Page 100 of Notorious

“I like ’em all. Bigger dogs, probably, but I care more about personality. Not sure there’s enough room for a big dog to run here, though they could go on the beach.”

“Where would you want to live if you could live anywhere?”

I bark out a laugh. “You’d best not be planning to come home with a new house for me, darlin’.” I’m joking … mostly. This is Kurt, after all, and who knows what ideas he’ll get in his sweet, pretty head.

“We’re just talking,” he says, shooting me a smile. “Didn’t you ever play that game when you were a kid, making up around-the-world trips or planning out your dream house? I wanted a pool and a trampoline and an art studio and a separate freezer just for ice cream. I mean, not all of that is ridiculous, I suppose, but the point is, it was a fantasy.”

I don’t rightly remember any such imaginings. Before Mama got sick, I wore myself out running around on the ranch with the dogs and the horses and the goats, not thinking up things that were never gonna happen anyway. And after … I was busy trying to do extra chores anywhere I could, to help out with the bills. “If you say so,” I tell him. “Well, I don’t need a big house or a fancy one, but I wouldn’t mind having a bit of land and privacy,” I admit. While the condo is up high and not so easy for people to see into, it’s still in the middle of a city.

“Like in Hidden Valley?”

“That’s too expensive.”

“Setting aside the price,” he says.

“Then, sure. I mean, yeah, open space and fields and trees. That’s more my speed.”

He nods. “That makes sense. You definitely seem happier out in nature, and with animals.” He takes another bite of brisket and makes a happy noise before telling me about a meme Sam sent him earlier in the day, and we talk about this and that as we finish our meal.

I hope it’s ridiculous to imagine he’d think about moving on my account. Everything he’s already doing for me is too much. A house would be … well, I don’t know the words for how much, much too much it would be. Even if he says he don’t need to be paid back, I still feel wrong being a kept man. I wanna contribute, and I’m only just now barely starting to feel like it’s a possibility that I ever could.

After we finish eating, Kurt does the dishes, shooing me away when I try to help. I look around his great room and realize the place is starting to feel like home to me. When I first got here, everything was so … him. Which made sense, it being his house. But now there are little touches of me all over the place, too: my hat hung up on a peg, my boots by the door. The cowboy poetry book he gave me on the coffee table. A to-go coffee mug he bought me sitting on the drainboard. My award on his shelf. He even framed some old photos of mine that were in the bottom of my suitcase.

I do like it here, even if it ain’t the country.

“Do you want to watch a show?” Kurt asks.

“Don’t mind if you want to,” I say. “The shows that just manufacture drama annoy me, but I trust you to pick something good.”

“Well, let’s see what you think of some better-written shows.”

I plop my ass on the couch and spread my legs, and Kurt settles between them. I decide immediately that if watching TV means curling up with him on the couch, I’m on board.

He puts on The Last of Us, since I’d told him I hadn’t seen it—though he warns me it covers some tough subject matter. Once the story gets going, I’m enthralled.

“Wow. This is … wow.”

“I know,” he says. As the drama (good drama) continues, I think about the way the show portrays society. About how there are still individuals trying to do the right thing, even when the institutions are going to hell.

When we get to the episode with the same-sex couple who lives a beautiful, ordinary life in the middle of the zombie apocalypse, though, I’ll admit it. My eyes get hot. Dang. “Why’re y’all making me watch this,” I huff. “You coulda told me it’d hit me in the feels. I’m not just talking about the heavy stuff at the end of the episode. I’m talking about the part where they get together at the beginning.”

“I know. The actors said the intimacy coordinators really helped their performance.”

“Intimacy coordinator. I’ve heard that term, but I ain’t come across one.”

“They should be standard in porn, and I bet there are some. Just not at the studios you worked with, I guess.” He gives me a small smile. “You’d be a good one.”

“I wonder what I’d have to do to become one,” I say. “Then that could be my job when you’re out being a senator or graphic artist or whatever else you decide to do. Since I’m not gonna do porn no more.”

“I’m sure you can find out.”

“Now that you’ve had a moment to process it, what do you think about being married to a porn star?” I ask. “Or former porn star.” I’m kinda afraid to hear his answer, but I guess the masochistic part of me wants to know.

He gives it some thought. “I guess my knee-jerk reaction was just that. Sex workers have such a stigma in this country, and most everywhere. But why is that? Because they’re evidence of our bodily needs? Or is it that we like to feel better, higher, bigger, more important than someone? Is it our Puritan heritage that wanted us to renounce all things related to the flesh? It doesn’t totally make sense to me.”

I nod.

“I do think, though, that I may have some internalized issues with it,” he continues. “Because if I’m married to a porn star, then that means I like porn. Or people assume I do, anyhow, and since they happen to be right …” He shrugs. “I admit that’s not something I wanted the whole world knowing.”

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