Best Gay Romance 2012, page 2
What I’ve done, what misery.
Who wants to say good-bye?”
I dropped the chalk, I turned from the board and headed out the door. I knew that Hugh would be eating lunch and headed back toward the cafeteria.
A hall monitor looked up from his paperback. He held up a hand to stop me.
“Please let me make amends now.
I’ll risk two days detention,
to tell him my solemn vow.
Please I need his attention.”
The monitor teared up and nodded his assent.
I ran to the cafeteria doors, pushed them open and…
…everyone but Hugh in fifth period lunch stared at me. Not Hugh because he wasn’t there.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
I waited for him by his locker as the bell rang.
He offered me a weak smile, the sort that is armor for your feelings. I had never hugged him at school before. I wanted to now, right then and there, but hesitated. He opened the locker door between us. More armor.
“You didn’t eat lunch?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, I went to the library to work on my report.”
“Maybe I can help?” I rubbed at his shoulder.
“You haven’t even read the book.”
I winced. “True. Well then, can I borrow your Dick?”
“What?”
“The Melville. I want to know what all the fuss is about.”
He lightly rapped the back of his head against his locker door. “What happened to your copy? We were assigned the book a month ago—”
“That reminds me to ask Amazon for a refund. Super Save Shipping my ass.”
“—and my presentation is today.”
“Yes, but it’s eighth period, last period of the day. I’ll give it back before seventh. Promise.”
“Fine.” He handed it over.
I made sure to brush his fingers with mine when I took the book from him. He sighed, a sign—I hoped—that he was shedding some armor.
I brought the book with me to gym class. Yeah, Mr. Meno yelled at me, demanding I drop it, but I told him that the school board was far more concerned with me exercising my mind than my body. He growled a bit but ignored me for the rest of the class.
I could see that Melville liked his words, but I wasn’t so much interested in what he wrote as I was following in the thread of notes that Hugh had made. They led me to one ongoing passage about Ishmael squeezing lumps of whale spermaceti—which I hoped wasn’t what I thought it—ugh—with other crewhands. Hugh had written in tiny scrawl around the margins. I thought of secret codes and a thrill went through me:
Clearly this is Melville’s attempt to show not only the joys of masturbation but how such an affectionate act can bring men closer.
I grinned and fought down a massive giggle. Hugh had written masturbation. Serious Hugh. I wondered if he got turned on while reading the passage, which seemed more gross than erotic to me.
Once the thirty minutes of chin-ups, push-ups and near throw-ups surrounding me were finished, I followed the other boys to the locker room, sat on the scarred wooden bench that ran down the middle of one tunnel of lockers and read more.
Before I had turned more than a couple of pages, though, I noticed that the usual accompanying din of guys changing and showering had…a rhythm?
I looked up from Melville to see a line of seniors, bare-skinned except for the towels wrapped around their waists, heading off to the showers. As they passed each locker, they slapped the metal door with their palms in a steady staccato, which they matched with a shanty:“Yo, all young fellows that just might be queer
for me, way hey, blow the man down.
Best pay some attention and listen here.
Give me some time to blow the man down.”
I set the book down on the bench and cautiously stepped to the end of the hall, watching the line of boys as each stripped off his towel and threw it onto a hook—every one landing with perfect precision—before they stepped under hissing showerheads.
“I’m a high school senior fresh from Jersey.
Breaking hearts because I have no mercy.”
I edged closer. The testosterone in my blood reacting like iron fillings to a magnet. As the guys sang, they soaped themselves. The steam from the hot spray obscured…well, all the good parts, like a cartoon censor.
“When a cute guy is wanting a date
with me, way hey, blow the man down, when our bodies
touch that just might be fate.
Give me some time to blow the man down.”
Each slick boy squeezed the soap in his hands—like the sailors of the Pequod had worked the spermaceti—causing the bars to leap into the air, only to be caught by the boy next in line. Not since I was seven had my jaw hung so low.
“Then tomorrow there’ll be another boy
all while yesterday’s one sheds tears ahoy.
You want me? Dare you take me home tonight?
For me, way hey, blow the man down
I’ll leave your bedside, my exit stage right.
Give me some time to blow the man down.”
I turned away from temptation…after a second look. I grabbed Moby Dick to shield the too-obvious effect of the shanty performance on my mainsail.
I ran into Hugh just before he walked inside his seventh-period class.
“Hey,” he said.
My response was to tug him hard in the direction of the nearest boys’ bathroom; he started to complain, but I told him French class could wait.
Once inside, I shoved him into a stall. I had a lot of enthusiasm to work out of my system.
He met my kisses with guarded measure. “But…I’ll be…late.”
My lips ate his words up. I slid one hand around to the back of his polo shirt, another hand to the front of his chinos.
He pressed his face into the crook of my neck and gasped. He managed to say, “Not here. Come over tonight. We’ll watch Les chansons d’amour again.”
My favorite film. “Promise?” We lost our virginity to Honoré’s visuals and Beaupain’s lyrics. I squeezed him tight as the echoes of the experience filled my head and chest.
“Tu doives entendre je t’aime,” he said softly into my ear.
I stepped back. We chuckled at our obvious erections. His hand cupped my face for several seconds. Then we left the stall and sought to look more presentable.
“This is the greatest book ever,” I said.
“Really?”
“No. But this may be the greatest day ever for me.”
He kissed me again, on the cheek. “Don’t be late for English. I’ll need you there to cheer me on.”
I decided, then, to skip study hall. I knew I had to do more than just applaud my boyfriend’s efforts.
“Where did you get the guitar?” Hugh asked when he saw me sitting in the front row in English. For the first, and last, time.
“I borrowed it from the music department.”
He smiled. “Do you even know how to play?”
“No, that’s why I borrowed a guitarist, too.” I waved toward Casey, who had cut class for a noble effort. “She owns every one of the Guitar Heroes.”
When Mr. Shimel called Hugh to come up to the front of the class and begin his presentation, I followed.
“It’s a duet,” I told the heavy-set teacher.
Hugh cleared his throat.
“Ships are like prisons don’t you know
men kept with other men on decks below.
Melville knew this from his life at sea,
he found homosexuality.
Let me tell you about the Gommorahs of the deep.
Let me tell you about the Gommorahs of the deep.
Proof’s in Moby Dick, his most famous book.
Never were sailors so damn tight. Take a look.”
Tracy Borland giggled, instigating an infection of chuckles and chortles that spread to the students around her. In response, I threaded my fingers between Hugh’s to hold his hand tight. Then I pressed against Hugh, as if spooning him (which would happen tonight) as I sang the next verse.
“Think of that savage islander Queequeg.
In bed he harpooned Ishmael’s pant leg.
What about that chapter where they all squeeze
out lumps of whale gunk, isn’t that just a tease—”
Brian Coleman’s wide mouth stopped masticating a lump of pinkish gum.
Hugh smiled.
“To boys like me, who search each book each day
for characters like me, proud to be gay.”
Derek Fiesler grunted out “No way…” so it was only fair that I winked at him. His face flushed and he looked away.
“Ships are like prisons don’t you know
men kept with other men on decks below.
Melville knew this from his life at sea,
he found homosexuality.
Let me tell you about the Gommorahs of the deep.
Let me tell you about the Gommorahs of the deep.”
Then Hugh jumped back in:“Melville wed, had a wife, that much is true.
But his real love was Hawthorne, a dude—
yes, that man who gave us The Scarlet Letter—
Melville’s heart ached to know much better.
Before you say foul at what we have found
step wise and meet us on some common ground.
You, like us, like Melville, want only bliss
and that’s why boys, when they want, should kiss.”
In the moment of silence that followed, we kissed, right there, in front of the entire class. A kiss that lasted several moments as Casey geniused a guitar solo. I’d like to think we earned the B+ for that alone.
CHARMING PRINCES
Jamie Freeman
Our story began—as so many love stories do—with a shoe.
“Do you have this in size ten?” he asked the salesclerk. Her name tag identified her as Courtnei. A tiny heart-shaped sticker dotted the terminal letter.
Courtnei took the running shoe, turning it around in her hands, and said, “Do you want to see it in light blue too?”
“Sure.” His smile was picture-perfect.
“Are you gonna buy those?” I asked.
He looked at me for the first time and my stomach lurched. He was beautiful in a way that made me look around to see if he was being filmed. A man this gorgeous could have stepped off a movie set, with his faded jeans and white Oxford shirt, perfectly manicured hands, Rolex, signet ring and expensively messy haircut. He had that fresh, sharply defined quality a man can only achieve through the consistent use of staggeringly overpriced skin-care products. Everything about him whispered: wealth. I looked into his pale-blue eyes, acutely aware of my tattered Levi’s, stained T-shirt and army surplus jacket. I pointed to the poster I’d been clutching in front of me.
“Yes,” he said.
I snorted in exasperation. Of course this child of privilege wouldn’t get it.
“This woman works in a Honduran sweatshop making the shoes you’re considering buying. She is paid less than twenty dollars a week despite the long hours and high productivity demands. She has no protection if she or one of her three children becomes ill. She is the sole support of her—”
“What’s her name?”
“What?”
“I asked her name,” he said. “Sometimes personalizing the message, say, something like, ‘This is Maria Cortez. She works in a sweatshop near La Ceiba—’”
“Are you making fun of people in poverty?”
“No. I’m making fun of you.” He smiled again, his lips parting in a frankly sensual manner.
“Okay, so I’ve got these in dark blue in ten and a half, and the light blue ones in ten.” Courtnei pushed past me with a pair of shoeboxes. “He can’t be here,” she said to him, and then turned to me. “You can’t be here.”
“He’s here with me,” the man said.
“But he can’t—”
“Thank you, Courtnei,” the man said. “May I have a few minutes to talk with my friend? Then I’ll try these on?”
“I’m not your friend,” I said.
He shrugged. Courtnei looked dubious but drifted away.
“So you’re here to keep people from buying these shoes?” he asked.
“Yes. The workers—”
“Wait.” He held up his hand, the palm pink and perfect. The gesture was strangely erotic. I shifted in place; he smiled again.
“You’re still laughing at me.”
“There is a difference between a smile and a laugh…and you need to tell me your name.”
“I need to what?”
“Tell me your name.”
I crossed me arms and considered my options.
“I’m Fletcher Alden,” he said. He held out his hand. I shook it, feeling small and disoriented.
“Ashe,” I said. “Ashe Stern.”
He smiled again, blue eyes probing me. Sweat trickled down my back.
“You know, Ashe, in a country in which nearly forty percent of the population is unemployed or underemployed and seventy percent live in poverty, the fact that this company provides over five hundred jobs, on-site medical care, and wages that are fifty percent more than the federally mandated minimum wage could be seen as a good thing.”
“Who’re you supposed to be? Jeffrey Sachs?”
“No. I’m just saying this may be more complicated than it seems.”
“That’s a bullshit excuse.”
“Most things are,” he said.
“Are what?”
“More complicated than they seem.”
“No,” I said. I was trying unsuccessfully to work up some emotion about the Honduran workers, but all I could see was dark hair that tufted from the collar of Fletcher’s bright white undershirt, the ample denim bulge between his legs and the heavily muscled runner’s thighs that stretched the legs of his jeans. “This is about…this is about a definition of social justice that transcends national borders.”
“As you say. You’re clearly the expert.”
I flushed.
“Do you believe that?” I asked.
“What? That you’re an expert?”
“No. The other part, about the workers being better off.”
He shook his head. “Not really. These shoes cost about seven dollars to produce, package and ship. They’re on sale for a hundred and fifty. Somebody’s making a bundle and I’m guessing it’s not Maria Cortez, and because Courtnei works for minimum wage plus commissions, I doubt it’s her either.”
I hadn’t really considered Courtnei’s wages.
“Do you think she has health insurance?”
“Courtnei? Probably can’t afford it.”
“I hate this,” I said.
“Then why are you here?”
“For Maria,” I said.
“Don’t you mean Courtnei?” he asked.
I sighed.
“Just yanking your chain,” he said. “Courtnei? I’m going to pass on these.”
“You’re not gonna buy them?”
“No.”
I blushed in confusion, unable to figure out if this was a victory. I dropped my eyes, studying my own fair-trade shoes, letting my brown hair fall down in front of my face, screening me from further scrutiny.
“So Ashe, after fighting the good fight all morning, you must be hungry.”
“Are you asking me to lunch?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure I am.” Fletcher shifted his body into a cool, elegant pose. I watched the way he canted his hips and let his shoulders rise. It was a supremely natural movement, but it radiated sexiness and surety. I tried to create a quick mental note of it, wondering if I could recreate it onstage.
“Um?” I lost my train of thought somewhere between his hips and his shoulders.
“What would Maria Cortez say to the voice of the people having lunch with a prince of the merchant class?”
“You’re not funny,” I said, smiling slightly.
“I have my moments,” he said. “And I’m getting hungry.” His voice dropped into the gutter with that last word, but the inflection was so precise, so polished, that I wondered if I had heard correctly.
“So, lunch?” I said.
“Or something,” he said.
He was standing closer to me suddenly, his warm body radiating the smell of clean sweat and sandalwood, the bulge in his jeans slowly becoming larger and more distinct.
He saw me glancing down at him and licked his lips. Again the gesture was subtle, could easily have been something else, but I saw the look in his eyes and knew he was toying with me. I liked it.
We left the store and cut over to Eighth Avenue, ambling uptown to the door of a little Italian bistro. The staff greeted Fletcher by name, ushering us past a crush of waiting tourists to an intimate table near the piano. The owner brought over a bottle of expensive Chianti and chatted amiably with Fletcher, asking in her throaty, sexy Italian accent about his mother and his sister; asking who I was, where we’d met and if this was a date. She clucked and laughed and winked at me, her wine-red fingernails clicking against the bottle as she poured a tasting portion for Fletcher.
When she was gone, Fletcher raised his glass. “To happy beginnings,” he said. We clicked glasses and I sipped the smooth, dark wine.
Lunch was like a clever, funny romantic comedy montage scored by the tinkling ivory sounds of Arlen, Berlin and Gershwin. I’m sure we talked about all the boring things people find so fascinating when the chemistry is explosive, but I don’t really remember any of it. I know we didn’t talk about jobs or apartments, but Fletcher insists we traded family histories and coming out stories. I remember arguing over the check—I proposed we split it; he insisted on paying—and I remember watching him across the table throughout lunch and falling for him: for his pale, glowing skin and his perfect, lilting voice and his laugh, that perfect combination of deep, sexy rumble and high delighted peal. When we finally stood to leave, I didn’t want to part from him.
