“You were one of M’s lovers at the time.”
“Um, I was his boyfriend.”
“Yes, of course you were. You meant an awful lot to him.”
David appeared at my side and handed me a pint.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m David.”
The woman’s gaze lingered over us. “So very pleased to meet you, David. Now, you two young men look dashing together.”
David raised his glass. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”
“Please, call me Becky.”
“Becky and Frederic are friends with Marcus,” I explained.
“Frederic,” Becky said, “was one of Marcus’s lovers, a long time ago.”
David coughed, spilling his beer. I handed him a crumpled napkin. “Frederic was Marcus’s semiotics professor.”
“I suppose,” Becky said, “I risk sounding salacious. This younger generation remains puritanical in so many ways. Frederic and I have kept many lovers over the years.”
“And shared a few,” Frederic said.
“So very true, dear.”
“Rock on,” David said.
Frederic smiled. “Rock on.”
“Tell us,” Becky said, “what did you think of M’s performance tonight?”
All eyes turned to me. David poked me in the side. “What did you call it earlier?”
“I said it was very Marcus.”
“Well that about sums it up, doesn’t it?” Frederic said. Then he and his wife both laughed as if I’d told the funniest joke in the whole wide world. I fixed a smile to my face and bowed my head.
“This was our first burlesque,” David said. “We really enjoyed it.”
Becky tilted her glass flute toward him. “And what part did you enjoy the most?”
David opened and closed his mouth. I mentally prayed as hard as I could he wouldn’t mention Lobster Girl drizzling her tits with melted butter. Another second passed and I was just about to intervene when David replied: “The characters, the story-telling, the parody. Take that act with the opera diva and the maestro. It was clearly a commentary on the intersection of racism and patriarchy.” I stared at my pot-smoking, bike mechanic boyfriend but he wasn’t done yet. “Does a woman’s body have value only before a man’s gaze? Or can she step outside the script that’s been assigned her? Can she have her own voice? When she hit that high note and blew off that guy’s pants, that was freakin’ brilliant. Society codifies and commodifies sexuality and beauty. But tonight was a celebration of the human form in all its shapes, colours and sizes.”
Rebecca’s gaze narrowed. “Some would say it’s still exploitation. It’s still women being paid to remove their clothes.”
“But for whom? How many straight men do you think were in the audience tonight? Very few, I’d say. If these dancers are doing burlesque to feel joyful and subversive and defiant, and if it’s in front of an appreciative and supportive audience, then that’s real empowerment. The truth of it is, burlesque isn’t inherently feminist or anti-feminist any more than any other art form. But like any art form, it can be used for good or for evil.”
“For good or for evil?” Becky said. “How terribly romantic.”
David emptied his pint in one slow, unhurried quaff. As I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, framed by the rough, unshaven curve of his jaw and the musculature of his throat and neck, I realized with the inexorable and elemental force of a glacier calving that, after two years, I was just beginning to know this man standing next to me with no underwear on and his balls hanging out, that I’d just scratched the surface of everything he was, and everything he was capable of. Reaching between Frederic and Becky, he set his empty pint glass on the bar, shrugged and knuckled away the moistness on his upper lip.
“I’m Italian,” he said.
At the far end of the room, a small circle of friends sang in perfect, three-part harmony “Happy Birthday” while sparklers illuminated all their faces in an ephemeral, golden light.
“Viva l’Italia,” Frederic said.
Becky leaned forward and kissed David on both cheeks, right to left. In that moment, it seemed the most natural, warm gesture possible. The top buttons of David’s dress shirt were undone, exposing a glinting crucifix. Frederic’s hand rested on the back of my neck. I couldn’t recall when he’d actually placed it there, but it also seemed more than okay.
“It is getting late, dear,” Becky said. “Will you fetch us our coats?”
“Of course,” Frederic said. Then, as a kind of afterthought, he squeezed my shoulder and glanced sidelong at David and me. “Why don’t you two join us a for a nightcap?”
“We don’t live too far from here,” Becky said, adjusting her shawl. “A ten-minute cab ride. I’m afraid our glorious M has abandoned us all tonight.”
I was just about to politely decline when Marwa approached with a tiny, red-ribboned jewellery box, just large enough for cufflinks or earrings. “Here you go.” She handed it to Becky. “Everything’s in there.”
“Thank you, Marwa. You’re a sweetheart. You’ll put this on our tab?”
“Daniel.” Marwa looked from one of us to the other with a furrowed pixie smile. “Do you know Freddy and Becky?”
“Yeah, we’re old friends,” David said.
“Any friends of M are friends of ours,” Becky said. “We were all just about to come back to our place for a drink. Marwa, your little wingèd helpers will join us tonight, won’t they?”
“My cousin’s just finishing packing the van. Sure, I can ask them, if that’s okay.”
“I insist. Marwa, you did a splendid job this evening. Congratulations. If you young people are hungry, perhaps we can call ahead and have something delivered?”
“I’m hungry.” David nudged me in the arm. “What about you?”
“Perhaps something from Terroni?” Becky said.
“Oh. Fuck me sideways.” Marwa’s big eyes grew bigger. She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “We have to order their C’t Mang.”
I looked at Marwa. “What’s see-tay-mon-jay?”
“Just the pizza version of crack cocaine. It’s mozzarella and gorgonzola, with smoked prosciutto and sliced pear and walnuts, all drizzled in honey.” Her eyes rolled back in her head like she was having an orgasm. “I know the combination sounds crazy, but trust me, it’s absolutely to die for.”
“Then it’s settled.” Becky unsnapped the razor-mouth of her taloned purse. “A nightcap and a midnight snack. Marwa, remember to order extra this time, so people can have something to take home with them.”
Marwa already had her phone out. “Roger that.” She took the credit card Becky handed her and retreated to a quiet corner.
“Frederic, sweetheart. The coats, please.”
“Yes, of course, dear.”
After that, there was no off-ramp in sight. If life was a highway, we were careening along at breakneck speed. Before I even realized it, we were getting into a cab with Frederic and Becky; Marwa and her two assistants would meet up with us in their own van. I clutched my coat in my lap. The truth was, I had a semi-hard-on, and I was scared to even begin to think why.
Becky had somehow ended up sitting in the back between David and me. As we skated north-by-west through residential side streets, David expounded on Venus figurines and Renaissance art while Becky listened attentively with one hand resting on top of my knee.
After ten minutes I asked, trying not to sound too pathetic: “So, are we almost there yet?”
“Not far,” Frederic said.
“Almost there,” Becky said. Then she squeezed my knee and winked at me.
I entertained a vision of the two of them snapping the cabbie’s neck before turning to plunge their fangs into our jugulars, or maybe once we were alone they’d calmly reach behind their heads and peel off their faces revealing themselves as grey-skinned, double-jointed, prostate-probing aliens. No wonder they liked prosciutto on their pizza; hadn’t I read somewhere that human flesh tasted just like por
k?
Finally, after what seemed like hours driving through the night (but which in reality was probably less than fifteen minutes), we arrived at our destination. Their vine-covered, Tudor-styled home in The Junction looked deceptively modest and just a little bit sinister, set back from the road. As we stepped out of our cab, Marwa’s van pulled into the drive. Once inside, Frederic gave us a tour of his newly-renovated, glass-walled, climate-controlled cellar, reconstructed entirely from reclaimed lumber and Ottawa Valley river rock. Back upstairs, we settled on plush cream-coloured couches in front of an enormous gas fireplace. Marwa strolled comfortably in her bare feet and cheongsam between the living room and the kitchen, replenishing our glasses and helping Frederic in the pantry.
Marwa’s cousin was a nervous teenager named Youssef who relaxed after his first beer and passed out after his second. Then I wondered what might be in the gazillion-year-old Scotch Frederic was serving the rest of us (although that didn’t stop me from drinking it). Marwa’s other assistant was a loud, talkative redhead named Brody who apparently owned a proper, authentic kilt, and whose family boasted its own clan tartan. I started eying a soap-stone beaver on the mantel, thinking I could use it to club him unconscious, but thankfully the conversation moved on to other topics. As promised, when it arrived, Terroni’s C’t Mang was truly fabulously delicious. While Youssef snored, curled up like a puppy in his love seat, we stuffed ourselves with gourmet pizza, washing it all down with heady bottles of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay.
A little after 2 a.m., the six of us gathered around Youssef and woke him gently. We said our goodbyes and Frederic and Becky hugged each of us in turn. Before we left, they made us promise we’d come back to a proper dinner party which they’d host in the spring. Then Marwa, who hadn’t been drinking, drove us all home, dropping off David and me last.
As we stood outside our building in our kilts and blowing snow, Marwa called me over to the driver’s window. “I almost forgot.” She presented me a small box sealed with a Cherry Bomb Bakery label. “Something special, just for you.”
Inside our loft, David and I flung off our coats. I accidentally tore his shirt wrestling it over his head, but neither of us cared. David’s back was against the front door and I had him in my mouth when he came. I swallowed all of it, deep-throating him, one sweaty hand splayed over his crucifix, while jacking off furiously on my bruised knees. After that, I felt a whole lot better. I felt so much better I was laughing from relief. Then we cracked open some beers and ate the leftover pizza Becky had insisted on sending home with us, standing around the kitchen table wearing nothing but our combat boots. Inside Marwa’s box, we discovered a single fancy cupcake decorated with the letters “D&D” in pink icing.
So, we were alive and we hadn’t been eaten by aliens or roofied (and sold into the white sex slave trade) after all. I was embarrassed and immensely gratified, and I was also feeling full and drunk, and grateful, and exhausted in the best way possible, which was a good thing because I was looking forward to spooning David naked and passing out, and then waking up in our own familiar bed and under our own warm blankets, in the cool and hazy, dawn-bright February morning.
CHAPTER THREE
Magic Carpet Ride
On a Sunday early in April, David and I took the 506 streetcar east across Toronto’s Don Valley to The Rock Oasis climbing gym where David’s friend Arthur worked part-time. During the trip the morning drizzle turned into a steady downpour and, although the stop was only two minutes from the venue, by the time we arrived we were both soaked through. (I also realized we were up the block from where Marcus lived, but neither David nor I commented on that fact.) The space was suitably cavernous, with vertical and canted walls covered with thousands of holds. David Usher was playing on the sound system, and framed prints of ecstatic climbers haloed in lens flares decorated the snack bar.
Arthur was a friendly, lanky guy who could’ve been Vince Carter’s kid brother. He met us at the registration desk, gave us towels and waivers to sign. By the time we’d dried off and changed, he was already speaking in front of a small group of beginners, three other couples in addition to ourselves.
Obediently, we lined up in front of a training wall where Arthur talked us through harnessing-up and tying ourselves in. I had on my regular mesh workout shorts, but when I tightened my straps I was shocked at how noticeable my junk was. It wasn’t so bad for David who was wearing black.
“Gee willikers,” he said.
“Don’t,” I said.
He started to giggle. I gave him the finger. I pushed my leg straps down on my thighs and did my best to keep my back to the others.
It came time to practice belaying and I went up the wall first. It was an easy enough climb to the top. When I let go and swung free, I was acutely conscious of the taut, creaking rope bearing my full weight, and of my harness riding up higher than ever. As David lowered me down, I slowly revolved, my bulging crotch on display to the world like an overstuffed piñata.
Then it was my turn to belay and the first thing I noticed was how the equipment gripped David’s ass. I didn’t recall ever seeing him from this particular angle before, and never strapped in like this. If women had Victoria’s Secret push-up bras, then gay guys had climbing gear. What with all the ropes and harnesses and grunting and straining, I was discovering rock-climbing was one step sideways from a Folsom Fair smackdown.
David’s legs were his best asset, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when, gawking up at him open-mouthed, I felt a swelling tension inside my shorts. I was mortified. Both my hands were full, and there was no way I could adjust myself. When Arthur called out to me to take in the slack, others turned to look. One girl glanced down in my direction and just plain stared. I wanted to say: “Excuse me, my eyes are up here.”
The group lesson went on for another ten minutes. After that, thankfully, we were on our own and each couple wandered off to explore the gym. At that moment a noisy birthday party of prepubescent girls arrived with their parents in tow, and Arthur hurried back to the front desk.
“So,” David said, “what do you think?”
“I think,” I said, “let’s do this.”
Our passes were good for the day and we took our time trying out the beginner routes before moving on to more challenging ones. David was more agile than me, but I had the longer reach. After a couple hours, our forearms aching, we took a break. That was when we spotted a guy climbing on his own (what Arthur later told us was solo top-roping). He was thin with a scruffy beard, wearing a bandana and denim shorts. He was also shirtless and sporting a farmer’s tan, which (according to David) no respectable gay guy would ever do. He was taking his time, hanging one-armed off a steep overhang, dipping into his chalk bag, and checking out his course, the muscles of his body standing out like an anatomy textbook diagram. As we watched, he launched himself through the air, caught onto another hold with both hands and dangled for a second before wedging in one knee and digging in his other toe.
“That’s impressive,” David said.
I reluctantly agreed.
“He knows people are watching him.” David sipped from his Gatorade.
I looked around but there was no one else in the area. By “people” he meant us, but that didn’t stop David from keenly observing. At the far end of the gym in the bouldering area, the birthday girls were shrieking and laughing. We finished our Clif Bars and I went to the washroom (an unexpected ordeal in my harness), and by the time I got back, Shirtless Guy was on the ground chatting with David. He nodded in my direction, stretching his shoulders, one elbow in the air with his hands locked behind his back.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I replied, trying not to stare into his bushy pit. “Daniel, this is Joshua,” David said. “He’s from Melbourne. I was just asking him for some pointers.”
“Right.”
“Look,” Joshua said, shaking out his shoulders, “why don’t you go up this wall here and I’ll watch what you’re doing.
That’s the best way to learn.” His hands were taped, and he had scabs on his knuckles and chalk on his nose. His torso was also gleaming with sweat. He pointed at David’s Gatorade. “You mind?”
“Sure.” David handed it over, Joshua took a thirsty swig and passed it to me.
“Daniel,” David said, “you’ll belay?”
“Okay.” I pushed my leg straps down on my thighs, and clipped myself in.
“So, you always want to do a partner check,” Joshua said, tugging hard on David’s belay loop and then on mine. “Check the knot, check the harness. All tied in? Then she’ll be right. Before you go up, previz your route, know where your hands and feet are going. Keep your centre of gravity balanced, good job. Keep your body close to the wall. You got it. You’re a natural. Relax your grip. You always want to hold yourself in place with the least amount of force. Push up with your legs, arms are for balance. Too many blokes try to muscle their way up, pulling with their upper body but that’s bad form that’ll just wear you out.”
By this point, David was already about three metres off the ground.
“Belaying,” Joshua said, leaning into me, “is the most important, sacred job we have as climbers. You’ve got your mate’s life in your hands. Give him just a little more slack, that’s right. You wanna give a good belay, stay focused, anticipate his next move. Don’t be afraid of getting closer to the wall. You got, what, ten, twelve kilos on your mate? That works in your favour. But if you’re lighter and he takes a fall, you don’t want to get pulled into the rock. Keep your knees bent. ‘David, you got it!’ Make sure his leg doesn’t get behind the rope.” His mouth turned to my ear. “Behind every great climber is a great belayer.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Real nice job.” He folded his arms. “That’s a ripper. You’re both doing great!”
I was trying my best to listen to what Joshua was saying. I could feel the heat radiating from his body and smell his crisp B.O. I half-expected a halo of lens flares to appear around his beatific, upturned face. I wondered how his beard would feel if I turned and kissed him. I also wanted to tell him I was only nine-point-five kilos heavier than David.
Tales from the Bottom of My Sole Page 4
