twiddling your thumbs, biding your time. Each little task given to you is something that keeps you from seeing him. Each little task completed is something that brings you closer to him. It is odd, you find yourself thinking, that someone could start to occupy so much of your mind without getting into any sex. You think you have all the time in the world, but you get hard just thinking about dinner. You say that he can take as much time as he wants to: you are a decent human being after all and there is nothing he can find out about you that will turn him away, per se. While you think this you hand reaches into your bag to make sure the condoms are there and that you’re prepared should this week’s dessert be something other than coffee.

You enter his apartment and toss down your briefcase. There is a quick peck and it’s off for Chinese food. He seems to be enjoying himself and - as you have begun to notice - you react to his emotions without asking why or trying to figure it out. Suddenly your day is over and it’s now Your Evening with Him.

The Chinese restaurant is enchanting. Although the fire is a little warm for spring, at least the beer is not as bad as the Thai stuff. You munch on comparatively healthy dishes, while he tells you about another place with vegetarian dishes, a place that uses tofu and the like to replace the meat. You silently wonder why it is you keep meeting vegetarians, or at least guys who don’t eat red meat. Not only that, but they are all allergic to cats. Hmm. The two of you enter a quiet place in your evening. The time for meditative reflection and deciding what to do next. You choose another Public House of Gay Repute and adjourn for cocktails and conversation.

He introduces you to some friends of his, in the bar by surprise. They are quite engaging. There is laughter and seriousness and some exchanges of phone numbers. This is odd. Most of your friends are straight. They would never give him their phone numbers. What does this mean?

Then it’s off to another bar, where he sets himself down and begins to expound. Beware! You’re about to enter dangerous territory. This is the Unveiling, and what you are offered can not be taken back. There is no gay man in all the world that doesn’t want you to smile and talk to him. If you give him that, he’ll give you anything you want.

This is what he does. He knows this about men and about you, too. He challenges you with this knowledge, to do as he does. He walks across the bar and hustles as many men as you can point out. They all smile and talk to him. Some buy him (and you) drinks. Some just laugh and blush. He invites you over to watch. This happens to be a good time, but you notice that what he does seems a little painful, sometimes. If you turn out to be a flop, he doesn’t talk to you for very long, he moves on. You remember the first night he met you, how he was doing this, talking to all sorts of people. Had he tried to pawn you off on someone? Yes, you think. Though you are not sure if you are making it up out of paranoia or if it really happened.

Then it’s on to a third bar. Seated, you turn to face him as he begins talking to a man next to him. This man is enchanting and engaging and funny. Drinks are had by all, he buys, the man buys, you buy. When it is time to go, the man stands up and hugs you both, in tears. He thanks you deeply for talking to him, saying how bad things have been. It was a mercy hustle.

The two of you walk to his house. It’s been down right educational. You’ve learned a lot. As a quick aside you ask him how he does it. He reads people. That’s what it takes to be a seller. (Is he a seller or a buyer? Are you ready to buy?) So you ask what he reads in you. A lot of confidence, he says. But at the center, there is fear. You hate him for a moment for telling you the truth. Then the hate is gone, as if clearing a pathway. And to the depth of the fear and the hate, you begin to feel admiration and affection, and you’re happy with that.

A week later, you’re standing in a bar, a quiet place that eases you mind. He’s not with you as he is at work. You look up. You see the friend you met last week. He smiles and comes over to you, greeting you with a kiss. You chat. It’s simple and it’s care-free, the chat not of friends but rather of co-workers. There is a subtle air of conspiracy or rather of shared knowledge, but you want more. What does this man know that you need? How can you find out? You decide to pump this man for information, to ply him with drinks and attention, just like he does it, and see what you can get out of it all.

The process is slow and expensive. You work your mutual friend into the conversation slowly. Bringing him up as a vague reference, then as a general idea and finally - after the third round - as a name. This is the core of fear at work. You know he would have done it differently, charging right ahead and the attacking if the gates were open or retreating if they were closed: one move, swift and sure. You still pussy-foot around the issue, damning all you touch in your tentativeness. It fails, falling in on you like a cave - or better yet, a mine shaft dug within too- soft earth. You wake up in the arms of this man, tired and frightened. Unbelieving, you trundle home. A bag lady accosts you asking for breakfast in the early-morning light. As a reparation for your sins you take her to McDonalds and buy her a cup of coffee and an Egg McMuffin. She is lost in her luck and you know that the Fates have not yet let you off their hooks.

Arriving in your own room you sit and write or listen to music or shower or what ever it is you do to relax. The sun moves higher, the window-light is enough for reading. You cannot sleep, and the cat paces with you, wondering what it is that Mommy has done to bother her so. (Remember, cats all bond to their owners as if the owner were Mommy, regardless of gender.)

Unable to explain yourself to yourself or to the cat or to the Fates, you eat another breakfast. Then, just as the sun shines in to your window directly for the first time that day, you call him. His machine accuses you - even though the message hasn’t changed. You tell him you want to talk to him about something. You give him your schedule as if you were calling to arrange a brunch. Then you ring off.

Honesty, you tell yourself over and over, is the best policy. It is also the most frightening policy. You can’t believe that you would have the audacity to do this, to him or to yourself. You can’t believe that you would have the balls, and you can’t believe that it all failed and that you woke up not in someone else’s apartment, but in bed with his friend. You realize that you’ve done all that you can do. You lie down and promise yourself a better day if only you can sleep.

When you wake up a few hours later, it’s like the whole thing was a bad dream. You know it was real, but it’s all in the past. You’re happy with that.

The phone call from him is not pretty. You’re still wired from lack of sleep and the long night. You’re still slightly hung over. You’re very emotional. You can hardly make sense to yourself so you just blurt out the truth: You met his friend. You tried to pump him for information. You ended up sleeping with him. You find it painful to even admit it, but you had fun. What gets him is that you couldn’t ask him for information. You felt you had to go elsewhere. What made you think that if you were being fed a line of bull, he wouldn’t have fed his other friends the same bull? You stumble. This is your weakest point. You can’t even lie straight to him. You’re at a loss for words. He continues. It’s about faith and trust, not only in him but in yourself. You can’t begin to see him until you see yourself. Until you have faith in yourself, he will be invisible. You think of Eros and Psyche, how she had the greatest lover ever known, but he couldn’t show himself until she had proven herself worthy. You realize, first that he is Eros and you Psyche. But slowly it dawns on you that the reverse is also true: You are Eros and he is Psyche. He can not see you until your worth is proven. You can not have faith in him until you have faith in yourself.

Suddenly the whole thing becomes clear to you: you mean as much to him as he means to you. It mightn’t be love yet, it mightn’t even be friendship proper, but there is something there. It is growing, slowly. You have almost killed it by acting towards him as you would act towards no other friend. Just because he is sexy, and smart, and cuddly, you have treated him like a cheep lay and not a boyfriend, not even a prospective boyfriend. Even your cruel attempt at getting back at him - for that’s what it is - by sleeping with his friend is shallow compared to the feeling for him you have discovered in yourself; or for you that he has suddenly shown. A quiet, peacefully growing garden, invaded by a disease - no, by vandals - and almost destroyed; but possibly saved by honesty. You begin to cry, quietly and with only a small catch in your voice. For perhaps the third time in your life you are ready to admit you made a mistake, and more than that, that you regret it.

He points again to that place of fear. You knew all of this stuff before you called him, before he spoke to you, before you slept with his friend. He wouldn’t have called you otherwise, you wouldn’t have liked him. You wouldn’t have had even one date, let alone three. Your mind is boggled by the truth of it all. He tells you that this is the result of that inner fear. Trust yourself, trust him.

Then it’s all over, like a storm on a summer afternoon. He asks you how your day goes and what are your plans for the evening. You check out your schedules and you plan to meet latter in the week. But even though the rain has past, the ground is still damp, and there is mud on your shoes. Don’t track it into the house. You wipe your feet and move on.

You sit and you watch - for the gazillionth time - The Lion King. He sits with you and you cuddle on your sofa, watching Simba bond with his father, then his friends, then with himself. Rafiki comes out and wallops Simba on the head. “Yes, the past can hurt. You can run from it, or you can learn from it.” Simba ducks the second time.

You have discovered in yourself a place that is not a place, but rather it is a circle, a web. In that web you are both caught and woven, like a great tapestry; the web of life and you are but patterns. Who has hustled whom here? You were worried that this guy was an asshole feeding you a line of bullshit. You have to be quick when dealing with these types. They’ll hustle your wallet out of your pocket and be on their way so fast…or did you hustle him? Did you pull that little bunch of emotional gobbledy gook just because you knew it would work? Why did you even write this story? Are your emotions really that deep? Do you love him? Do you want his body? Do you need his arms around you? All of these are too serious to answer. You know he feels right next to you. No. You feel right, next to him. You laugh. Here you are, now.

You drift away and he follows after you, wondering where you’ve gone in the middle of such a good movie. You explain. He laughs and gives you a hug. Then he wallops you on the head. You pull him closer, reminding yourself to think about these things tomorrow. You’re happy with that.

Tags: fiction, nyc, prose, steve, story, writing