BACK TO THE WALL
Seeing red. Not just a metaphor, I close my eyes and see red, red blood pounding
behind my eyelids, if I slit my eyes the red combines with the blue light in the
backroom and turns the world purple. Keep my eyes closed. Don't look at him any
more. Don't watch him turn and walk away, defeated, shoulders slumped, hurting,
bleeding all over the floor in the backroom. How dare he look at me like that,
how dare he show me that face, does he actually think I give a fuck that he's
suffering?
Concentrate on the wet hot lips glossing over my cock, lean back against the
cool rough surface of the wall, forget it, forget his face, the pale skin
luminous in the near-darkness. Forget his fucking beautiful eyes so demanding,
those eyes beseeching me for - for what? His eyes that beg me to care, to fix
it, to make things right. For him. I can't. I won't. And I wouldn’t if I could.
Fucking nerve, fucking unbelievable nerve, coming into my space, this is my
place, I own it. Fucking nerve pushing away the guy blowing me, and for what?
"Take a number," I tell him, and I don't mean get in line to suck my cock. "Take
a number" - to join the crowd nagging at me all the time, do this, Brian, do
that, Brian, you're an asshole, Brian. I hear them in my sleep, I can ignore
them while I'm awake but they fucking come to me in my sleep and rag on me all
the time. This is what you should do, this is the right thing to do, shame on
you, Brian, looking out for number one.
I am fucking number one, I'll always be fucking number one, the minute you stop
looking out for yourself, the second you stop, everyone crowds around wanting a
piece of you. The minute you bend, the fucking minute you give in and bend for
someone or something, you'll break. You’ll break and you’ll fall and your bones
will be crushed into powder, and you won’t be able to bear the unbelievable
pain.
Hands grabbing at me, that's what I dream of, grasping hands, reaching hands,
hitting hands, pulling me-pushing me, throwing me across the room, knocking me
down the stairs.
Violin music, I hate violin music, I think I always have, I can't remember any
more. I hear that in my sleep sometimes too, when he comes and slips into bed
beside me. I want to wake up those times, I want to wake up and push him out of
the bed but I can't. I resist rolling over, I resist the feel of his gentle
ghost fingers touching me, those long slim artist fingers tiptoeing around my
shoulders, reaching around to hug me, to push himself hard against my back. I
can't breathe when he holds on to me, I hold my breath as long as possible, till
my lungs scream for air and I have to take a breath, and then his scent fills my
nostrils, I grab the pillow and squeeze it over my face as hard as I can,
suffocating myself to keep away the scent of Justin’s delicate skin.
“Wro-wro-wrong?”
Huh?
“Wha-wha-what’s wro-wro-wrong?”
Forcing my eyes open, I look down at the guy kneeling at my feet, he’s speaking
to me but I can’t hear him. His hands are resting against my hips, his lips are
moving but I don’t understand.
“Huh?”
“…lost your hard-on.”
He lost my hard-on. No. No, I lost my hard-on. I look down and it’s gone,
slithered away, my cock is drooping with disinterest. It’s that new drug I tried
tonight. Must be the drug, I never lose a hard-on unless I want to. Or this guy
is no good at blow jobs. Or maybe it’s because I forgot that my cock was in his
mouth, already I’m fighting off the hands that touch me while I sleep and I’m
not even asleep yet.
Pushing him roughly, I turn and shove my disinterested cock into my jeans and
button up as I move away. Find another, find someone better than him, maybe find
someone young with pale skin and cheeks as smooth as cream. Rubbing a hand over
my eyes I realize that I’m headed toward the exit. What the hell, I’ve had
enough for one night, this drug is making me dizzy and not in a good way.
The cold air swirls down the alley to surround me, to invade my open jacket and
blow around inside my shirt, raising goosebumps and making me shiver. I stop to
zip my jacket, cross to the other side of the alley trying to remember where I
left the jeep. No, not the jeep. My new car, my new old beautiful classic car,
it cost a fortune but so what, I can afford it. Head spinning, I stop and lean
against the brick wall, I'm still so dizzy, I'm blinking and blinking my eyes to
focus, light from the streetlamps shimmers on random puddles dotting the
pavement. Fumbling in my pockets I pull out my cigarettes in the new shiny
silver case, I tip one out and when I raise my head to put the cigarette between
my lips, I see him.
He's there at the end of the alley, I see only his right shoulder and the back
of his head but I know him, I'd know him anywhere. His back's against the wall,
the corner of the wall at the end of the alley, he's barely around the corner,
he's bent over, head in his hands. Is he crying? I can't tell.
He doesn't cry much, he's a tough kid, he's had to be a tough kid, dealing with
his dad and his school and. . .with me. I inch closer, just a few steps, still
hugging my wall, I need to see if he's crying. He's standing perfectly still,
and no, he's not crying, just holding his head in his hands. Suddenly he stands
upright, and I flatten myself against the wall, if he turns he will see me. I
watch as he rubs his hands hard over his face, he straightens his shoulders and
pulls himself up tall. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and he turns -
heading away from me. He walks away, his steps are not faltering, his stride is
determined and strong and in that moment I'm so proud of him that my throat
closes and threatens to choke me, I can hardly breathe, but when I'm sure he's
far enough away I draw a ragged gasping breath, then another.
The cold air is clearing my head at last and I can think again, I can think
about that scene in the back room. I smacked him, I smacked Justin in the face
and I saw him flinch. Smacked him right between the eyes with the truth, he
heard it, I saw him hear it, acknowledge it. I demanded, "Did you expect him to
give up his career for you?" No. No, that's not quite right. I said, "For a
piece of blond boy ass." Jesus. Jesus Christ.
Truth. Yes, I told the truth, but now I realize how much I wanted to hurt him.
It was truth with the edge of a broken beer bottle, scraped across his throat.
It cut him too, just like I wanted it to. "Is that what true love means to you -
Sunshine?" My voice was broken glass, cutting-cutting, slicing him open,
spilling his blood on the cold concrete floor of the backroom. I watched him
bleed as I moved away, slid away from him and flattened myself against the wall,
the nameless mouth returning to reclaim my cock.
I shouldn't drive. I'm smart enough to know I shouldn't drive, the drug is still
making me dizzy and it's also making me sick. I stumble to the end of the alley
and reach the spot where Justin was standing. I rub my hand against the bricks
as if to capture any warmth he left behind but there is none, only cold
hardness, there's no scent of him lingering, the cold autumn wind has blown it
all away. I turn my back to the wall and lean where he was leaning, bend over as
he was bending, my head in my hands. I stand there for five minutes, or an hour,
waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Finally it does. My vision clears and lifting my head, I can see my car parked
half a block away. Straightening up, rubbing my hands hard against my face, I
square my shoulders and push away from the wall, take one step and then another
across the wet pavement until I get to the car, fumble in my pocket for the
keys. I don't remember the drive home but I'm alert enough to make all the right
turns and to park in my space in the garage. I feel too shaky for the stairs,
instead I press the elevator button and slip inside when the door opens, lean
against the back wall and ride up to the fourth floor with my eyes closed.
4/8/03