“No. I mean, I don’t think I’ve been exposed. But I’ve never been tested, and I thought I should. Just to be on the safe side. I hope that’s okay.”
“That’s fine. In fact, if you’re sexually active, you should be getting tested regularly.”
“I hear you have the rapid testing here.”
“We have the rapid HIV test, that’s right. You can get your results within a few minutes. There are a few points I’d like to go over with you first, Daniel, just to make sure you understand what’s involved.”
“Okay.”
By the time I was done at Hassle Free, it was still early in the afternoon. I walked out of the building not really thinking about where I was going. I cut through the Ryerson Community Park. Fall classes were starting up Monday and the campus was crowded with students, professors and shirtless joggers. I got myself a large Tim Hortons coffee, wandered across Yonge-Dundas Square and ended up in the Eaton Centre where I bought a burger in the food court and put on my headphones.
A few tables away, a young couple was trying to feed a one-year-old baby. The kid had food all over its face and wouldn’t stop crying. The father was wearing a Raptors tank top, a gold chain, and studs in his ears. He was also sporting a wedding ring. I wondered what sex was like between him and his wife. As I watched, the girl unbuttoned her blouse and started breastfeeding the baby who quieted down right away. The young father looked embarrassed and turned his back. Then I think he caught me watching. I pretended to text on my phone. After a minute, I noticed him checking out some school girls strutting past in high heels with their shopping bags. Unselfconsciously, he spread his legs, grabbed his crotch and adjusted himself. This time, I was sure he caught me watching. Then I wondered if he’d ever fantasized about another guy going down on him. His mouth looked beautiful. I pictured him in the shower after a game of pick-up, soaping himself up and fingering himself. I imagined coming up behind him, my hands gripping his hips, and the expression on his face as I pushed him up against the tiled wall and fucked him up the ass, slowly and deeply for the first time in his life. Maybe, like McNeil-Tsao, this guy got fucked all the time by his wife who happily strapped on a dildo every weekend after they put the baby to sleep. I figured there were a lot of people like McNeil-Tsao, or Chris, or even my brother Pat. But most guys just didn’t talk about it.
When I got home, Karen was still unpacking her suitcase and the boxes in her closet where she’d stored her stuff over the summer. “How was shopping?” she asked. I kicked off my sneakers. “Alright. The Eaton Centre was a three-ring circus. All these kids and their moms getting ready for school. I bought you something. It’s a welcome-back present.”
“Let me see,” Karen said eagerly. I handed her a plastic Old Navy bag. I’d already taken off the price tag. It was a black-and-white knit toque with a giant pom-pom and a skull-and-crossbones pattern. “I love it!” She put it on in front of the closet mirror. “Thank you.” She kissed me on the cheek.
“I got tested today.”
“You what?”
“I made an appointment at a sexual health clinic. I thought I’d get tested. You know.”
“And?”
I remembered waiting for Frank to come back with the results, sure I was okay, my palms sweating. “I’m negative,” I said. “I’m good. The STI results will take a few more days.”
Karen rested her hands on my shoulders at arms length. “Good boy.” She studied my face. “Was there a reason you got tested?”
“No, not really. I just wanted to be sure.”
“You’ve always used protection, right?”
I nodded. Karen ran her fingers through my hair. “You need a haircut. Are you seeing anyone?”
“Seeing anyone?”
“Sure. Is there any special boy in your life I should know about?”
I considered all the guys I’d met in bars and on-line. I’d gone out on dates with a few of them. At the start of the summer, McNeil-Tsao had even said if there was someone I wanted to bring home, he’d clear out and give me space. “No,” I said, “there’s no special boy.”
“Liam and I, we’re going to give it another try.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m saying we’re together again.”
“You sure about this?”
“Daniel.” Karen sighed, and tossed the hat aside. “Of course I’m not sure.” She started sorting bras and underwear in her dresser drawers. “But it’s what we’ve decided, alright? He found a job out on Manitoulin, by the way. I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“I am happy for you, the both of you. You’re good for him. What’s he doing on Manitoulin?”
“Working on my aunt’s farm. They were needing a farmhand. He really loves it out there. He’s still going to live at home. Your grandfather’s loaned him his truck.”
“That’s a long commute.”
“He plans on buying his own Jeep.”
“And how was your summer?”
“It was interesting. I met a lot of good people. I think next summer I might work out there too. They might be able to secure some grant money and create a position for me at the Ojibwe Cultural Foundation. My aunt sits on their council.”
“You’re going to leave me again?”
“You’re a big boy, Daniel. I trust you. Anyway, hello, I just got back. We’ve still got eight months ahead of us.”
“I’m glad you’re back. M.T.’s a nice guy, but he’s a little intense. I don’t think I want to see another smoothie the rest of my life.”
“You want to go hit a patio? Grab a cheeseburger and a pitcher? Do a few shooters and cap off the summer?”
“Can we also get Creamsicles and sweet potato fries with spicy mayonnaise?”
“Yes,” Karen said, her dimples showing, “we can also get Creamsicles, and sweet potato fries with spicy mayonnaise. I think I’ll wear this too. What do you think?” She put the hat I’d bought her back on. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a tank top with a screen print of Leonard Cohen on the front.
“Perfect. Very hipster. I missed you.”
“Me too.” She leaned over, took my face between her hands and kissed me on the nose. “Me too.”
CHAPTER THREE
Constant Craving
Our apartment was the first floor of a house just north of Little Italy in the downtown west end. It was a fifteen minute bike ride to campus, twenty minutes by streetcar in the winter. Little Italy and Queen Street West had become our regular haunts, a funky mash-up of indie outlets and galleries, bars and cafés. The Centre for Addiction and Mental Health at Ossington and Queen attracted a colourful array of personalities. Sometimes Karen and I would cycle all the way out past Roncesvalles and spend a whole afternoon lounging and wandering the trails in High Park. I figured if Liam ever visited us, High Park’s four hundred acres could be his home away from home.
That September I started seeing a guy named Sean, a part-time DJ at the Drake Hotel. Over the summer, we kept spotting each other in the neighbourhood at random events and locations. He finally remarked on the coincidence one day while we waited side by side for our orders at Smoke’s Poutinerie. He was thin, bordering on skinny, but had the most beautiful big brown eyes. He’d spent his childhood in Dublin before moving to Canada, and the lilt in his speech hadn’t entirely gone away. I thought it was the sexiest thing in the world.
On our first date, we went to a matinée and spent the afternoon at Little Nicky’s Coffee. We talked about how polite Canadians were, the defunct rave scene (which I knew nothing about), David Bowie and Eighties rock (which we both knew a little bit about), and hockey (which he knew nothing about). On our second date, we saw his friend play at the Poetry Jazz Café in Kensington Market, got drunk on gin and tonics, went back to his place and had sex. On our third date, Sean let me into his inner sanctum: he took me shopping for LPs. Our first stop was Sonic Boom, a warehouse record store up in the Annex. I observed him from a distance as he flipped through the jazz
section, sporting his silver rings and bell-bottoms, tapping his foot to some invisible beat only he could hear. I’d never met anyone quite like him in my life. Standing in line at the check-out, he asked if I was seeing other guys. When I told him I wasn’t, he nodded thoughtfully.
“Are you seeing other guys?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Danny. Should I still? What do you think?”
In that moment, I wanted to fall to one knee and burst into song, professing my crush on this boy who poured music out of his soul like a mountain spring in May. Instead, I fumbled and dropped my change purse and coins scattered underfoot, rolling everywhere.
After we left the store, Sean slung his jean jacket over his shoulder and looked me squarely in the eye. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “No. I don’t think you should be seeing other guys.”
His eyes sparkled. I felt like I was in a Disney movie. “Alright, Danny. So it is.” He reached out and gently pinched my ear. He liked playing with my ears. A week earlier, after an evening of Oscar Peterson tributes, when he was on his back and I was gripping his ankles, he’d reached out with one hand and held onto my ear while furiously jacking off with the other. Then I leaned over and kissed him open-mouthed, tasting gin and lime. When he came, ribbons of cum splayed across his chest hitting him in the face. The gesture was a little bit strange and my ear was sore afterwards, but I didn’t complain. To each their own. For such a small guy, he certainly shot the hugest loads. Maybe one day, I figured, I might ask him to wear a jockstrap.
Sean and I had been seeing each other over a month when one morning I spotted him having pancakes with another boy. I was about to tap on the window when I noticed Sean smile, reach out and stroke the boy’s ear. Their hands rested on each other’s knees. Then I walked into the diner and introduced myself. Sean immediately turned bright red, but it was his boyfriend who had the meltdown. Apparently they’d been together over a year. He started in on Sean, and was still ranting when I turned my back and walked out. I never was one to make a scene. Part of me hoped Sean would chase after me, but that never happened. If he had texted or called, I would’ve sat down and talked with him. But that never happened either. Sean had almost a thousand friends on Facebook. That evening, I was scrolling through, trying to find out who exactly this other boy was when, without warning, I found myself cut off from his Facebook page. I’d never been blown off before, not like this, and I was stunned.
“What the hell?” Karen, sitting next to me at the time, exclaimed. “Did he just unfriend you?”
“I think he just unfriended me.”
“No way.”
“Wow.”
“What a total douchebag.”
I set aside the tub of Häagen-Dazs ice cream we’d been sharing, and flopped back on my bed. I felt dazed.
Karen knelt beside me. “When’s he spinning next?” she demanded.
“What?”
“When is he DJing next at the Drake?”
“Why do you ask?”
“We should go. You and I, we should go. We’ll dress ourselves up and sit cozy close. We won’t talk to him. We’ll just have a drink. What do you think?”
“No, Karen. I’m not really into that kind of drama.”
“Who said anything about drama?”
“It’s drama. It’s fucking gay drama. I don’t want to have anything to do with it. I’m tired of it. It’s juvenile and stupid and there’s no way, okay?”
Karen sat back. I’d never spoken to her this way before. “Sorry.”
I held her hand and closed my eyes.
“You really liked this boy, didn’t you?”
I sighed. “I suppose.” I listened to the clock ticking on the wall. “The next time we were going to do it,” I confessed, “I was planning to have him wear a jockstrap.”
“Sweetheart.”
I pointed at a bag on the dresser. Karen pulled out the jockstrap in its unopened box. “You still have the receipt here. You want me to return it?”
I nodded, then shook my head. “No. Thanks. It doesn’t matter.” I sat up. “I’m over it.”
“Here.” Karen scooped up a spoonful of Rocky Road and fed me. “He’s obviously got issues. Good riddance, right? You’re too good for him, Daniel. You can do so much better than a scene-ster like him. He didn’t deserve you. There’s plenty more in the sea.”
By the time Karen finished feeding me all the rest of the ice cream, I actually was feeling better.
I never did like jazz music anyway.
Late in October, I found myself out in High Park. It was unseasonably warm, what people called an Indian summer. The black oaks and maples had begun to turn fiery yellow and red, but the sun was blazing hot and the grass still lush beneath the carpet of fallen leaves. I’d brought my collapsible MEC camping chair and was working on a school assignment on my laptop. I’d set myself up on a slope overlooking Grenadier Pond; maybe a dozen others like myself were out enjoying the rare weather. I’d taken off my shirt and pulled my baseball cap low over my face. I noticed two men sunbathing close by. They were older, maybe in their early thirties, clearly a couple. I watched one massage sunblock into the other’s back. If passers-by noticed, nobody seemed to care. Now I put on my sunglasses, mainly so I could spy on them more closely while I worked. After a while, one of them got up and walked barefoot over to me and asked for a light.
“Sorry.” I squinted up at him. “I don’t smoke.”
“Okay.” He smiled and returned to his companion, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. They exchanged a few words and he lay back down again. I was acutely conscious of the fact that he hadn’t approached any of the others on the hillside. I wasn’t sure what to think. I did know that the moment he’d approached me, I’d gotten an uncomfortable hard-on inside my cargo shorts. They were both put together in a lean and coiffed, metrosexual kind of way. Not the usual kind of person I’d be attracted to. I shifted in my duct-taped chair and adjusted myself as discreetly as I could. Thirty minutes later the two got up and left. The first man nodded pleasantly in my direction. Then he retrieved his cigarette and his companion lit it for him. They disappeared, strolling through the luminous trees along the path by the pond.
A Chinese family arrived and settled noisily in their place. Mom and grandma unpacked the cooler while dad and uncle set up beach umbrellas and lawn chairs. Grandpa bounced a baby on his knee, grinning toothlessly. When the older kids started tossing a bright neon Frisbee back and forth, I gathered my belongings and left.
The path by the pond led northward along the secluded edge of the park. I strolled with the sun at my back, encountering the occasional jogger or dog-walker. The truth was, I’d never deliberately gone cruising in a public place before in my life. The closest I’d come was the Robarts Library stacks a year ago, and I hadn’t even ventured into the washroom then. Karen would regularly point out cute boys while grocery shopping or at the laundromat, but I simply wasn’t confident at meeting people on my own. On a few occasions, when Karen was away during the summer, I’d go into the Village close to last call, and let some usually older guy pick me up. But most of the time, when I was feeling particularly horny, I’d watch porn at home and jack off in a peremptory fashion like regular people did.
This afternoon, the pond was full of geese and ducks. Black squirrels roamed through the underbrush and on the boughs overhead. I followed a narrow trail branching off the wide path, which led me deeper into the heavily wooded interior. The sunshine through the leaves cast everything in a golden, flickering light. I deliberately kept my shirt off and tugged my shorts lower over my hips. I felt exposed and vulnerable, and subtly thrilled. Furtively, I smelled my armpits to make sure my deodorant was still working. I kept my eye out for any sign of the two men. I’d never hooked up with a couple before, and I wondered if I was getting myself into any kind of danger. I thought of American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman with his perfect physique and bone-coloured business card
. I imagined Karen reporting me missing and the police finding my body weeks later, decomposing and covered in frost, stuffed into the hollow of some fallen log. Utter ignominy.
Eventually, the trail led out of the woods onto a paved road near a baseball diamond. My little adventure was over, I was back in civilization. I had to admit, I felt disappointed. There’d been no sign of anyone looking for sex, much less the two men. For years, I’d heard about cruising in parks, but it remained as mysterious to me as ever. I drank from my water bottle, put my shirt back on and headed up the road to the parking lot where I’d locked up my bike. I was securing my helmet when a red BMW rolled up next to me. Cigarette Guy leaned his head out the passenger window and asked mildly: “You sure you don’t have a light?” His teeth were perfectly white and straight.
I swallowed and let my hands fall to my side. “I might,” I said without thinking.
He looked at his companion and back at me. “Okay.” He nodded. The trunk hood popped open. “Why don’t you throw your bike in the back?”
Then I realized this man looked exactly like Bateman from American Psycho. The thought flashed through my mind that I’d stow my $80 Kijiji bike in the trunk of their $80,000 BMW only to have them drive off in a cloud of exhaust. I imagined a storage unit in the basement of their penthouse where they kept dozens of bikes and skateboards like trophies. Maybe it was some weird fetish of theirs, and these two would have sex down there with young guys covered in bicycle grease, tying each other up in makeshift slings fashioned from inner tubes. When I didn’t move, he glanced at the obvious bulge in my shorts and back up at my face. “We haven’t got all day.”
“Aah,” I mumbled. “I’ve got to go.” I started riding away. Even though I wasn’t pedalling so hard, I could feel my heart thumping. The red BMW pulled back up alongside and slowed. I kept pedalling and forced myself to keep looking straight ahead. I was prepared to be sideswiped or to be cursed out or to have a handful of money waved at me. But the car accelerated past and disappeared ahead around the bend, scattering a flock of seagulls. I braked and pulled over onto the grass. “Holy shit,” I muttered under my breath. “Holy shit.” I felt dizzy. Something wet hit the side of my helmet. When I touched it, my fingertips came away sticky and white. A bird had crapped on me.
A Boy at the Edge of the World Page 4
