Sketchtasy

by Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore

  I get water, and then I look at Nate and he’s starting to sway. He doesn’t usually get this drunk, maybe it’s because it’s past his bedtime so I ask if he wants to go. In the cab he reaches over for my hand and I close my eyes and think breathe, Alexa, breathe. We get back to the hotel and Nate starts pulling off my clothes, and I guess he notices I’m annoyed because then he says what, you don’t like being seen with the old guy on the dance floor?

  I look him in the eyes and start kissing his liquor breath, and then I remember the big tub in the bathroom so I say let’s sit in the Jacuzzi. Nate keeps grabbing my dick, but I can’t get hard. What’s the matter, he keeps whining, and I really want to smack him. In the hot tub he starts to look like a lobster, says oh I’m getting overheated.

  Better take a cold shower, I say, but then he looks at the clock and notices it’s one a.m., says I’ll see you in the morning, kisses me goodnight so then I stay in the tub until it gets cold, let it drain and then fill it up again, three more times until all my skin gets crinkled up and I guess I’m ready for bed. Except I don’t want to get in bed with Nate so I pass out on the sofa until Nate wakes me up in the morning and then I stumble into bed and sleep until it’s time to go back to the beach.

  Yes, the same restaurant three nights in a row because Nate likes routine but this time he gets tired right away, says he’s ready for bed. When we get back to the hotel I can tell he wants me to seduce him, but the problem with doing something so boring so many times is that it gets harder and harder. I knew this would happen if we spent this much time together. I told Nate this would happen. He didn’t believe me.

  When Nate first suggested a two-week vacation, I just smiled and said I would be too busy with school. Europe, that was his original idea. What the hell would I do with Nate in Europe? When he first suggested Florida, I just laughed. But I could tell I was going to have to agree to something, right? So I got him to cut down the time by suggesting a long weekend so then I’d only miss a few days of school, but we could go earlier. He liked that idea, I could tell, he thought I was excited.

  Tonight’s the night for the big gay club—Sunday, just like in Boston except it’s open later. I go over around two a.m. after Nate passes out—the music’s pretty good but the crowd is wall to wall muscle boys, it’s like a whole club filled with the strippers at Avalon. I’m not even dressed up, but I feel like an alien. I’m trying to dance, and some guy flying on X comes over to me and says: You look different. No kidding.

  I’m not attracted to him, but we start to make out. Then he says he needs to piss, will I wait for him, sure. But then he doesn’t come back, and when I go to the bathroom I notice the handicapped stall is shaking so I look inside and sure enough it’s some guy getting fucked but when I see his face it doesn’t look like pleasure it looks like he’s not even sure why he’s there. I realize I’m not sure why I’m there either.

  The next day Nate and I drive to the place we’re staying in St. Petersburg, which looks like a big pink castle. But it turns out our room is in a different building, and that building just looks like your average tacky motel. Nate says he chose this building because it’s right on the beach and that’s what I wanted. I guess he’s right—I wanted to hear the ocean when I went to bed. We’re on the Gulf now, so the water is quieter but the sand is so soft. You can even find the kinds of shells that I’ve only seen before in stores, tiny and delicate and unbroken.

  This was supposed to be a spa, but it turns out that really it’s just a resort with spa services, which I guess means you pay to be healthy for a few minutes instead of the whole time. I decide to try a seaweed wrap—I figure that means I’ll sit in a tub and someone will wrap me in seaweed, but it turns out that I lie on a hard table and some blonde woman with a squeaky voice scrubs my body with some orangey apricot oatmeal stuff that happens to contain a little bit of seaweed, and then she wraps me in sheets of Mylar and turns on a heat lamp. I’m probably getting cancer already.

  Monday night and we’re on our way to a gay bar that looks like a converted Holiday Inn on the side of the freeway and when we get inside there’s a courtyard with a tiki bar, a leather bar, an antique store, even a lawyer’s office. There’s a little store selling postcards and a bunch of other crap, including a big road sign that says MANATEE CROSSING. I think that’s hilarious, but for some reason it’s $39.99, and Nate doesn’t want to buy it for me. Something in my body needs me to win, but nothing’s working until I say I’d really like to have a souvenir from our trip, and Nate says okay.

  The main bar is like every terrible gay club in the world—disco ball, TV screens, dance floor, stage, cologne, mirrors—I’m taking in all the hideousness and some guy wants to know if I’m wearing a wig, that must be a wig, that is a wig, isn’t it, where’d you get that wig? Hey, he says, hey—are you in the circus?

  I thought this place would be deserted, but it’s packed and someone’s walking around pouring fake champagne for someone’s birthday—Nate’s actually drinking it. We toast to our relationship and he kisses me on the lips, I try not to pull away too fast.

  The next day’s our last day at the beach with all these horrible straight Europeans, what are all these Europeans doing in Florida? These aren’t even the Europeans that were in South Beach, partying in designer clothes—these Europeans walk around in straw hats and khakis, with stars-and-stripes beach towels, holding their kids close when Nate and I walk by. And the restaurant—oh, the restaurant—did I tell you about the restaurant? They serve iceberg lettuce: that’s all you need to know.

  We go for a walk on the beach after dark and I get excited about the way the sky spreads out in the distance. But then Nate says I feel like every time I touch you, you cringe. And I can’t think of what to say. We keep walking, and eventually I say something about how pretty the stars are, that I really do love the beach, that it was nice to get away, thank you.

  And then I’m thinking shit, what the fuck am I going to do? This is my financial stability, this is how I’m supporting Joanna. We get back to our room, and Nate asks if I want a drink. He takes out the mini liquor bottles and pours me one. And then another. We’re not saying much, just staring outside at the water and he reaches over for my leg. I move closer. I kiss him on the lips. I lick his lips while I look him in the eyes. He moans. I start to unbutton his shirt, move down to lick his nipples, biting just so slightly on the tip of one and then the other. I pull off his pants, his boxers, start kissing his inner thighs, even where the rash is, lick his balls and then up his chest to his nipples, one by one, just the way he likes it.

  The whole time I’m thinking: I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you. Somehow I’m hard, finally, so I move Nate’s hand over to my balls and he squeezes like this is his toy, he’s testing it out, and I’m thinking I hate you. I hate you. And then I say let me get a condom. And the expression on his face is like a little boy dreaming big.

  When I get back in the living room I kiss Nate like I’m carried away by passion yes passion. Then I lean on the sofa and I push his face to my crotch. He still doesn’t know how to suck cock. Now he’s on his knees in front of me, and I wonder what one of those Europeans would see if they looked up from the beach. I stand up and smack Nate’s mouth with my dick, back and forth, and he’s moaning yes, Tyler, yes, and then I put the condom on. He says do you want to go in the bedroom?

  No, I say, let’s do it here, and he gets on his hands and knees on the carpet, facing the balcony so I can see something beyond this room.

  THE CURE FOR CRYING

  I get so excited when I open the front door, step inside our purple gallery and look at all the art. Time for a shower yes a shower to wash Florida away. Sure, this shower doesn’t have the same water pressure, but at least I don’t have to share it with Nate. I’m all excited about Bertucci’s, checking the machine to see when Joanna will be back.

  But then this message.

  She’s saying she can’t keep depending on me. She’s saying she’s mo
ving in with Tina. She’s saying she’ll call me when she’s ready.

  Is this a joke? This must be a joke. I go in her room—it’s empty, except for the furniture. Polly’s furniture. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening. Not again.

  Breathe, Alexa, breathe.

  But what if I don’t want to breathe?

  There’s something wrong with my body, because it’s making the shape of crying but nothing is coming out. I thought everything was finally going right. I really did. I really did, this time.

  Another message. It’s Joey, she wants to go out for cocktails. She wants to hear all about Florida. I meet her at Bertucci’s because what else is there to do? Heavy-Handed Wendy is working. Joey is actually eating. Alexa, she says, you’re taking this too hard—it was obvious Joanna was using you.

  I don’t think you understand.

  I don’t think you were paying attention. You were right—this pizza is good. Eating isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. You always said I should smoke more pot, but that shit stinks—and now, thanks to Marinol, pot-in-a-pill, I’m getting my rosy cheeks back. Want a bump?

  You know I’m not doing drugs.

  I thought that was because of Joanna.

  You are such a piece of shit. Let’s go to Luxor.

  Now you’re talking.

  Speaking of talking, Joey’s right, this coke is good. I don’t know if it’s because it’s been so long, or if she finally got the right connection. Turns out she’s the connection now and I really have been missing out, then we’re in a cab on our way to Paradise, where that snotty bitch at the door acts like she hasn’t seen me a hundred times, asks me for ID. But then Joey says Kelly, it’s Winona, and Kelly looks up at Joey and says Wi-no-no-NO—you’re actually cute as a boy. And then she waves us both in.

  We walk downstairs, and there’s Lady Dionne in front, fanning herself while the other black queens do their runway around her, and everyone’s saying uh-huh, that’s right, uh-huh, because that’s the song—and just then Lady Dionne actually starts wailing big deep high notes, and the queen who’s always there with her handkerchief just keeps walking like there’s no one else in the world, honey, there’s no one else, and I realize I’m staring because I love her so much, but I wonder if she knows that’s why.

  I drop off my coat in the DJ booth and then I’m in the back corner like I never left, flying in the air with all my old friends and yes, friends is an overstatement, but friends right now while I’m shaking jump rope to some mix of “Tyler Moore Mary” that just goes Mary Mary Mary Mary like the record’s skipping we are all skipping Mary Mary Mary Mary until “Get Your Hands Off My Man” comes on, get your hands off Mary, with Jon B. giving me the usual glare but that’s friendly for her, and there’s Billy without her platforms, shrieking and saying fierce, and even Elana, she’s back, a kiss on both cheeks and oh, honey, how are you, and then my favorite, Marc of the flying feet, and I do a quick spin on the floor right under him, I can’t believe that actually worked. He gives me a high-five—really, high-five, can’t you do better than that? So I lick his hand and then we’re twirling around and he actually gives me all his weight so I lift him onto my back like contact improv, I mean we’re flying and melting our bodies so graceful and tough. And that’s when I realize yes, the coke cure, this is what I need.

  Now Joey’s the dealer, I’ve got concealer. Any time something gets a tad too dreary—honey, time for the bathroom. The problem with drugs is that you have to go back to what you were feeling before. But why?

  After-hours at the MIT Café—yes, I’m serious. Joey found out it’s twenty-four hours, and what more do we need than chamomile tea with the math maniacs? Talk about institution runway—restitution, constitution, pollution, ablution, Confucian, evolution. Turn.

  Not to mention more of that pure white in the white bathroom, heavenly, and I tell Joey my new plan. Fabulous, she says, that sounds just like me.

  Eventually I’m back in East Boston, cushioning my demise with a little bit of Xanax, Valium, Ativan, taking it all slowly, a little at a time, savoring it, evening it out. Yes, I’ve decided to make everything into that moment when you walk into the club and you first hear the music—yes, this East Boston runway to the T, yes, this ride with the paparazzi, yes, this walk down Newbury, Boylston, Arlington, Tremont, Mass. Ave., yes, the line at Bread & Circus, yes, this conversation with who, who am I talking to, wait, the bathroom, oh so much better. The weather? I didn’t even notice.

  And Nate—now that I’ve realized how to channel hate into a hard-on, the sex is almost hot. Just a quick bump to mix with the cocktails and small talk on big topics or big talk on small topics and then I’m a pounding porn machine and Nate thinks he’s in love. Soon enough he’ll fall asleep and then I can do runway all over the rugs downstairs, adjust the lights, oh, that’s the way I love it, look in the mirror at that gorgeous glossy glassiness, eyelids fluttering until they roll back again, yes, I love rolling back and look, honey, my acne has even gone away—obviously what I needed was more drugs, a regular allotment, no need to take a break, just keep it balanced, yes, darling, balanced—oh, I love this balance.

  And, yes, Joey was finally right about something: Marinol is the answer. I take one of those pills and boom, I’m out. Or, no, don’t exaggerate—the first time it doesn’t happen right away—actually it takes so long that I think it’s never going to happen, but then it’s already ten hours later and I can’t even remember how I got into bed. Nate’s bed. I didn’t even wake up when he was getting ready for work. How much pot do they squeeze into one of those pills? New day, new promise.

  Do I need to powder my nose? Luckily Nate has Puffs Plus. Yes, a little coke can go a long way. And a lot of coke can go even further. Oh, brown glass vial! Can you see my reflection in your curved surface, maybe just a hint of my eye checking the level? Oh, black cap, such a comfortable place for my nose to rest. Oh, white powder in my head, my head in this house of shimmering white, yes, even the carpet on the stairs.

  Oh, Nate, who started to worry about me, started to worry because I was getting a little edgy, he didn’t want his fuck machine to get edgy so he sent me to the pill doctor. Oh, dear pill doctor, provider for every need!

  Oh, Marinol, blackout on white sheets.

  Oh, Valium, a toast to all the fifties housewives—you were onto something, you were definitely onto something.

  Oh, Xanax, a walk through pillows.

  Oh, Ativan, so the lights get softer.

  But stay away from Klonopin—I prefer my incest flashbacks without drugs, okay? And Dalmane, what a disaster—asbestos behind my eyes.

  Back to Marinol, blackout in black and white, study the light and shadow, shadow. It’s a miracle drug. I mean it even helps with Joey’s appetite, and if you can help that cokehead eat then you’re seriously onto something. And the other thing it helps with is getting hard for Nate’s flabby ass, I swear, because when I wake up I’m laughing I mean I’m laughing once I remember where the hell I am, oh this comfortable bed. They should put Nate’s flabby ass on the Marinol label, right next to the part where it says WARNING: DO NOT MIX WITH ALCOHOL. Unless you’ve had a few bumps, right? I swear it says that in the fine print.

  And who needs to remember the bed, when you can just enter, and exit. Speaking of entering, and exiting, Nate keeps asking me to move in with him. And even if we ignore the obvious reasons I’ve said no, no, and no, the truth is that, yes, his house is palatial, but there aren’t many rooms. The entire downstairs is open except the bathroom. Upstairs, there’s the bedroom in back, with two huge bathrooms and two enormous closets, and then a huge sitting room in front overlooking Comm. Ave., but there’s no extra bedroom.

  I can’t believe I’m actually thinking about this, but here’s the thing: now I hate East Boston. It feels like I’m stuck there, like I have this apartment to myself but it’s supposed to be for me and Joanna—even with the coke cure, I can’t stop thinking about Joanna. I loo
k at those purple walls and think: that was for Joanna. I look at the sofas, the table, our art, and I can’t stop thinking about how I thought everything was coming together. And then I look in Joanna’s room, and there’s nothing of hers except some dyed hair in the carpet.

  Then there are the nights when I wake up thinking my father’s in the other room, he and my mother are here to take me away. With Joanna I could laugh about the panic, but now there’s just the panic. If I leave this place they’ll have no way of tracking me, right? I won’t even have the same phone number.

  Nate keeps reminding me that we don’t have the same hours, we wouldn’t even see each other that much, he travels so often for work and then I would have the place to myself. I keep saying there’s no way I could live here without my own room, and that’s where the conversation generally ends. But this time he acts like he just thought of a new idea: What about one of the rooms on the third floor?

  The third floor. I tried the door once, but it was locked. I figured it was just storage. Apparently I was wrong—Nate says he just hasn’t gotten around to renovating, and when he unlocks the door it does smell musty. But then he flicks the light switch and there’s a gorgeous chandelier in the hallway, but a different kind, more old-fashioned, with copper flowers intertwined among the crystals. My office is in back, Nate says, but I don’t use it much. Take a look at the rooms in the front.

  Oh my God one of these rooms is perfect, with a chandelier like the one in the hallway but bigger, and a window alcove looking out over Comm. Ave. and the trees. Nate’s saying he can have the floors redone—no, the floors are gorgeous. I’ll get you a mattress like the one downstairs, he says, a king, I know you like that mattress. We can replace the wallpaper, what color would you like? The bathroom up here isn’t much, of course you can keep yours downstairs. What do you think of that dresser?