Boys Keep Swinging

by Jake Shears

  “Are you Jayne County?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “What’s it to you?” she replied, not looking up from her current project. Jayne County was formerly Wayne County, as in Wayne County and the Electric Chairs. My Pete had spent many an afternoon playing me the Wayne County records: loud, inspiring, grating stuff. And here I was, half-naked in a dressing room, watching her about to snort some lines. This is why I had fucking moved to New York.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing here?”

  “What the hell does it look like I’m doing? This isn’t baking soda.” She blew a rail and fluttered her eyes, tapping her nostril. “I saw you dancing up there,” she said. “There’s a good time written all over that ass.”

  “I just started. You think I’m all right?”

  “You’re all right, doll.” She gave me a kind smile and laughed. “Keep it up and someday you might get a real job.”

  IT WAS JUNE OF 2000. I dipped my head out the open window and stuck my face into the breeze. I needed air. The taxi smelled like an armpit—and not in a good way. The ride from the airport into Brooklyn was surreal. I had been gone only for about five weeks, but I could see right away that certain details of the city had switched, places had been renamed. Every new café awning or HSBC spotted was like being cheated on, proof that the world just went ahead without you. It was New York saying, I think we’ve met. . . . What was your name again?

  My exhaustion was tinged with disappointment. I was like a kid who had opened his last Christmas present. After hitting Amsterdam, Berlin, Paris, and Barcelona, I’d found my last stop in London to be a let-down. When I’d arrived at my hostel I’d been finished with making new friends and had just needed a bed to pass out in. My camera had gone missing with a whole roll of film, pictures of people I wasn’t sure if I would ever remember. My backpack was crammed with dirty T-shirts and crumpled brochures. I had managed to navigate my way around Europe with no plan, few clothes, not a lot of money, and a Bible-size Spartacus International Gay Guide, now warped and worn, marked with pens and stuffed with frantically scribbled phone numbers.

  Already, the last month was a dreamlike blur of blisters, train rides, furtive glances. I’d slept in hostels or on the couches of strangers, dined with whoever was next to me. I’d dived like an Olympian into beds of boys who spoke no English, lost hours to my own daydreams, cruised bathhouses that were older than I was, spent afternoons with random people, playing walk-on roles in each other’s lives. I’d cried on park benches in moments of sheer loneliness. Each new place felt impenetrable, and my aimless walking rarely revealed clues as to what it was I was supposed to be doing.

  I wrote every day, high on hash and caffeine, and filled up notebooks with thoughts that could only come from social deprivation:

  I feel like I have a constant need to perform for others. How often do I become detached from myself by playing to be someone who I think others want to see?

  Why do I feel sometimes like I’m trying to imitate the boys who tortured me in high school? Maybe I loved their superhuman powers as much as I couldn’t stand them. I want that ability to command. How easy it is to become a twisted version of yourself, stepping into roles inspired by people that we hated, turning into our own worst enemy.

  With the detritus stripped away, the total anonymity, I had nothing else to offer but my own self. The only exception was when I was in Berlin, where my friend Andy was now living. It was the first time on the trip I had met up with someone who knew me well. We hadn’t parted on the best terms when he left New York, so initially I was nervous about seeing him. But it turned out to be a reset button for our friendship. East Berlin had been just what he needed in his life. The city was popping off and Andy seemed truly happy for the first time.

  I soaked up Berlin’s blocky streets, the unkempt parks. People did as they pleased, without anyone looking over their shoulder. Andy and I spent our days going to gay beer gardens and DIY bars, some in people’s actual apartments. The men were aggressively sexual, the music consistent and solid. Two DJs, Boris and ND, showed me around the city’s techno underbelly. I ended up staying in Berlin the longest. But the guys, as hot as they were, could come across cold. I got my feelings hurt a few times. A guy whom I had a fling with told me at one point that he thought my friendliness was a put-on, like every other American’s. That my warmth wasn’t real. Nevertheless, I had a ball sleeping around and carrying on with Andy at all hours.

  Back in Brooklyn, the cab pulled up to the front of the Cake Factory and I slowly shuffled up to the front door. As ratty as it still looked, it was home. The loft was quiet when I entered. There were a couple of lamps on, but it seemed like no one was there. As I approached my door, I saw a light coming from under the bottom of it. That’s strange. I’d locked my room when I left. I twisted the knob and walked in. Leonard jumped up from the computer at my desk.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, his face flushed, trying to shove himself back in his jeans. On the computer screen was a JPEG of a naked woman with her legs spread.

  “Leonard, why are you in here? My room was locked.”

  “I—I thought it would be okay if I got some . . . uh, work done on your computer.”

  “Yeah, looks like it.” I threw my backpack on my bed. “You really shouldn’t be in here, but whatever. I need food, I’m starving.”

  I shrugged off the fact that Leonard had broken into my room and was masturbating at my desk. I knew he meant no harm—he was just horny. I could relate. Desperate measures for desperate times. Leonard and I caught up over a burger and I forgot about the incident while I told him about my trip. It sounded like life had been uneventful around the Cake Factory. But that wasn’t what Anne Marie said when she got home a couple hours later.

  “Oh my God.” She stepped into my room, wide-eyed and serious. She closed the door behind her as if there was a killer on the loose. “Jason, it’s been really bizarre around here.” I told her about the masturbatory spectacle I had just witnessed. She in turn revealed that Leonard wasn’t the only person who’d been fucking with my stuff. Apparently, he had rented my room out to a couple from Brussels. They were in there for a month. “Total trash,” she said. “And Donavan has been seriously out of it. I think he’s a full-on junkie.”

  I could feel the blood pumping in my ears. They had rented out my room? People had been sleeping in my bed? I tore into Leonard’s space and kicked his couch. “What the fuck? Renting my room? Are you kidding me?” He looked up at me, opening and closing his mouth, no sound coming out. I was boiling. “Fuck you guys. Your days are numbered here, you fucking prick.”

  My heart was still racing when I slipped into bed. I stared at my peeling ceiling. Strangers had been poking around my stuff, seeing my notes on the desk and flipping through my records. Those were my things, imbued with the meaning that I had given them. I imagined the couple from Brussels looking through my notebooks and laughing, making fun of my music. I was raging, but my thoughts soon puddled into my pillow. Sleep wasn’t as hard to come by as I had thought.

  After the room invasion incident, I refused to speak to Leonard and was only cordial to Donavan, who had really started to lose touch. One day I found him wandering around our floor wearing a nurse’s face mask and wielding a machete. He drew a pentagram near the kitchen floor and placed two pears and an apple in it, told me he’d put his blood in the paint, and that it was a spell to capture Anne Marie’s spirit. Neither Anne Marie nor I would touch the thing, and the fruit started to rot. Despite it being creepy, I thought the whole situation was kind of hilarious. I believed that Donavan wasn’t capable of inflicting any real harm, and I still feel that way. Even when he was walking around with a machete it never seemed truly dangerous.

  Anne Marie hatched a plan: We were both going to approach Graham, our landlord, and explain that Leonard had broken into my room and had pocketed money off of renting it out, and that Donavan was on a steady diet of heroin and wandering the place dressed li
ke he was in Mortal Kombat. Graham’s art studio was in the building. He was assembling some rusty-looking, boatlike structure. It was pretty ugly, but such things probably got him laid.

  Anne Marie dressed the part, friendly and flirtatious. She was great at this. I marveled at her strategic body language, her subtle manipulation while I nervously wrung my hands. I had been wondering what was in this for her, but then realized that she simply wanted Donavan’s bedroom, which was about three times the size of the dripping blood sac she’d been sleeping in for the past six months.

  I felt guilty about all of it. I wasn’t very good at ratting on people, so it was good to have someone as assertive as Anne Marie to help get the job done. I wanted Leonard out for sure, but I still felt bad for Donavan. Even though he was a junkie, I still thought he was a sweet guy. But then, on the other hand, he was painting pentagrams in the kitchen. Graham agreed that he didn’t want those guys renting the floor and would start the proceedings to throw them out.

  “Hey, by the way,” he said as we were leaving. “If we get inspectors in the building we’re going to need to move your beds out for a couple days.” Oh, yeah, that’s right, the whole thing was an illegal living space.

  “Graham,” I said, “is there any way you could take a look at the ceiling in my room? It’s flooding every time it rains.”

  He paused for a second and looked at me, just like those mean boys in the hallway at school, like I still had teased hair and a skirt.

  “You ever heard that song by Janet Jackson? What’s it called? ‘What Have You Done for Me Lately?’ You’ve put enough on my plate. Don’t forget to put your rent check in the freezer.”

  IT WAS FRIDAY AND THE Cock had so many people crammed in it, you could practically swim through the crowd without touching the floor. There had been the customary New York Times article about how it was the new hot spot, so it looked like every muscle queen in Chelsea had traveled down to inspect the plumbing. The invasion was apparent just from the average circumference of everyone’s chests and the higher arch of their eyebrows.

  The night was called Foxy, and the person responsible was Mario Diaz, a swashbuckling party promoter from Seattle. He’d almost single-handedly given the East Village its sleazy gay resurgence. The party’s slogan was “What would you do for a hundred bucks?” People got up and displayed such talents as mixing cocktails in their rectum, or attempting some drunken striptease. I heard a rumor that a girl I knew had gotten up a few weeks before, taken her clothes off, and ground the stage like a roadhouse stripper. When she bent over and caressed her flanks, there was toilet paper hanging out of her butt. The humiliation was part of the exercise, and to participate was to wake up the next day and wonder where your life had gone wrong. But each person was egged on in their act by the cheering crowd. At least whoever achieved the most impressive display of depravity walked away with a hundred dollars.

  Justin Bond and Jackie Beat were hosting. I was amazed at how fast those New York queens were: They made forked-tongued split-second decisions, brave enough to offend, their wit seeming progressively sharper the more drinks they consumed. Justin was gorgeous and imperturbable, looking like some ’70s movie siren with her shoulder-length brown hair and smart backless dress. She had become almost mythical to me, ever since I had seen her Kiki and Herb show at the Fez. Jackie Beat, a brash drag queen, writer, and comedian, sat in a chair on the micro-stage, as standing for minutes might have proven too difficult. She was very large at the time, and I couldn’t help but think of Mary when I watched her.

  Behind where Jackie and Justin sparred with the crowd, you could see the “dark room” bottlenecking with people trying to get in. My writer friend Mattilda appeared at my side, wearing a glamorous polyester shirt with a butterfly collar, and a jump rope as a necklace. “There’s a guy by the bathroom selling some coke,” she said. “I’m just going to get some, do you want any?” I didn’t do coke often, but I was already a little drunk, so I shrugged and said I’d split a bag with her. They were small, anyway. I could afford fifteen bucks’ worth.

  We elbowed our way into the back, where you could discreetly partake in the illicit activities of your choice. They were called “dark rooms” for a reason. Once you were beyond the entryway, only silhouettes could be seen, heads tilted back, spaced-out grunts pushing up from the inside, while teeth gnashed and lips parted. I blindly walked forward and tripped over someone crouched down, giving a blow job. Once we found some room, we dipped into the tiny bag, squinting our eyes to see if any powder had actually made it onto the key. Doing my best not to drop any of it on the floor, I inhaled deeply. My nose was suddenly on fire.

  “OOWWWwww.” I grabbed the side of my nostril. “Jesus Christ.” My eyes watered. “That feels like fucking dishwashing detergent.”

  Mattilda frowned and decided to try some anyway, then held her face in pain. “Delicious! Unbelievably fresh,” she said, laughing, her hands pinching her nose. “Only the finest coke at the Cock. Holy shit, that’s bad. Laxative for sure. Probably going to be shitting for days. Guess I’d better do some K first.” Mattilda started riffling around in her purse in the dark. “Found it!” she said. “Talk about good luck,” she said, and snorted some from her wrist.

  “Let’s get the hook,” I said.

  As we sidled our way out, some guy onstage was pulling out his half-hard dick and bouncing it around to “Magic” by Olivia Newton-John. I couldn’t get a clear view of what exactly he was doing, but the crowd loved it. If it was a magic trick, there was no way it could beat Amanda Lepore pulling thirty feet of scarves out of her pussy.

  Mattilda and I headed the six blocks to Wonder Bar, our conversation getting more abstract with each step; her K was kicking in. Wonder Bar was busy but not jammed. Mattilda excused herself to go to the bathroom and I found Seth, who was standing near the entrance, with some pale, sweaty guy who looked wasted. It was almost 2 a.m., time to go to my friend Matthew Delgado’s penthouse.

  Mattilda eventually came out of the bathroom and stared straight through me, upright but completely unresponsive. It looked like a pretty fierce K-hole. When she snapped out of it, she said, “Girl, you won’t believe this. I had a hallucination that all the walls disappeared and everyone was watching me shit.” I just grabbed her by the shoulders and steered her along with the group of about seven guys, including one stripper who had just finished for the night at IC Guys. We took the ten-minute walk to Matthew’s place.

  Matthew Delgado was a man who had tipped me fifty dollars in each one of my shoes one night at IC Guys. He was probably in his late forties. I made it clear that I wasn’t a sex worker, but he didn’t seem to care either way. Sexually, I wasn’t attracted to him. But I liked his half-nurturing, half-sketchy demeanor: He was chatty, secretive, and charming. Most of his stories of sex and celebrities were horseshit, but I found his heart and love of a good time irresistible. Also, his two-story penthouse on the Bowery, with its terrace and hot tub, made it easier to forgive any minor shortcomings. It was fun to invade the place, pillaging his endless supply of alcohol and flopping around in the Jacuzzi like untrained dolphins.

  Matthew’s normally grouchy face couldn’t hide his childlike glee as we blew in, everyone already casing the joint for plates and straws. He had already gotten some kind of party started, and there were a few hot guys there. I spotted a fledgling photographer whom Matthew let sleep in his windowless storage space in the basement. There was a ditzy and blitzed model, who already had his shirt off and was dancing to “One More Time” by Daft Punk. He was clearly celebrating his new Dolce & Gabbana ad campaign that was currently plastered all over the city. I pushed Matthew’s two gigantic, unruly Rottweilers off of me and stepped into the kitchen to make drinks.

  As I carried the cocktails up the spiral staircase to the second floor, I stepped around the piles of clothes already accumulated. Three guys were in the hot tub, a mess of barking queen soup. I stripped down to my underwear and joined them, gingerly sinking into the
water, holding my drink so as not to spill it or slip and nail somebody with my elbow. The briny bath bubbled and popped around my shoulders. Oh, to be a little high, kind of drunk, floating over the Bowery. Arms and legs, boners and vodka tonics.

  Matthew was going to let me house-sit for him the following week while he was out of town, in exchange for my feeding the dogs and watering the plants. That, plus going to visit my parents, would give me enough time to let my roommate business blow over. Anne Marie and I had managed to get Donavan and Leonard kicked out of the Cake Factory. I felt terrible, like I had betrayed Donavan. But he’d started acting stalky, showing up at Anne Marie’s bartending job and staring at her from across the room, like a maniac. We’d had to file a police report.

  The laughs and chatter came into focus around me. It was a conversation to be expected: Britney versus Madonna. Female pop star versus female pop star—the kind of thing many gay people talk about when they can’t think of anything else to say. I let my eyes glaze over and lolled my head.

  A man with a shaved noggin and tattoos was sitting next to me, not participating in the moldy dialogue. I made a face and shoved a gag finger down my throat. He flashed me a lovely, crinkled smile. His name was Steve. He was a bartender at the Hangar on Christopher Street, and the hottest thing I’d seen all night. We talked about music: Mouse on Mars and Pizzicato Five, which led us to extolling the virtues of Other Music, a record store on West Fourth Street and Lafayette that carried every record you’ve never heard of. I extracted myself from the man-bath to trot to the kitchen, dripping, to refill our drinks. Mattilda was doing runway in front of the stereo to the Grace Jones version of “Warm Leatherette” and had turned a blanket she’d found into a cape and a head wrap. She stopped and looked at me. “Girl, you want to try this on?”

  I returned to the tub and sat in Steve’s lap, his hairy chest on my back, his dick getting hard beneath me. Some other hot guy with a beard and short shorts emerged from the apartment, introduced himself, then got interrupted and caught up in another conversation.