Sketchtasy
Page 4
Anyway, tonight there are no incidents, which is a rarity, I mean people stare but at least they don’t say anything, and when we get home everyone’s already in bed, even better. Polly goes to bed too because tomorrow she’s visiting her family and the cult in Bel Air, Maryland, so she has to get up early. Speaking of nightmares, it turns out everyone isn’t in bed, because then Sham-bam arrives with Joey and they want to go to the Eagle. After a few bumps of coke I’m easily convinced but the Eagle is as boring as ever and then we’re back at home and somehow we all decide to stay up and go with Polly to the airport.
Talk about runway—I mean this is the real thing, blue carpet for days. We’re showing off all our best moves, and Champagne says we’ll get arrested so she drives us all the way back to Savin Hill and then Joey and I jump right back on the T. We’re going to ride every line except the Orange Line. I don’t like orange—it’s just not good for my complexion.
A few days of runway later, Polly gets home and right away she says let’s go to Dollar-A-Pound. Sounds good to me, but of course we get there just before closing, so Polly’s busy crawling through the clothes on the floor and throwing so much stuff into a bag I can hardly believe it—dresses, a black purse, even a ratty blonde wig.
I get two pounds and Polly gets thirty-five. That’s a lot of dresses. As soon as we get home she’s throwing together outfits. She even puts on makeup, full face—where’d you learn to do that?
Kevyn Aucoin.
Kevyn Aucoin’s got nothing on you.
Joey calls and she wants to get cocktails, but I tell her I’m not drinking for a week, remember? It’s Wednesday, she says, we have to go to Sporters. Which is funny as hell because it’s not like Sporters is a particularly glamorous destination. Just that there isn’t anywhere else to go on a Wednesday and Polly knows the bartender, who gives us free drinks.
Last week after Sporters, Billy wanted to get coke—really, why do you need coke when we have all this K? But of course she started whining so I said okay, I’ll drive, which was a bad idea because I’d done way too much K so at every intersection I started pushing on the brakes from so far away that we kept missing the light, and then it turned out that Billy was getting coke at someone’s apartment in the projects in Roxbury and while we were waiting Joey started to say that Billy was really getting crack—who cares, what’s the difference? It did take a while, though, but at least that meant the K wore off, but then Joey kept saying maybe Billy’s dead and I was thinking about how I used to have a rule that I would never drive on drugs. Not even one drink. Eventually Billy came back with some guy who didn’t even know her name and when we got home they went right up to Billy’s room and of course Billy didn’t offer us anything.
Joey said he was scared to stay in our house and I wasn’t sure if it was because the guy was black or if it was because we’d picked him up from the projects, but I told Joey she could take her racist shit somewhere else, and I went upstairs to get ready for bed. When I came back downstairs Joey was already snoring on the sofa, I don’t know how he falls asleep like that, and the next day when I got up Billy was in the kitchen scratching at the sink drain with a knife and it kind of smelled like something was burning. I looked around, but the stove wasn’t on and when I looked back at Billy I noticed his eyes were bulging out like in a cartoon when someone sticks their finger in a light socket but scarier like someone had put fake eyes in place of her real eyes and she wasn’t even wearing her colored contacts. Are you okay? I asked, and she didn’t say anything.
So Sporters, all right, sure, I’ll drive. Adam, the bartender, thinks it’s funny that I’m not drinking so he keeps piling up empty glasses around me and for a moment I start to wonder if he’s flirting. At one point he actually leans over and whispers something in my ear, but I can’t hear him so I just smile and then he has to close the bar—see you next week.
On our way back, Joey starts going on and on about how we have to drive by the block, we have to. If I see anyone I know, she says, I’ll make a whole lot of noise. What are you talking about, I say. And then I get really angry and stop the car in the middle of Newbury Street and get out and slam the door and I’m walking so fast but I don’t know where the hell I’m going. Then I realize I left Polly in the car and she didn’t do anything so I go back. I say sorry, Polly—Joey, where do you want to be dropped off?
We go to Joey’s new apartment in some fancy building and sort of end up talking outside. I’m telling her she always puts on such airs, says all these tired shady things, talking about Billy being on welfare—what’s wrong with welfare? And then at Avalon she walks around like a star because all the pointless pompous assholes will talk to her.
Joey says: It isn’t classism, I grew up rich. That’s your problem, I say, you grew up with that attitude and you still haven’t gotten over it. She says: That’s just how I talk, I don’t really mean it. I say I believe you don’t mean it, but that’s not how it sounds. And it hurts people—I just want you to think about it, okay? Joey says okay, and then I ask him if he wants a hug so we hug goodbye and then Polly and I head home, what a night.
But get this—three days later, Polly and Joey and I are at home and Joey says let’s go to the block. This again? But he says he’s serious, he needs extra spending money. I say don’t your parents pay for everything, and she holds up an empty vial. I figure I’ll suspend disbelief so I put on some tragic outfit to disguise my glamour because I might as well work the block too and we all know tricks don’t like glamour.
The boy block is weird because it’s right by the Park Plaza—kind of a posh area for hustling, right? There’s only one other hustler on the block and he does not look happy about our arrival—whatever, honey, we can share. Cars keep stopping by Joey and she talks to them, but no deal, and then some guy pulls over for me, I say a hundred an hour and he says he lives in Arlington, is that okay?
I’ve never heard of Arlington except Arlington, Virginia, so I say how far is it. Twenty minutes. As long as you pay me by the hour, including travel, and drive me back, a hundred up front. He says he’d like to see me for a few hours, and I say we can do one-fifty for the first two hours, a hundred an hour after that. We drive a few blocks and he pulls over and counts out eight twenties, I like how you can be more demanding on the street because they assume you’re tough.
He tells me he chose me because of my bandana, reminds him of the seventies and am I a counterculture type of guy? Funny since that’s what I was trying to hide. It’s weird how as soon as we get on the highway we could be anywhere and then who knows where we’re going once we get off, past all these big old houses and it feels more like some quaint New England town than a suburb.
His house is at the top of a hill, pretty nice in that rundown sort of way with white paint peeling off red brick, and when we get inside it’s still pretty dark, even after he turns on the lights because all the bulbs are red—he really must not like light because he has dark curtains covering the windows and I can tell he never opens them because the plants are trying to push their way through.
He asks me if I want a drink—sure, a screwdriver sounds good, but he says how about a greyhound since I only have grapefruit. I didn’t know that’s what that was called, and he says do you like music? I always think that’s the funniest question, I mean is there anyone who doesn’t like music and he wants to know what kind. I tell him mostly I listen to dance music—house, techno, ambient—but I also like blues. Oh, blues, he says—I love the blues. And then he puts on Etta James, who I think of more as jazz, but his sound system is amazing and we just sit there for a while and talk about the music. Maybe a half hour of Etta James and then he starts playing Aretha Franklin and Edith Piaf and Serge Gainsbourg, turns out he lived in France for a while in his twenties, and then he asks what I think of classical music—I don’t know so he puts on Brahms and at first it sounds foreboding but then he’s talking about each instrument like it’s a person and I guess that’s true since there’s a person be
hind it, but also I realize something about how all music is really the same.
I start to feel myself sinking into the sofa like I’m high but all I have is this cocktail and Brahms and now there’s a fluffy gray cat—the trick says his name is Karl like Karl Marx. After a while he takes my hand and then we sit there like that, listening to the instruments that somehow sound like voices, it all builds and flies and falls and I’m thinking maybe I could go to a classical music concert like on those billboards by Bread & Circus if it wasn’t for all the awful people.
I wouldn’t mind another cocktail though I guess I could sit here like this for the rest of the night if he wants to pay me, just close my eyes a little and feel the speakers booming from the corners of the room, my breath in my chest but also how his breath moves his hand, our hands, and then eventually the music ends. I can’t remember what he said it was exactly, a concerto or a symphony though what’s the difference, maybe I’ll ask, but then he says do you want to go in the bedroom?
The bedroom light is blue and he wants to take my clothes off for me, then I’m standing there naked and he’s petting my skin—so smooth, he says. I ask him if he wants to take his clothes off too, so then he holds up his arms and I pull off his sweater and his body is all bones. I guess I noticed before that his face looked hollow, but I thought maybe that was just because of dark facial hair and pale skin and the way that sometimes makes people look unhealthy but now his dick looks like it’s too strong for his body. I get on top of him in bed anyway and he groans, I kiss him on the lips and he kind of gasps, that stale liquor breath so familiar even when it’s not familiar. I can feel his hard-on under my chest—I’m starting to get hard too from the pressure of our bodies, even though when I look at his face in this light I can only really think about death.
Lie down next to me, he says, and then he’s touching me way too softly and I’m trying not to cringe. I guide his hand to make the touch firmer but he keeps changing it back—it’s funny how I could sit in the living room doing nothing for several hours and it could feel totally relaxing but now it’s just a few minutes in bed and I want to run out the door, he moves my hand to his dick while he grabs mine, I spit in my hand and he says oh, that’s great, just like that, oh, this is so nice, oh, you’re such a nice guy, oh.
Wait, he says, I want to see you come first. Which is fine until I actually come and after that I just want to chop him in half. But I’m massaging his back, touching him softly the way he likes it, and then he wants to turn over, puts my hands on his dick and he shoots just like that. Then he says oh, I haven’t felt this way in so long.
I look at the clock: 4:30, that means $350.
He asks if I want a towel, sure. I go to the bathroom and when I get back he counts out the money, $240 more, that’s $400, thank you, and he asks if he can call me sometime so I give him my pager number and he says sorry, I forgot your name, and I tell him it’s Tyler. His name’s Michael, I didn’t remember that either, what’s the point really unless you need to use it again. The drive back feels shorter than before, maybe because the streets are deserted but I’m starting to wonder about Joey and Polly.
Michael says I can tell you’re a really smart guy, are you in school. They always want me to be in school, but at the moment I don’t feel like pretending so I say too smart for school, and he says I think I know what you mean. When we get to the block he says are you sure I can’t drop you somewhere else, it’s awfully late, I can take you home, and I say no, I’m going to meet my friends, and he says I hope we can make this a regular thing.
So now I’m back on the block, which is deserted, though when I get to my car there’s a note from Joey saying she and Polly are out looking for me at the police station, area D—really, the police station? And then a second note saying now they’re at the Loft, make sure to page Joey—there are pay phones directly behind me. Has it really been that long? I page Joey, and then I wait by the phone, and I realize I’m looking right at Jeannine but I’ve never seen her from this angle, I don’t think—is this the main entrance? No one goes in, or out, but somehow you can see the church reflected in the glass—oh, that’s not the church at all, it’s another building, kind of like the top of the Empire State Building sitting on the ground. Joey doesn’t call, and I’m not wearing this tragic outfit to the Loft, so I go home.
The next day’s my date, have I ever gone on a date before? It’s this boy Bruno from work who I thought was some clueless straight boy because he was always asking me ridiculous questions about my hair and nails and pretty much every piece of clothing I’ve ever worn, but turns out he’s gay because he asked me out on a date. It’s funny how someone I didn’t really notice before suddenly seems like the hottest boy in the world. We’re at Bertucci’s, and I’m watching his big pink chapped lips and the way he keeps looking at me, and I’m not even sure what we’re talking about, just glad he hasn’t asked me whether I have a new job, since I just told him I’m not going back to work because I can’t deal with the surveys. I know everyone else likes the surveys better because we get paid $11.50 an hour and there’s no quota, but it’s pretty obvious that we’re working for Philip Morris, and I know credit card companies are awful, but not as awful as Philip Morris.
Good thing these cocktails are so strong and Bruno doesn’t even think pizza without cheese is strange. He lives a few blocks away, so we head over to his place, which must be expensive because it’s right on Columbus but there’s nothing on the walls except a big mirror behind the sofa with a tacky gold frame. Then of course there’s a huge TV, a bed with plaid flannel sheets and luckily we’re on that right away it’s so soft. When he takes off his shirt his chest is so hairy, kind of a surprise and I love it when he wraps his arms around me and squeezes tight and two of my ribs make that cracking sound.
Now Bruno’s biting my neck from behind, which feels great, and then there’s his dick poking at my asshole and I start to pull away but he pulls me back and I’m kind of frozen while he’s thrusting on top of me, I mean he’s just teasing my asshole with his dick but I keep thinking it’s going to go in. Then he starts talking like we’re in a porn video, saying yeah, you want it, yeah you want my cock, don’t you.
Finally I pull away and he says sorry, I’ll put on a condom, reaches into his nightstand drawer, pulls one out, opens it and slides it onto his dick, lube, pushes me onto my back and then he’s on top of me, grunting and panting and he’s not even kissing me anymore, just trying to get his dick in my ass like he’s possessed until I pull myself out from under him, stand up and say I think I have to go.
Suddenly he looks like a little kid. What’s wrong, he says? Did I do something wrong? I don’t even know where to start so I say why don’t we talk about it later. I find my clothes in a bundle on the floor and I realize I’m kind of shaking. I’m dressed but Bruno’s still shirtless and so cute, the exposed brick on the wall behind his face, faded flowers in the hallway carpet, a vague musty smell.
Outside everything seems faster and the T is so close, good thing I’m not too late for the T.
When I get home I call Joanna and say can I tell you something kind of disturbing? Maybe she didn’t hear me, because she starts talking about her relationship with Brenda, who’s forty-eight, smokes cigars and wears dirty undershirts with suspenders and slacks. She’s my daddy, Joanna says, her eyes get all wild when she sees me. She used to be a mechanic but now she lives off SSI—and, you know.
You know, what?
Cocoa Puffs. With an emphasis on the cuckoo.
They do speedballs together and then Brenda ties Joanna up and leaves the house, sometimes for hours or at least it feels like it until she comes back and beats Joanna until she’s screaming. Sometimes Joanna feels like she’s about to pass out from all the pain, but Brenda knows what she’s doing so she always unties the ropes at the right moment. My daddy knows how to hurt me without hurting me, Joanna says, so then I can cry like I’ve never cried before.
SOMETHING SPECIAL
There’s a lot I’ll do for tricks—role play, fantasies, whatever—but I’m not going to say I love you. That’s just demeaning.
Then there’s the guy who feeds me rails of coke but tells me he doesn’t have any alcohol because he’s in the program. And I can’t even enjoy the high because he’s pulling at my dick and scratching my asshole, telling me how beautiful it is. Oh it’s so beautiful, he keeps saying, and I’m trying not to fart.
Luckily there’s a clock right by the bed, so I give him a few extra minutes and then ask if he wants me to stay longer but he acts surprised that I’m charging by the hour. Obviously that’s when I should get the fuck out, but I’m already crashing so then we’re doing line after line and I’m so wired it’s like my head is going to pop and I can’t keep myself from laughing when he grabs my dick. And then whenever I decide to leave I start to crash again so more yes please more but more means his dry mouth back on my dick while I’m making faces in the mirror, sticking out my tongue, opening my mouth all big to see how far I can see down my throat—you, yes, you, bitch, you have the prettiest asshole.