Page 37 of Torn
“Crap.”
“He loves it.”
“Loving something is overrated. You love dick and eating out buttholes. Look where it’s gottenyou. Hey, howisthat hepatitis?”
“Oh, thank you, sweetie, for showing such concern for my welfare!”
“You’re welcome.”
“Anyway, I’m doing okay. Back at work. White-eyed and bushy-tailed. Feeling normal again.”
“That’s good. Do you feel like going out for a drink tonight, then? Think your liver can handle it?”
My liver would probably be better off without an infusion of beer or spirits, and I knew it. I had a pile of laundry that needed doing. TMC was replaying one of my favorite movies, the Douglas Sirk weeperImitation of Life, and I didn’t want to miss it. So naturally I said, “That sounds lovely. What time should I pick you up?” Boutros had yet to learn how to drive.
“Ten. Nothing really happens in this town until then. Even on a Thursday.”
I told him I’d be by around that time.
BOUTROS ANDI went out to a leather bar that night, as we often did. But it was not the Cell. It was its older, and filthier, peer in Andersonville, on north Clark, the Chicago Eagle. The Eagle had all the same elements as the Cell—back room, smoke, leather guys, and porn—but they were much more egalitarian regarding who they let in.
They let in anyone. There was supposed to be a dress code, but I’d never seen it enforced. You could come dressed in your finest preppy wear, including khaki, Izod, and penny loafers, and get in—as long as you were willing to “take a knee” in the back room and, of course, buy a beverage or two.
Boutros and I, as we often did, went our separate ways after having had a beer and a smoke together. We, like so many other gay male duos who were only friends, followed the law of the jungle. Namely, to stay out of the other’s way when searching for a man—whether it was for the next five minutes, for the night, or for a lifetime.
I found myself sitting alone on a built-in bench underneath a Tom of Finland poster when I was approached by a very cute bearded redhead. He was wearing tight 501s, no shirt, and a bar vest. His beard but lack of belly marked him as an otter.
“We’re twins.” I raised my bottle of Bud to him.
And right away, I knew he was a genius. His smile vanished as he scratched his beard. “Huh?”
I gestured to my own bar vest and Levi’s, and then, to make things perfectly clear, to his. “We’re wearing the same clothes.”
“Oh,” he uttered a grim little chuckle. I still didn’t think he got my little opening gambit joke. He sat down beside me.
Normally such a lack of sense of humor (or was it lack of intelligence? Both?) would have bored me, and I would have moved on. But this guy’s looks saved him. He was hot, as only little, bearded ginger boys can be. He was like a sexy leprechaun. I hoped that if I talked long enough to him, I might get a glimpse, or more, of his Lucky Charms in the back room.
He extended a hand. “Pat.”
“Of course you are. I’m Ricky.” We shook, and his grip was predictably close to bone-crunching.
Not surprisingly, we sat quietly after the introductions. We sipped our beer and watched Al Parker stuff his balls into the ass of a willing pal in an old vintage porn on the monitor above us.
I quickly learned that Pat was not into sweet-talk. He subtly moved closer so that our shoulders touched. I experienced a frisson of heat and electricity at the sensation of our sweaty bare skin uniting. He laid a hand upon my thigh.
Oh, this is going right where I want it to, I thought as his hand inched upward.
But then, without warning, he reached up, grabbed my chin roughly, and turned my face toward his. He kissed me hard, jamming his tongue down my throat. I nearly gagged. Now I had the impression he was graceless as well as clueless. And maybe, just maybe, psychotic. I understand there are those who like a little bit of rough (I’m not one of them—save for maybe a brotherly smack on the ass in the heat of passion, a sort of giddy-up kind of blow), but I would think that even those who do enjoy the rough stuff look for at least some sign of welcome.
I pushed him away—roughly—worried that he might like it. I was about to tell him to slow down a bit. A little rough was okay, but let’s ease into it, okay?
But I didn’t get the chance because, smiling his charming and disarming smile, he next lightly slapped my face.
My mouth dropped open. It didn’t hurt. But, really? I need, I don’t know what, but something more before a guy feels free to slap my face.
And then he did it again, harder.
That time stung. I imagined a welt rising up on my cheek. The heat was there.
