by Shawn Syms
Sergei clutched the doorknob in one barnacled hand while the other grabbed at the whistle dangling around his neck. “What are you children doing in here?” he stuttered.
“You children?” Bettina stepped forward. “You know my name is Bettina. We live on the same street. So does he,” she added, pointing to Mike Martell, who looked down. The children standing nearest Mike stepped away.
Bettina turned to Roddy. “Sergei and Mike’s dad are friends.”
Roddy walked up to Mike. In his outstretched hand were Bettina’s panties.
“You said you’d flush my head down the toilet if I didn’t get you these.” He thrust the cotton underwear up at Mike’s face, but the bigger boy made no attempt to take them.
“You imbecile!” Hamatov shouted at Mike. His whistle pendant shook. “Why would you bother this innocent girl?” He lunged forward and smacked the boy’s face, leaving a big red mark in the shape of his splayed hand.
“We will find your teacher and speak to him about this. And with your father!”
At that, Mike began to blubber out loud. The Tadpoles stared and blinked as Mike started to cry. No one else moved. Sergei grabbed the boy’s neck and jerked him back to the change room. The beet-faced Russian turned to face the rest of the class. “Stay here and wait!” He kicked open the change-room door and pushed Mike inside.
Roddy turned to Bettina. “Let’s go,” he said. He headed down the corridor toward the Aquatic Centre’s front entrance, and she followed quickly, bending down discreetly to pick up her underwear. As she caught up with Roddy, she put them in his back pocket.
The front doors had windows reinforced with a hatch of thin metal wires, embedded in the glass like translucent graph paper. Roddy pushed them open and they both stepped out. It had rained since they were in swim class, and the grass and sidewalk were both damp.
Roddy turned to Bettina.
“It’s my birthday. Do you want to come over? We’re going to Arby’s for supper.”
Bettina nodded. They passed the school bus and walked south. Bettina took Roddy’s hand. He squeezed it. Together, they headed for home.
Three Tuesdays from Now
Dude, will you accept $500 to penetrate me?
Ben’s Craigslist ad hadn’t said anything about payment. He’d only placed it because he was feeling lonely. Still, he was intrigued by this response as he scanned his emails from his phone in the locker room. Right next to him, some outsized gym-rat let out a long, low fart as he yanked his skid-marked shorts down to his ankles.
Keep it classy, bro. Ben turned to avoid the fumes, stashed his phone in his locker, and grabbed his towel. Minutes later while soaping up, Ben gave the proposition some thought. Despite being naked, this contemplation didn’t cause arousal; rather, he was calculating the cost per minute. With a well-paid day job as a fundraiser at a pediatric oncology charity, Ben didn’t need the cash. But $500 for ten minutes’ work! Ben was sure he could last twenty if someone was paying that kind of dough. He’d just think about his grandmother. Or his gerbil.
Ben had a couple experiences with sex for pay in his early twenties. Once an older guy with a moustache and wedding ring offered him a hundred bucks for a blowjob in a bus station men’s room. The other time, it was Ben who paid. A random homeless guy chatted him up on the street, looking to sell a transistor radio for ten bucks. Ben offered fellatio instead. Handing him the ten after servicing him between two parked cars in a secluded lot, Ben said, “Keep the radio.” That guy had a big one. Didn’t smell too bad for a homeless person, either. Kind of like soil from a flower garden.
Ben kept to himself at the gym but was unself-conscious in the locker room. He had a decent bod, and he knew it. He dried off at his locker and put himself back together quickly so he wouldn’t be late for work. He checked his phone again for the time.
Fuck it, he thought. Why not? He idly wondered what he might do with a spare 500 bucks but couldn’t come up with anything. The idea made him feel a bit greedy, actually. But he knew this would make an interesting story to tell Charla. It would give them something to discuss instead of her tedious workplace drama. For someone as smart as she was beautiful, Charla could probably have a lot more control over her life. But no, she was stuck in a dead-end job with a boss she called “the spawn of Satan.” She worked at an agency that gave money and subway tokens to former prisoners. Her last boyfriend was a total charity case too. How do-gooder is that? Not to mention boring. But Ben loved having a friend to whom he could tell everything. Well, maybe almost everything.
Ben wrote the guy back and said he only did “outcalls”; he’d seen that word in real escort ads before. Then he scrammed from the gym and joined the masses swarming the nearest subway entrance. The would-be john must live on the Internet because a response came back before Ben had even descended the subway entrance and lost signal. He had included a low-res selfie this time. Handsome, with a shaggy goatee, blue-green eyes.
I use a wheelchair. Got a problem with that? I’m on Skype. Ravercub77. Message me.
Ben resolved to write him back from work and got ready to hop on the next southbound train.
Got your email. Looking good there.
thx
listen
u been with a guy in a chair before
No.
its the same. i can run you over if ur boring though
LOL
i need to get fucked raw so bad, i have 400 bucks
I only play safe, cool?
ok, if you don’t do it bareback maybe 300 then
Sure.
u sound like a goody two shoes
youll fuck a guy in chair, u dont care about the money
r u sure ur a real top
I know how to fuck.
I’ve got references if you want. :0)
u sure you dont want it raw
my bf has a big fat cock and he always breeds my hole
leaves it leaking with all his hot seed
You’ve got a boyfriend?
yeah wtf you surprised or something
me a poor crip all by myself until you come along
Chip on your shoulder much?
Just didn’t know why you are after me then.
he lives in edmonton
I told you he has a nice big tool but
it doesn’t reach all the way to toronto
LOL
your ad said you wanted nsa right
this is def nsa, gonna move to edmonton next month
but I’m horny for cum now
What’s your boyfriend gonna think?
he knows the score, I met him on here lol
ok so maybe we make it 100 for u to fuck me
u sure u dont want to fuck me raw
i like cum squirting inside me
a lot
I would rather be safe but let’s see what happens.
Why do you keep changing the price?
im just negotiating. whats wrong with that
do you think im broke or poor
You know what?
I don’t need the money.
even better
let’s just do it for free then
You seem like a nice guy.
oh ffs, are you getting all wimpy on me
ur a real top right … i just need it up the ass bad
i like rough sex
I can be very dominant.
I’m not just a “goody two shoes” …
but ya are blanche, ya are
What?
never mind
My name is Ben.
raimundo here
I could come over tomorrow on my lunch hour.
bring it on if youre tough enough
no rubbers is better
Dr Jong-Essex was the whitest Korean guy Charla had ever met. He dressed like a Bay Street lawyer and had perfect elocution to match. His parents, she assumed, were Canadian-born like hers.
“Your numbers are great as usual, Ms Chua,” said Jong-Essex. “Nothing to w
orry about. We can probably keep you on this same drug regimen for at least a decade.” He paused and fingered a paperweight on his desk. It was a miniature of a famous Henry Moore sculpture, made of shiny reflective metal.
Her viral load had been undetectable for two years. T-cells, over a thousand. “That’s healthier than most HIV-negative people,” the doctor reminded her. She saw him twice a year for blood tests and an annual flu shot. Each visit, the shelving unit next to his desk featured a new photo from his most recent international cruise. This time, she could see the Sphinx behind him and a husky white guy with a trim beard. That must be his lover. Charla went on meds as soon as she’d found out. She’d probably had the virus for a few years already, Jong-Essex said, so in terms of microscopic battles to be fought and won inside her bloodstream, she figured she’d come out swinging. While she generally kept her medical information to herself, Charla had told her bestie, Ben. They talked about almost everything, and he knew a few poz guys. Her dad knew; he was surprisingly tranquil about it. Charla sensed that she and her father both had the same unspoken thought: it’s good your mother is dead so we don’t have to tell her this. She’d come unhinged. Needlessly.
She would have told Erich, the guy she got it from, if he were around. They dated for nine months and shot up together a couple dozen times. Charla was never a junkie herself. She was … what did they call it in that Al Pacino movie? A chipper. A part-timer, a weekend warrior.
And a Tuesday here and there. She only got high with Erich; he shot her up each time. It would have seemed irrational not to share the needle; she was already letting him cum inside her. If anything, fixing together felt like a form of bonding. Their last month together, he couldn’t get it up anyway, and the warm downer sensation from a nice hit replaced sex as their communion. She didn’t blame Erich and doubted he even knew he was infected. Did he give the virus to her—or did she take it from him? Did it matter?
One day, he told her he was moving to Thailand. The next, his possessions were gone from her Little Italy apartment, and she never saw him again. Never got high again either. She took a few days off work and locked herself in her bedroom. Charla had never bought dope herself and saw no reason to start. She missed it for quite a while, though. Especially on Friday nights after a long week in a claustrophobic office with her bipolar boss Patti.
“Ms Chua … Charla?”
“Yes, doc.” She’d tuned him out.
“Is there anything else you’d like to discuss today?” Cufflinks glinted with reflected light as Dr Jong-Essex put down the iPad he’d been reading her test results from.
“What if I want to get pregnant?” Charla cracked one of her knuckles loudly as her left hand grabbed at her right. The office had a vaguely minty smell, and she noticed this for the first time as she waited for his response.
“Five of my patients have had healthy, HIV-negative babies so far this year. I’d be thrilled to make that six. Is there someone new in your life?”
“No,” she said, more primly than she intended. Feelings that she would easily spill to Ben over beers, Charla still felt weird bringing up with her doctor. She’d been referred to Jong-Essex after her initial diagnosis, after Erich disappeared, after the miscarriage. She had been thinking about motherhood ever since then. On some levels, she was glad Erich was gone, along with the instability his addiction could sometimes engender, but something still felt missing from her life. In fact, she wished she could change everything.
The doctor looked up from the notes he was typing into her file on his laptop. “You don’t have a hep C co-infection, and your viral replication is minuscule because of excellent adherence to your meds. Your chances for a successful pregnancy are as high as anyone else’s.” He seemed to get excited. “I want you to see Dr El-Assaad upstairs,” he chirped. “She’s an expert on HIV and fertility.”
Charla hadn’t even had sex in a long time. Two years and three months, to be exact. She hadn’t been sure how to approach the idea of sex since her diagnosis. She didn’t feel dirty, just uncertain. Who could she trust to lay herself so bare?
“I’m not sure I’m quite at that point yet.” Her hand in the pocket of her black blazer, Charla picked up a quarter that lay there and toggled it back and forth between her thumb and fingertips. The ridged metal disc felt cold in the air-conditioned room.
“How about this,” Jong-Essex suggested, typing rapidly on his keyboard. “What if we set up the appointment as a general information session? Let’s start to get you some useful tips now, even if you don’t use them immediately. If you decide you really don’t want to attend, you can cancel with forty-eight hours’ notice.” He stared at the screen for a moment, then reached for a card and his pen. “She’s free three Tuesdays from now at seven a.m.”
Charla nodded, dropping the quarter in her pocket and warding off a slight, unexpected tremor.
“When you are ready to get pregnant,” he added, “there are ways to do it safely for you, your partner, and your baby. Maintaining your low viral load is the most important thing in terms of keeping your virus to yourself, so don’t miss a pill. And until then, just continue to play safe.” He then reached into his desk and handed her three condoms along with the appointment reminder.
The doctor meant well, but he sounded like a high-school guidance counsellor. Charla tried to imagine the good doctor porking his fat lover, efficiently deploying a prophylactic then drilling at his big white ass like an oilman looking for black gold. She felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of such intimacy and stood up abruptly to leave.
Jong-Essex shook her hand, as he did at the end of every appointment. On her way out, Charla felt a low, dull ache in her side. In the elevator, she closed her eyes and tried not to think of anything. Heroin had been good for that at least.
“The white one with the v-neck, please.” Raimundo gestured toward a thin cotton T with a plunging neckline.
“Showing off the chest hair today? I see.” Dave plucked the shirt off the hanger with a muscled, green-inked forearm and plunked it onto the bed next to Raimundo. “Pants?”
“My black sweats. No undies.”
“You must have a hot date if you’re going commando.” Dave lifted the shirt over Raimundo’s head and over each of his short arms. Raimundo could smell the lingering scent of fresh soap on his attendant’s face and neck; it smelled like Irish Spring.
“I’m just trying to keep things simple for later, buddy. The less clothes you put on, the faster they come off, you know what I’m saying?”
“Makes sense, Ray.” Dave was one of the attendants at the co-op; he usually worked mornings. Raimundo liked the guy. He was professional but still fun. Not every attendant was the same—some were unfailingly polite, but stiff as a board. Raimundo appreciated people who, like himself, had a bit of spunk to them. Why make life boring?
Dave pulled the short cotton pants off a shelf and then helped put Raimundo’s truncated sweats on, one leg at a time. Raimundo had a bit of a chub already, which Dave appeared to pretend not to notice. Raimundo tried not to focus on the slow sensation of engorgement for the moment; he would let Dave get his work done and get out of there.
Apparently the gayest that Dave ever got was watching Glee with his wife once a week, but Raimundo would occasionally give him glimpses into queer culture—only when it was practical for himself, not for any kind of shock value.
“Need some condoms by the bed?”
“Nope, I told him to bring some,” Raimundo lied. “One last thing, please.” He gestured with one arm toward the small glass bottle of Rush on the desk by the computer, a red-inked lightning bolt strewn across its yellow plastic label. Dave unscrewed the bottle and held it under Raimundo’s nostrils one at a time for a sniff, before replacing the cap and putting the bottle back in its place. The odour of the sex-enhancing inhalant wafted through the room, its distinctive scent evoking a pile of unlaundered gym socks.
“Thanks a lot, man. That’s all I need for now. May
be put on the news on your way out.” Raimundo’s face flushed as he smiled, his breath slowed slightly, and the throbbing between his legs renewed.
“Have a good one, Ray. Call down later if you need anything.” Raimundo heard Dave walk through the living room and click on the TV, then heard the apartment door open and close behind him. Raimundo leaned forward toward the joystick and propelled his chair to the computer. He turned on the small, round webcam sitting next to the keyboard, which aimed at the empty bed. Then he backed up and went into the living room, waiting for his guest to arrive.
Magenta, green, blue, an approximation of yellow: grainy pixels shimmer and flash, trading positions. Blurred, fuzzy, they jitter, toggle off and on, resembling fireflies in motion. Amid the shifting distortion sits a man in a chair, wheels in front and rear, wearing a pair of black gym shorts. Short legs. Before him stands a man whose head is out of view, cut off at the top of the frame. He wears a business suit. He lowers his head toward the other man’s; lips meet and meld. As they kiss, the suited man’s fingers roam the body of the other: stubbled chin, naked chest, small arms that end in rounded tips, the back of the neck. This diffuse image moves across a flat-screen monitor next to a near-empty coffee mug and an ashtray of thin translucent glass, half-full with cigarette butts on a brown desk. In an office chair, a lone, bearded man is clad in only a grey T-shirt imprinted with the insignia of the Indianapolis Colts. One of his hands rests on the mouse pad. The other moves slowly between his thighs, like a potter kneading a fat lump of clay.
“Yeah, the muscle dude came over yesterday on his lunch hour from work.”
Raimundo watched Joe use the laser pointer affixed to his glasses to spell out a question on his communication board. Did you get what you wanted? Joe was hilarious. So blunt.
“Hell, yeah, I did, brother—do you want to see a video of it?”
Dude no
Joe smiled and Raimundo laughed. It had started to rain on his way to Joe’s, and this always messed with the mechanisms in his chair, which was annoying. Good thing he liked his best friend a lot, because he wasn’t sure if the chair would start up again right away.
