XIII

Drew was a mere thirty-five minutes late, which was more certain testament to his enthusiasm for the coming liaison than his flushed cheeks or the tightness of his pants. He had hauled no less than six bags of produce from the market to a cab and from the cab to the front door. Will offered to help, but he said he didn’t trust Will not to peek and, kissing him on the cheek with self-enforced discretion, instructed him to go watch television while he got everything ready. Unused to being bossed around, Will was thoroughly charmed and dutifully did as he was instructed.

There was nothing on television that caught his attention for more than thirty seconds. He sat watching with the volume turned low, hoping to interpret the sounds of preparation in the kitchen and the bedroom above, like a child going through Christmas gifts guessing what they were through the paper. At last, Drew came back. He’d showered (his hair still slicked back) and changed into some more provocative clothing: a loose, but well-cut vest that showed off his ample arms and shoulders, and a pair of beige linen drawstring pants that looked designed for easy access.

“Follow me,” he said, and led Will up the stairs.

By now, night had fallen and the bedroom was lit with just a few judiciously placed candles. The bed had been stripped back and every cushion or pillow in the house nested upon it, while the floor had been laid with fresh white sheets, on which the cornucopia Drew had lugged from the market had been arrayed.

“There’s enough food here to feed the five thousand,” Will said. “Without the miracle.”

Drew beamed. “It’s healthy to be excessive once in a while,” he said, slipping his arm around Will’s waist. “It’s good for the soul. Besides, we deserve it.”

“We do?”

“You do anyway. I’m just the slave-boy here. Ownership’s yours for the night.”

Will put his mouth to Drew’s face—cheeks, brows, chin, lips.

“Food first,” the slave-boy protested. “I’ve got pears, peaches, strawberries, blueberries, kiwi-fruit—no grapes, they’re a cliché—some cold lobster, some shrimp, Brie, Chardonnay, bread of course, chocolate mousse, carrot cake. Oh, there’s some really rare beef if you’re in the mood, and hot mustard to go with it. Anything else?” He scanned the food. “I’m sure there’s more.”

“We’ll find it,” Will said.

They set to. Sprawled among the foodstuffs like a couple of Romans, they ate, and kissed, and ate some more, and undressed, and ate some more, juices flowing, mouths full, one appetite growing as the other waned. Mellowed by the wine, they talked freely, Drew unburdening himself of the disappointments of his life over the last decade. He wasn’t self-pitying in his account. He simply described in a witty and self-deprecating manner how much he’d fallen shy of his hopes for himself how; in short, he’d wanted the world and ended up with bankruptcy and a beer belly.

“I don’t think queers are very good to one another,” he remarked, apropos of nothing in particular, “and we should be. I mean, we’re all in this together, aren’t we? But fuck, the way you hear people talk in a bar it’s I hate blacks or I hate drag-queens or I hate muscle-boys ’cause they’re all brainless lunks, and I think: Well fuck, the whole world hates us—”

“Not in San Francisco.”

“But this is a ghetto. It doesn’t count. I go back to Colorado, and my family rags on me day and night about how God wants me to be straight and if I don’t mend my ways I’m going straight to hell.”

“What do you tell ’em?”

I say, you may as well tell me to give up breathing, ’cause I’m queer all the way in.” He pushed his finger against the middle of his chest. “Heart and soul,” he said. “You know what I wish?”

“What?”

“I wish my folks could see us like this right now. Hangin’ out, talking, being us. Being happy.” He paused, looking at the floor. “Are you happy?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

“Because I am. I’m about as happy as I think I’ve ever been. And I’ve got a long memory,” he laughed. “I can remember seeing you for the very first time.”

“No, you can’t.”

Drew looked up, his expression sweetly defiant. “Oh yes I can,” he said. “It was at Lewis’s place. He had a brunch, and I came along with Timothy. You remember Timothy?”

“Vaguely.”

“He was a big ol’ drag queen who’d taken me under his wing. He’d brought me along—little Drew Travis from Buttfuck, Colorado—I guess to show me off. And I was so damn nervous, ’cause there were all these circuit queens there who knew  everybody—”

“Or said they knew everybody.”

“Right. They were dropping names so fast it was like a fucking hailstorm, and once in a while one of them would look at me and check me out like I was a piece of meat. You were late, I remember.”

“Oh,” said Will. “So you get it from me.”

“I got everything from you. Everything I wanted. You lavished attention on me, as if nothing else mattered. Up till then, I wasn’t sure I was going to stay. I was thinking: This isn’t for me.

I don’t belong here with these people. I was plotting to get on me next plane home and propose to Melissa Mitchell, who would have married me in a heartbeat and let me do what the fuck I liked behind her back. That was my plan, if being here didn’t work out. But you changed my mind.”

Gently, Will stroked Drew’s face. “No,” he said.

“Yes,” Drew replied. “You might not remember it that way, but you weren’t in my head. That’s exactly what happened. We didn’t even sleep together right away. Timothy got very sniffy and said you weren’t good people.”

“Did he indeed?”

“He said, oh, I don’t know, you were crazy, you were English, you were uptight, you were pretentious.”

“I was not uptight. The rest, probably.”

“Anyway, you didn’t call me, and I was afraid to call you in case Timothy got mad. I was kinda dependent on him. He’d paid for me to fly out; I was living in his apartment. Then you did call.”

“And the rest’s history.”

“Don’t knock it. We had some fine times together.”

“Those I remember.”

“And of course by the time we broke up, there was no going back to Colorado for me. I was hooked.”

“What happened to Melissa?”

“Ha. You’ll like this. She married this guy I used to jerk off with in high school.”

“So, she had a thing for fags,” Will said, moving behind Drew and letting him lean back against his body.

“I guess maybe she did. I still see her once in a while when I go home. Her kids go to the same school as my brother’s kids, so I meet her when I go to pick them up. She still looks pretty good. So,” he leaned his head back and kissed Will’s chin, “that’s the story of my life.”

Will hugged him close. “What happened to Timothy?” Will said. “We owe him.”

“Oh, he’s been dead seven, maybe eight years. I guess his lover walked out on him when he got sick, and he pretty much died without anyone. I heard about it just after Christmas and he’d died on Thanksgiving. He’s buried in Monterey. I go down there once in a while. Put some flowers on the grave. Tell him I still think of him.”

“That’s good. You’re a good man, you know that?”

“Is that important?”

“Yeah. I’m beginning to think it is.”

They made love then. Not the hectic, no-holds-barred mating of their first romance, eighteen years before, nor the tentative, faintly fearful encounter of a few nights ago. This time they met not as conquests or tricks, but as lovers. They took their sensual time with their detections, passing kisses and touches back and forth with a lazy ease, but by degrees becoming more agitated, each in their way demanding, each in their way conceding. In waves then, they played, pressing steadily toward a destination they had debated and planned. Will had not fucked anyone in four years, and Drew, though he had been a glutton for it earlier in his life, had sworn off the act with so much risk attached.

It had never been, even in simpler days, a natural act, despite tales of Midwestern farmhands, spit and a little lust. It was a conscious act of desire, especially in the heart of the plague, when the condom and the lubricant had to be at, hand, and there had to be, along with the erections, a gentle overcoming of anxiety. Tenderly then, in the nest of pillows, they coupled, to the pleasure of both.

When they finished, Drew went to shower. Mr. Clean, Will called him. This wasn’t a new preoccupation; he’d always needed to wash off the sex immediately after he’d come. It was the church boy in him, he explained, to which Will replied, “You just had an Englishman in you. How many people have you got in there?”

Laughing. Drew went into the bathroom and closed the door. Will listened to the muted sound of the shower being turned on—the slap of the water on the tiles, then the change of timbre as the water broke against Drew’s back and shoulders and butt. He shouted something, but Will didn’t catch it. He stretched in the double luxury of fatigue and satiety, his consciousness drifting. I should shower too, he thought; I’m greasy and sweaty and rank. Drew won’t crawl into bed beside me unless I wash. So he held on to consciousness, though it was hard work. Twice he fell into the shallows of sleep. Woke the first time with the shower now turned off, and Drew singing tunelessly as he toweled himself dry. Woke the second time to hear Drew thundering downstairs. “I’m just getting some water,” he yelled. “You want anything?” Woozily, Will sat up. He yawned and gazed down at the felon between his legs. “Busy night?” he said, flipping his cock back and forth. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed, knocking over one of the candles. “Fuck,” he muttered, bending down to right it again, the smell of the extinguished wick sharp in his nostrils. As he stood up, the room pulsed. Thinking he’d risen too quickly, he closed his eyes. White patches throbbed behind his lids. He felt suddenly sick. He stood swaying at the end of the bed for a few moments, waiting for the feeling to pass, but instead it intensified, waves of nausea rising from his belly.

He opened his eyes again and started toward the hallway, determined not to end the evening puking in the very room where they’d made such fine love. He got no more than a yard from the bed, then the ache in his belly doubled him up. He dropped to his knees, surrounded by the leavings of their feast, his senses horribly susceptible. He could smell the spoiling of fruit that had been fresh three hours before, of cheese and cream that had been sweet and were now curdling, as though the heat of the room, of the deeds performed in the room, was hastening everything to rot. The stench of it was too much. He began to puke, his belly cramping, the white particles flaring in his head, washing out the room—

And in the midst of the blaze, images from the adventures of the day: a sky, a wall, Bethlynn; Drew clothed, Drew naked; the cat, the flowers, the bridge, all unreeling like a fragment of film! Tossed into the fire in his head, the throbbing white fire that lay at the end of everything.

God help me, he tried to say, no longer afraid of being found in this state by Drew, only wanting him there to extinguish the blaze—

He raised his head, and squinted through the light toward the door. There was no sign of Drew. He started to crawl toward the landing, knocking over two of the three remaining candles as he did so. The conflagration in his head continued unchecked, the memories still flickering before they were consumed, like moth’s wings, fluttering and fluttering—

The water’s of the bay, whipped by the wind; the flowers on Bethlynn Reichle’s windowsill; Drew’s face, sweating in ecstasy—and then, suddenly, the blaze was gone, extinguished in a heartbeat. He was kneeling three or four yards from the door, the darkness gray, the light gray, the food in which he knelt drained of color, his hands and legs and dick and belly all drained, all gray. It was strangely pleasurable after the assault and the sickness, to be thrown into this cool cell, detached from sensuality. His mind, he assumed, had simply decided enough was enough, and pulled the plug on all but the barest minimum of stimulation. He was no longer overpowered by the stench of rot and curdle, even the glutinous textures of the food around him had been tamed.

The nausea had also receded, but he didn’t want to risk any motion until he was certain it had passed completely, so he stayed where he’d found himself when the episode had passed, kneeling by the light of a single candle flame. Drew would come up the stairs very soon, he thought. He’d look at Will and take pity: come to him, soothe him, cradle him. All he had to do was be patient. He knew how to be patient. He could sit in the same position for hours. It wasn’t hard. Just breathe evenly and empty the mind of useless thoughts. Sweat them away, then wait.

And look! His waiting was already over. There was a shadow on the wall. Drew was climbing the stairs right now. Thirty seconds and he’d be on the landing, and the moment after he’d be coming to help Will back to sanity. There he was, with a glass of water in his hand, his trousers barely hanging on his hips, his body piebald with the marks Will had left on him. The flesh around his nipples flushed. The teeth marks on his neck and shoulders neat as a tailor’s stitch. His face mottled. He raised his head, oh so slowly (in this gray world nothing had urgency), and a puzzled look came over his face as he stared toward the bedroom door. It seemed he couldn’t make out Will’s face in the murk or, if he could, failed to make sense of what he saw. He smelled the vomit, however, that much was plain. A look of disgust disfigured his face, the ugliness of his expression troubling to Will. He didn’t want to see that look on his savior’s face. He wanted compassion, tenderness.

Drew had hesitated now and was staring through the open door. His disgust had turned into fearfulness. His breath had quickened, and when he spoke—“Will?” he said—the word was barely audible.

Damn you, Will thought, don’t stay out there. Come on in.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, for God’s sake. Come on in.

But Drew didn’t move. Frustrated now, Will put his hand down into the muck in front of him and raised himself up. He tried to say Drew’s name, but for some reason his throat loosed a vile din, more like a bark than a name.

Drew dropped the glass of water. It smashed at his feet.

“Jesus!” he yelled, and started to back away toward the stairs. What nonsense was this? Will thought. He needed help and the man was moving away?

He lurched toward the bedroom door, trying to call out a second time, but his throat again betrayed him. All he could do was to stagger out onto the landing, into the light, where Drew could see him. His legs were no more reliable than his larynx however. He stumbled at the door and would have fallen amongst the broken glass had he not caught hold of the jamb. He swung around, realizing in this ungainly moment that for some reason his witless dick was hard again, slapping against his stomach as he lurched out onto the landing.

And now, by the light thrown up the stairwell from the hallway below, Drew saw his pursuer.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, the fear on his face becoming disbelief. “Will?” he breathed.

This time, Will managed a word. “Yes,” he said.

Drew shook his head. “What are you playing at?” he said.

“You’re freaking me out.”

Will’s bare feet trod the glass, but he didn’t care. He had to stop Drew abandoning him. He caught hold of the banister and started to haul himself along the landing to the top of the stairs.

His body felt utterly alien to him, as though his muscles were in the business of reorienting themselves. He wanted to drop back down on his knees to ease their motion; wanted to move sleekly in pursuit of the animal in front of him. He’d been patient, hadn’t he? He’d waited in the gray until the quarry showed itself.

Now it was time to give chase—

Stop this, Will,” Drew was saying. “For God’s sake! I mean it!” Fear had made him shrill. He sounded comical, and Will laughed. Short and sharp. A yelp of a laugh.

The din was too much for Drew. What little courage he’d had broke, and he stumbled backward down the stairs, hollering at Will as he went—something incoherent—and snatching up his jacket at the bottom of the flight. He was barechested and barefoot, but he didn’t care. He wanted to be out of the house, whatever the discomfort. Will was at the top of the stairs now and began his descent. The slivers of his glass in his soles were agonizing, however, and after two steps—knowing he was in no condition to catch up with his quarry—he sank down onto one of the stairs and watched Drew while he struggled to unlock the door. Only when it was open, and Drew had sight of the street, did he look back and yell— “Fuck you, Will Rabjohns!” Then he was gone, out into the night and away.

Will sat on the stairs for several minutes enjoying the cold gusts that came through the open door. His goose-flesh did nothing to dissuade his erection. It ticked on between his legs, reminding him that for many the pleasures of the night were only just beginning. And if for others, why not for him?