Sottopassaggio

by Nick Alexander

I nod and pull him to me again. “Tastes good!”

  When he leads me through to the bedroom, I am gripped by stress, swamped by memories of less than successful sessions, and specifically, the memory of the debacle that followed the window-kiss in Nice. It was the only other time I can remember being picked up in the street, and it ended, oh-so-unexpectedly when I took my T-shirt off. I think back to that arsehole waiting until I was naked in his lounge to tell me that I was fat. My hard-on fades.

  Benoit shucks his jeans and underwear, and stands without embarrassment wearing only a grey T-shirt.

  His dick hangs heavily between his legs, in perfect proportion with the rest of his chunky body.

  He nods at me. “Your turn,” he says.

  I take a deep breath and pull my sweatshirt and T-shirt over my head, getting momentarily stuck in the darkness.

  When Benoit comes back into view he has removed his T-shirt too, revealing velvety swathes of brown body hair, the slightest of tums, and a muscular torso.

  He looks at me in an appraising kind of way and I stop breathing.

  He bites his lip, and says, “Désolé, mais …” – Sorry, but …

  I groan. I think, “No! This can’t be happening.”

  My heart skips a beat and I stand stupidly fingering my T-shirt, unable to decide what to do.

  “Is the past destined to repeat for ever more?” I wonder. Have I done it all? Does it all just go round and round from now on?

  Benoit turns away from me. I glance at his muscular buttocks protruding pertly and feel the blood drain from my face. I start to untangle the T-shirt so that I can put it back on.

  When I hear the creak of a door, I look up. Benoit is peering coyly over his shoulder, not the expression I expected at all.

  “Sorry,” he says again, “but … Would you mind if I put my chaps on?”

  I frown at him.

  “They’re new and I really like them,” he says, a childlike grin upon his face.

  I start to smile.

  He pulls a polished pair of chaps from the wardrobe and turns back to face me, his dick jutting.

  I grin broadly. “No problem,” I say.

  Benoit slides a leg into each tube, then turns and faces the mirror as he fastens the waistband. Peeping out of the soft leather, his buttocks look sumptuous. I move forward and stroke his arse.

  “You’re right,” I say. “They look great.”

  He looks back at me, one eyebrow raised. “I have another pair, an old pair, if you want.”

  I hold out a hand and laugh. “Oh, go on then, give ‘em here,” I say.

  Benoit doesn’t have a downstairs Disneyland, but he has a well-equipped playground and enough toys to keep us busy on this dull grey Monday afternoon.

  Just before six, still wearing his old chaps, and straining against a huge chrome ring, I’m pushing Benoit down over the workbench and scattering his photos.

  I glance sideways at the mirror and see myself pumping into him, pulling on his harness, and as I shriek my way into the day’s second orgasm, I realise that with a few props, well, I don’t look so bad.

  Different Truths

  Jenny marks the days of the week with her phone calls. She leaves upbeat power-messages urging me to call her back, but as I guess she wants to come and stay again, and as I don’t want her to, I conveniently forget to call back.

  I dig out Owen’s scales, they are covered in dust at the back of his wardrobe, and I note with horror that I have put on nearly three kilos since March. Exercise is the only solution, so now twice daily – on the way out, and on the way back – I cycle past the end of Benoit’s street. Each time I think vaguely about calling in, each time I become vaguely aroused, but each time I refrain. If he had wanted me to call, I figure, he would have given me his number.

  Tom on the other hand has given me his number, but I don’t dare use it. The picture his name used to generate in my mind, the wry smile and the cheeky grin, has been replaced with the look of horror he had when I tried to kiss him.

  But on Saturday morning, as he runs across Eastern Street to speak to me, it all seems forgotten. He looks thoroughly thrilled.

  “Mark!” he pants. “How are you? I’ve been meaning to call, but I’ve been busy. Antonio’s here.” He nods across the street at a man in a black suit and a roll neck sweater.

  “Look, I’m sorry about …” I say.

  Tom interrupts me. “It doesn’t matter. Look, why don’t you come for coffee? I’d love for you two to meet.”

  I open my mouth to say no, but then change my mind. The perfect antidote for my Tom obsession is, I decide, his boyfriend made real.

  “Sure,” I say with a shrug. “Why not.”

  As the three of us wander towards the North Laines, Tom tells us about his week, about Antonio’s surprise arrival. He is taller and older than I imagined, but overall, I would have to admit that he looks even better in real life than in the photo. He remains staunchly silent though, even trailing a couple of paces behind us.

  As we pass in front of Komedia, Tom raps a table with his knuckles. “What about here?” he asks. “It’s in the sun.”

  Antonio rattles out some machine-gun speed Italian, but I don’t catch a word, and Tom replies, tit for tat. I have no idea what they have said to each other, but Tom instructs me to sit, then heads inside to order.

  Antonio reluctantly pulls up a chair.

  “Did you want to go somewhere else?” I venture.

  He shrugs. “No, here’s fine,” he says. He speaks without any trace of Italian accent.

  I decide with an unhealthy feeling of glee that they must be arguing, but when Tom returns he seems unfazed by Antonio’s glaring blue eyes. He slips into the seat and looks at Antonio, then at me.

  “She’s gonna bring them out,” he explains.

  Antonio releases another burst of Italian.

  Tom frowns. “Speak English,” he says with a shake of his head.

  I shrug. “It’s OK, really.”

  Antonio looks coldly at me and then does a kind of upward nod in my direction. “Parlo Italiano?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Sorry.”

  He shrugs.

  “Only English and French I’m afraid,” I add as if that will mitigate my ignorance.

  Antonio chews the inside of his mouth.

  “I was just saying that the coffee is dreadful here,” he says, again with no trace of Italian accent. If anything he sounds slightly nasal, slightly American.

  I wonder at his aggressive manner and wonder if Tom has told him about the attempted kiss.

  Tom laughs. “Antonio says the coffee is dreadful everywhere.”

  Antonio nods. “In England,” he corrects. “Everywhere in England.”

  Tom wrinkles his nose at me. “It’s just his thing,” he says with a little shrug. He says it in the way a parent would tell you about their beloved child’s latest amusing quirk.

  “You could always drink tea,” I suggest.

  Antonio looks at me coldly, apparently deciding that the statement isn’t worth comment.

  “So you speak French?” he asks eventually. “How come?”

  “I live in Nice, well, usually,” I say. “Not far from you.”

  Antonio nods. “I know where Nice is,” he says.

  I restrain a frown but think, “What’s his problem?”

  “Pretty much everyone does,” I reply. In an attempt at softening the statement I add, “It’s tourist central.”

  The waitress arrives, providing a welcome interruption.

  Tom slides my cappuccino across the table saying, “Antonio used to have a boyfriend in Nice, didn’t you.”

  Antonio shakes his head. “No he was in Grasse, but he moved.”

  I nod. “How long ago? I used to live in Grasse.”

  Antonio shrugs and sips at his coffee.

  “A long time, at least five years. You wouldn’t know him.”

  I shrug. “I was in Grasse until about four years ag
o,” I say. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “What was his name again?” Tom asks.

  “He wouldn’t know him,” Antonio answers, then turning to me he adds, “He was straight.”

  “Straight?” Tom wrinkles his nose. “I kind of doubt that, but anyway …What was his name?”

  “Hugo,” Antonio says.

  I frown. My mouth is full of hot coffee, but I hold it there. There aren’t a lot of Hugos in France, there are even less Hugos in Grasse, but straight?

  “Hugo, that’s it,” Tom nods. “So how can he be straight if you dated him hon?”

  “Exactly,” I think.

  Antonio shrugs again. “He was straight before, and he went back to his wife after. He just had a thing with me.”

  Not my Hugo then. My breath returns to normal. I don’t think I could have stood sharing the love of my life with Antonio; still, an unexpected blast from the past.

  Hugo! I picture the last time I ever saw him, replay him telling me he wanted out, but never explaining why. “Closure,” I think. “That’s what they call it; that’s what I never got.”

  “You had me worried there,” I laugh. “I dated a Hugo, quite a big thing really. But mine definitely wasn’t straight.”

  Tom looks at me. “I don’t get the straight business though,” he turns back to Antonio. “If you and he were …” He makes a little fucking mime with his hands then continues, “Surely he was bi at least?”

  I run my finger around the edge of the cup. “There’s a lot of that in France and Italy,” I say. “Guys who define themselves as straight but still shag men. Can’t be doing with it myself.”

  Antonio leans forwards. “Most of my exes were straight,” he says. “I converted them,” he adds proudly. “Who you sleep with doesn’t define your sexuality.”

  The statement strikes me as stupid and vacuous.

  Tom apparently thinks so too. “Antonio!” he says. “Who you sleep with is your sexuality!”

  “Well, he was married before me, and he went back to his wife afterwards. You work it out,” he replies.

  “Must be hard,” I say. “To lose your man to a woman.”

  “Hard for the woman too I suppose,” Tom agrees. “They have kids?”

  Antonio nods. “Yes, two. In the end that was why we split up. He kept talking about them all the time, wanting me to meet them. I just didn’t want to think about his wife and kids you know?”

  I nod. “I can see that.”

  “But when he was touring it was hard because sometimes his wife would come and visit …”

  I frown. “When he was touring?” I ask. “What did he do?”

  Antonio licks a finger and smoothes an eyebrow. It’s a strange gesture. Out of place.

  “He’s a dancer,” he says.

  My world stops. I stare wide-eyed at Antonio. He simply stares back.

  “What?” he asks me eventually. “You don’t think dancers can be straight? I can tell you that the majority …”

  “Hugo Damiano?” I say.

  Antonio’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?” he asks.

  I shake my head and blink.

  “How do you know that?” he repeats.

  I smile in confusion. “I dated him,” I say.

  Antonio shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says. “He only dated me. He’s straight.”

  I shrug. “Well I dated him,” I say. “For 9 months.”

  Antonio frowns and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You didn’t.”

  “He had a Ducati motorbike,” I say.

  Antonio shakes his head. “No,” he says again. “It can’t be the same …”

  “And two cats,” I continue. “Garam and Masala.”

  Antonio frowns and pales a little. “OK, you know him,” he says. “But you didn’t date him. I don’t believe you.”

  I rub the bridge of my nose. “Antonio. I went out with him for nine months.”

  Antonio shakes his head and shrugs. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  Tom frowns at me, then at Antonio. “Hey, Antonio. If Mark says he did …”

  “But he has a wife?” I say. “Is that true? Are you sure?”

  Antonio shakes his head. “It can’t be the same guy.”

  “Did you see his wife?”

  Antonio nods. “Sure, and his kids. You see; it’s not the same person.”

  I look at Tom. He’s biting his bottom lip, looking from one to the other, excited yet perplexed.

  “Look. Antonio,” I say. “I don’t want to get vulgar or anything.”

  He looks vacantly at me.

  “But his dick,” I say. “Well, it’s big, and it curves to the right. It’s really big. And it curves a lot,” I add.

  Antonio stares at me wide eyed. His eyes start to glisten.

  We sit in silence for a moment, each trying to reassemble the truth.

  Tom speaks first, rubbing Antonio’s shoulder. “Why is this so important though?” he asks, a worried tone creeping into his voice.

  He looks back at me and stretches his fingers. “Why?”

  I can tell that I’m flushing red as my anger mounts. “It’s just a bit of a shock,” I explain.

  Antonio looks up. “Yes,” he agrees. “His car was a VW, a Beetle back then, right?”

  I nod. “A white one. It never worked.”

  Antonio nods.

  Tom shrugs. “But so what?” he says.

  “It’s a shock,” I say. “To find out someone you loved, someone you spent time with lied.” I shake my head still absorbing the truth of it all. “To learn that anyone can lie that much.”

  Tom nods at me blankly, then looks back at Antonio who has slumped over the table, his forehead resting on his hands.

  It’s the missing information, without which our break-up could never make any sense, and without that sense, all relationships since have been compromised.

  If you learn that someone can get up and walk away from the best relationship you’ve ever had; if you learn that apparently for no reason, anything, no matter how good it is, can just end, well, it makes it hard to believe, hard to trust, hard to truly give yourself over to building anything ever again.

  But there was a reason, a reason for the mysterious trips with his brother, a reason for the private phone calls, and ultimately a reason why he dumped me.

  Hugo had a wife. Hugo had a bloody wife and kids!

  I’m confused. I feel both relieved and angry at the same time. Actually I’m feeling really angry; I almost feel the desire to punch someone.

  “I’d like to go,” I say, standing. “Sorry.”

  Antonio looks up at me. He too has angry tears in the corners of his eyes. He nods coldly.

  “Um, I’ll catch you two later then,” I say.

  As I walk away, I hear them start to talk in Italian. It sounds like an argument, but then, to me, Italian always does.

  As I walk home, I do a lot of head shaking. This elicits some strange looks from the shoppers, but in the end I neither strike out nor weep. In fact, by the time I get home, a peculiar feeling of amusement has developed.

  The whole thing is just so ridiculous, so unbelievable. Could the idea that I dated a man with a wife and children for nine months and never even suspected the truth be anything other than a joke?

  Back at the house, I sit staring at the wall, and gradually I realise just how many signs there were, how many indications I naively ignored.

  The private phone calls “about work” that always had to be made in another room, calls that ceased if for some reason I walked into the room. The trips away with his brother to see their old grandmother; Jesus! The kids’ toys in the cupboard, supposedly left by a friend who used to share the flat with him. It’s amazing, but in half an hour, I have gone from pure disbelief to a more satisfactory understanding of our entire relationship than I could have dreamt of.

  I’m actually feeling relief that there was a reason Hugo left me. It’s been so unnerving living
with the concept that the guy I loved most left me on a whim, or worse still, was with me on a whim.

  But then I realise that with my relief comes a kick. Sure, Hugo was straight, so the reason that relationship ended was that he wanted to go back to his wife, to his children, to his old life. But he was also a liar. Someone I loved was capable of consistently, undetectably lying through his teeth every day for the best part of a year. If you can’t trust the person you love the most, then can you ever really trust anyone again?

  Entrapment

  I stare at the wall, obsessively running images of my yearlong relationship with Hugo through my mind, hunting for clues. The reality gap between the Hugo I dated and Hugo, Antonio’s ex doesn’t, I realise, mean that my version of the truth is the false one.

  Perhaps, I reason, there is a third reality, a third version of events able to encompass everything that we both believe to be true, but try as I might, and no matter how many times I sift through the images, no new data comes to light.

  The phone rings, and because I am grateful for the interruption, I snatch it from the receiver, but when I hear the voice at the other end I grimace.

  “He lives!” Jenny exclaims. “Jees Mark, I’ve been trying to call you all week.”

  I silently mouth the word “fuck” and swallow, biding for time. “I, um … Did you?” I say unconvincingly.

  “You know I did. I left enough messages,” she spits.

  I wince. “Messages?” I say. “How are you ever going to pull this off?” I wonder.

  “Erh, hello?” Jenny says sarcastically. “You know, messages? On your answer-phone?”

  An idea starts to form, and I grin at the naughtiness of it.

  “Answer-phone?” I repeat, suppressing the smile. “There is no answer-phone, Owen doesn’t have one,” I say.

  “But I left …” Jenny pauses.

  “I don’t know whose phone you left messages on, but it sure wasn’t here,” I laugh.

  Jenny pauses. “But …” she says. “Really?”

  “Really,” I say.

  “No, hang on,” she says. “It has Owen’s voice on it, and his number in Australia.”

  I frown, getting into my role. “Really?” I say. “I don’t see …”