by Amy Sohn
“Yes.”
“Did you do everything I asked?”
“Yes.” She was nervous. She was pretty sure but not totally. Had there been some detail she’d neglected? She had done the baseboards. He would be happy to see that.
Upstairs, she stood in the doorway as he moved slowly around the bathroom, inspecting the faucets, the tub rim, the drains, the underside of the toilet, the baseboards. It might not have been spotless, she might not have a future as a maid, but she had given it 100 percent.
Ray was lifting his painter’s smock and unbuttoning the fly of his union suit. He went close to her. She held on to the sink with one hand, crouched, and put him in her mouth. He grew hard quickly. She peeked. It was huge and blunt, like the one in the Shunga woodblock her interior designer had hung in her master bathroom.
After a while, he pulled himself out and ejaculated onto the Spanish tile, onto her hard work. “You’re not finished yet,” he said, staring down at the small white spots. She got slowly onto her knees and lowered her lips to the floor. That night, when she went onstage, she noticed a faint taste of bleach in her mouth and didn’t know if it was from the tile or from Ray.
Marco
When Marco looked back on the night of the accident, he could see a lot of places where he should have realized it would go wrong. To begin with, the guy wasn’t cute. Less cute than his picture. His handle was Elizaboy, and in the photo he looked ripped and hot, with Ray-Ban sunglasses. In real life his name was Craig, and he was skinny and pale, with angular features, a mole on the side of his mouth, and hair so gelled that it looked crispy.
Then there was the roommate thing. On the phone Craig said, “My roommate comes home at eight. You have to be gone before he gets there.”
“I can’t come till seven,” Marco had said. He was teaching an AP workshop after school once a week; it kept him in the good graces of his department head.
“Fine,” the guy said with a sigh. “But be here right at seven, okay?”
“Is your roommate your boyfriend?” Marco asked.
“No! I just—I don’t like to have company when he’s around.”
When Craig opened the door, the first thing he said was “My roommate’s getting home in an hour.” Then he said, “You ride that scooter everywhere?”
“Yeah.”
“Only kids should ride scooters.”
The apartment, on Elizabeth Street, was a fourth-floor walk-up. Craig led Marco to his bedroom, which was frightening in its genericness. There was no art on the walls, and the furniture had a dorm-room quality: an inexpensive particleboard desk, a bulky bed with thick, dark wooden legs. Craig sat on the edge of the single bed and gestured to Marco to sit in the swivel chair by the desk. “So, what’s up?”
“Not much,” Marco answered. He asked what Craig did for a living.
He said he worked at a magazine, but when Marco asked for more specifics, Craig said, “It’s boring. It’s the business side.” There was nothing for Marco to comment on about the room because it was devoid of character. It would have been better to meet in a hotel room. “You want a drink?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You like vodka cranberry?”
“Perfect.” Marco had finished off a Poland Spring on the train. That combined with the plastic bottle he’d consumed slowly throughout the school day meant he was buzzed. With the vodka cranberry, he would be well on his way to drunkenness.
Craig disappeared. Marco opened the top desk drawer and saw pencils and pens and a guest pass to an office building on Avenue of the Americas. Craig returned with two drinks in IKEA glasses that Marco recognized because he and Todd had them, too. They clinked and drank. Maybe the drinks would mellow this guy out.
Marco set down his glass. They tried making out, but it was strained. Craig was a terrible kisser, too much tongue. Marco heard the apartment door open. Craig sat up straight, like an alert dog. “That’s my roommate. He got home early. I’ll be back in a sec.”
In the living room Marco could hear them talking. “I told you not to have anyone here,” the roommate said.
“He’s not staying long.”
Craig came back. “Do you want me to go?” Marco asked.
“No, no. It’s cool. He’s going to make us skirt steak. Come on.” In the living room Craig introduced him to the roommate, Val, who had a Sean Hayes vibe—queeny, but better looking and more muscular. There was no way this guy was straight.
Val shook Marco’s hand but gave him a measured, hostile look. Craig and Marco sat on the couch while Val gave them chips and guacamole and then got to work on dinner. He served them the steak but didn’t eat any himself, just sat there watching them. Finally, he disappeared into his bedroom. “Are you sure there’s nothing between you?” Marco asked quietly.
“He’s straight,” Craig said impatiently. His cell phone rang. After he spoke with the caller, he said, “My friend Tracy’s going to meet us at Sweet and Vicious.”
They left Val in the apartment, and when they got to the bar, Craig ordered a sea breeze and Marco ordered a double shot of Absolut. They sat on a bench in the back garden. Marco tried to make out with Craig, but then Tracy arrived, one of those fat slutty midwestern types like the ones who came to New York for the Sex and the City bus tour. When Craig got up to buy another round, Marco asked Tracy if Craig was dating Val.
“No, they’re just friends,” she said. “But I think Val has a guy crush on him.”
They drank for a long time, and Tracy showed no signs of leaving. She was pathetic and unfunny. The longer Marco stayed with these people, the more ridiculous it seemed to stay. The sex wouldn’t be good, the guy wasn’t cute, what was the point? But he wanted to fuck. You couldn’t drink with dumb strangers for two hours and then not fuck.
They finally put Tracy in a cab and got back to the apartment at eleven. Val was awake, watching snowboarding on TV. “Let’s go on the roof,” Craig said to Marco.
It was a warm night, almost the end of September. The roof was unfinished, just black tar, a wooden table, and a few sturdy cedar chairs with ugly cushions. Marco looked out at the Little Italy rooftops. There was a party a few buildings down, twentysomethings listening to music and laughing loudly while smoke swirled from a grill. He was older than all of them and it didn’t matter how many guys he had fucked on Grindr. It had to be thirty or thirty-five now, in hotel rooms, parking lots, bathrooms, cars, basements, entryways. The youngest was nineteen and said it was his first time. They did it in his car in Queens. He was so nervous, Marco wanted to pat him on the back instead of fuck him. The oldest was almost fifty, a fit finance guy Marco suspected was cheating on his wife. White guys, black guys, Chinese guys, Latino guys, ugly guys, cute guys, married guys, closeted guys, guys who said they’d never been with a man. He fucked nervous guys and angry ones and butch ones and skinny and fey. And he still felt old. He didn’t feel powerful or hot, he just felt tired. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to go home to bed, to Todd.
“What did you think of Tracy?” Craig asked.
“She was all right.”
Craig seemed insulted. “She’s my best friend.” Marco couldn’t think of anything nice to say, so he just nodded. “What’s your deal? Do you live with someone?”
He gave his usual response. “I have a partner, but we have an open relationship. I don’t believe in monogamy.” He preferred to say “partner” and not “husband”—it sounded more innocuous.
Craig’s face turned sour, as though he’d been offended, even though anyone who believed in monogamy wouldn’t be on a gay GPS app. To forestall an argument, Marco turned and kissed him. Craig moved away, sat in one of the deck chairs, and lit a cigarette. Marco followed, got down on his knees. He went down on him, Craig only semi-hard. His cock had a slight left curve that explained all his hostility. Marco imagined that he’d been tormented about it as a teenager.
Craig withdrew and said, “Let’s go back to my room.”
Val was still watchi
ng TV and cast Marco another dirty look as they came in. In the bedroom, Marco and Craig messed around, clothes coming off, listless and uninspiring. “You go on Grindr a lot?” Craig asked.
“Sometimes.”
“I just got on,” Craig said. “What are the guys like, the ones you’ve met?”
“They’re all right.”
“Compared to me, I mean.”
“Well, you’re not the hottest guy I’ve been with, if that’s what you mean.”
Craig frowned. He put on his pants and went out to the living room. Marco heard him talking to the roommate again. Very drunk and unafraid, Marco walked out naked and said, “Are we going to bed, or are we all going to sit around and chat?”
The two men turned to him, visibly irritated. “I’ll be in in a minute,” Craig said.
On the bed, Marco tried to stroke himself hard. A few minutes later, Craig returned. “I think you should go,” he said, throwing Marco’s clothes at him.
“I didn’t mean what I said about you not being hot,” Marco said. He was panicking. He didn’t want to be thrown out. He wanted Craig to need him even though they had no chemistry. Something had to come of this. “You’re not the ugliest one, either. I just meant . . . Come on. We were getting along so well.” As soon as he said it, he laughed quietly. It was the least true thing he had said the entire night.
“You need to go,” Craig said.
Val came in, so fast it was as though he’d been waiting outside the door. “It’s time to go,” he said.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Marco said. Val shoved him. Marco shoved him back, and then Val punched him in the jaw, but he wasn’t good at it and landed only half a punch.
“Ow!” The guy shoved him again, and he landed on the floor. He should have left hours ago; now there was no reason for any of this. Val was escorting him to the front door and closing it hard behind him. The lock clicked. Marco remembered his scooter. He knocked. “Go away!” Craig shouted.
“I just need my scooter. Can I have my scooter, please?”
Craig opened the door and handed it to him, slammed the door shut again. Through the door, Marco could hear them arguing. “I don’t know what I was doing,” Craig said. “I’m so sorry.”
Downstairs Marco got on the scooter. He didn’t want to go home. He couldn’t face Todd, didn’t want to be in Park Slope. He got the idea to go to Splash, a gay club on Seventeenth Street.
West on Houston to Sixth Avenue, riding on the sidewalk. The streets were empty because it was late. Big box stores. A homeless man shuffling along with a towering shopping cart of metal pieces. Marco moved on the empty sidewalk, right, left, right. At Seventeenth Street, he turned toward the club. He was so drunk he didn’t notice the metal guard around the tree. He heard the sound first. A smack and then he was flying higher than he could have imagined a scooter could throw anyone, his head hitting the frame as he went over and landed on his back. It felt like someone had poured a cup of hot coffee on his face.
He blinked. A young Spanish boy was crouched over him. “What happened to you?” the boy said with a thick accent. He had a strong jaw and dimples. He took off his tank and wrapped it around Marco’s head.
“Where’d you come from?” Marco asked.
“Splash,” he said, gesturing behind him.
“You’re so beautiful.”
The boy was on his cell phone, and some other men were standing over him, looking worried, asking if he was okay. “¿Cómo te llamas, lindo?” Marco asked.
“Eduard.”
“¿De dónde eres?”
“Soy boricua.”
“Yo también, guapo.”
The ambulance came. Marco was waiting to pass out, but the thing about being drunk was it kept you awake even after you wanted to pass out. The EMTs, men, came out of the ambulance. One was black and young, the other a burly white guy in his sixties. “What the hell happened to you?” the burly one asked Marco. Then he removed the bloody tank top, examined his forehead, and said, “You’re going to need stitches.” He wrapped a bandage around his head, and then they were loading him onto the stretcher and carrying the stretcher into the ambulance.
“What about him?” Marco said, pointing to Eduard.
“We don’t have room.”
“But he’s my boyfriend.”
“All right, he can come.” The boy smiled.
“Where’re you taking me?” Marco asked the driver, the big one.
“Beth Israel. Since St. Vincent’s closed, we gotta take you to BI.”
“Beth Israel means ‘house of God,’ ” said Eduard.
“How do you know?” Marco asked him.
“I read a book called The House of God, about a hospital. I’m interested in the hospital system. I’m studying to be a nurse.”
Marco laughed. From where he was lying on the stretcher, he could see the driver. “You ever slept with a man?” Marco asked the driver.
“I got six grandkids,” the guy said after a beat. “I been married forty-two years. But before I met my wife, I experimented a little. Sure I did.”
• • •
They didn’t let Eduard in when they operated. A resident stitched Marco up and gave him Librium. He was awake for the whole thing. When she finished, he raised his hand to his face and felt a bandage above his eyes. A nurse came in to check on him and then said, “You have a visitor.”
Eduard wandered in and sat in a chair, smiling at him. “You’re still here?” Marco asked.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Eduard said. “They say you had sixteen stitches.”
“You rescued me.”
“You were good practice.”
“I was your dummy?”
“You are a dummy. You shouldn’t ride a scooter drunk.”
“Where’s my scooter? Oh shit, where’s my scooter?”
Eduard held it up. Marco was overcome. How could he feel so emotional about a scooter? Marco got up and led Eduard, still carrying the scooter, out of the hospital. “You should stay,” Eduard called after him.
Outside, sleepy from the Librium, Marco hailed a cab. Eduard got in with him. He gave the address on Fifteenth Street in the South Slope. In the seat, Eduard strapped him in.
“My husband hates me,” Marco said. “He’ll think I’m stupid. Did you call him?” Marco had given Eduard his phone before the surgery and asked him to call.
“Yeah.”
“He was upset, right?”
“Worried. I told him where we were, but he said he had to stay with your kids. You have kids?”
“Two boys. They’re adopted. I don’t want to be a father. I want to be a baby. Will you take care of me?”
“I already take care of my mother.”
“She can live with us, too.” Marco looked at the boy’s young, pretty face. The Librium was kicking in, and Marco started to drift off. When they got to the apartment, it was light out. Todd opened the door, looked at the bandage, and said nothing. “This is Eduard,” Marco said.
“I wanted to be sure he got home all right,” Eduard said, turning to go.
“It’s late,” Marco said. “Sleep on the couch.”
“I should get home.”
“Where do you live?” Todd asked.
“Corona.”
“Stay here. It’s too far,” Todd said. He made up the couch. He was kind to others but never to Marco.
At the couch Marco kissed Eduard on the cheek. “Buenas noches, mi héroe, mi príncipe.”
“Buenas noches, mi borracho.”
Marco laughed. He got in bed. The Librium felt so good. Todd got in next to him and turned his back. He could be as angry as he wanted. After all of this, Marco could sleep. It came over him like a velvet curtain.
When he woke up, afternoon light was streaming in. The clock said three-thirty. He had slept the whole day.
“It’s good you slept,” Todd said when he entered the room. He wasn’t tender, but he didn’t seem as angry as he had the night
before. Todd never stayed home to care for him, even when Marco had the flu. Work was always more important.
“You stayed home?” Marco asked.
“It’s okay. I took Enrique to school this morning. Rosa just went to get him.” He sat on the edge of the bed, handed Marco some water with Emergen-C inside.
“Where’s the baby?”
“He’s napping, believe it or not.”
“He went down without a fight?”
“Yup.”
“He never does that for me. Where’s Eduard?” Marco drank slowly, didn’t want to make himself throw up.
“He had to go,” Todd said.
“Did you get his number?” Todd shook his head. “Why didn’t you get his number? I wanted to thank him.”
“You just want to fuck him,” Todd said.
“I would have bled to death if he hadn’t found me.”
“You wouldn’t have bled to death. You were in front of Splash. What’s going on, Marco?”
“I had a bad date. I didn’t want to come home.”
“The kid said you were really drunk. When did you start drinking again?”
“A couple weeks ago. In Cape Cod.”
“I thought you were on Antabuse.”
“I stopped refilling it.”
“You have to get help.”
“You mean join A.A.?” Marco asked.
“And you have to stop fucking. You can’t do that and then come home. You have two children. I don’t want an open relationship. I never did.”
“You started this. That guy in Greenport.”
“It was in Mattituck.”
“Mattifuck.”
“I felt horrible about it. It made me realize how much I loved you. I don’t want to go on Grindr. I don’t want you to. I want a family.”
“We were a family! How come you didn’t listen to me when I said I never wanted two?”
“What does that have to do with anything? He’s your son now.”
“I know he is. But this isn’t how I wanted it!”
He could hear the front door opening and playful shouts in Spanish. Rosa was coming in with Enrique. Enrique skipped into the bedroom. “What’s that?” Enrique asked, pointing at Marco’s bandage.
