Boy Crazy, page 9
I laughed. His arm felt heavenly about my neck, and his hips rested against my buttocks. He pressed his chin to the crown of my head. Then he let me go.
He said, “What’re you doing tonight?”
I raised my shoulders, then let them drop. I jiggled the popcorn pan. “I’ll watch Guy Lombardo with Mom.”
“Tomorrow,” Dan said, “I’m taking my bike to the woods north of Clearwater. Trails go everywhere and they’re fun to ride. Want to come?”
My jaw dropped and my eyebrows jumped. I said, “Sure I do.” Then I frowned and shook my head. “My mom…”
Dan said, “Let me talk to her. We’ll see what happens.”
Miraculously, my mother said yes, with the caveat that I’d wear a helmet. They weren’t mandatory then.
Dan appeared the next morning around eleven. He wore a leather jacket, a T-shirt, blue jeans, and boots. The day was sunny and cool and without a breeze. Dan and I stood on the driveway, next to Dan’s motorcycle, while he chatted with my mother and sister.
“Please be careful,” my mother said to Dan, “bring him back in one piece.” Then she handed me five dollars. She said, “Buy lunch for yourself and Dan.” She kissed my cheek and told me to enjoy myself.
Dan had borrowed an extra helmet from a friend. I put it on and Dan adjusted my chinstrap so it fit snugly. I felt as though my head were inside a seashell. Dan patted the rear portion of the Honda’s seat, looked at me, and said, “Hop on.”
I swung my leg across the seat and lowered my butt to the leather. Dan mounted the bike and settled in. The insides of my thighs pressed against his hips, and my chest rested against his back. He explained to me about leaning when he turned the bike left or right. He pointed to his belt loops, the two above his hips. “Hold on to those when we’re moving,” he said. Then he showed me the rear footrests I should use.
He raised the kickstand and we balanced the bike with our legs. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine sputtered to life. He revved the motor. My mother and sister stood with their arms crossed under their breasts, watching us. Dan raised a hand to them and waved. I did the same, then Dan shifted gears, accelerated, and we slid from the driveway like a raindrop rolling off a windshield.
Riding a motorcycle is not like traveling in an automobile. A car insulates its occupants from the outside world while a motorcycle shoves reality into a rider’s face. A motorcycle driver confronts the world’s sights and sounds and smells, the road’s dips and curves and potholes. If the air’s chilly, he’s chilly. If rain falls, he gets wet. A car affords shelter, a motorcycle none, only speed, noise, and the rush of air.
Traffic was light on New Year’s Day when Dan took us north on Highway 19. We pretty much had the road to ourselves. I held on to Dan’s belt loops. My body pressed against his and I rested my chin on his shoulder. I felt exhilarated and reckless with this physical contact at forty-five miles per hour. At stoplights, passengers in cars stared at us as we balanced the bike with our legs and I rested a hand on Dan’s shoulder. The motorcycle legitimized our public intimacy, and I’m sure no one suspected just how sexually charged it was for me.
We stopped at a burger joint, one of the few places open for business that day, and I paid for cheeseburgers, fries, and colas with the money my mother had given me. I’d never eaten a meal out with a non-family member before, and I was proud to be Dan’s companion, feeling very grown-up. We sat in a booth with our helmets beside us on the benches. Sunlight poured into the room through plate glass windows, highlighting patches of blond stubble on Dan’s jaw. As we ate, he talked to me about Philadelphia, about South Street and its nightlife, about the Phillies and the Eagles, about snow and ice and endless winters. About crime and juvenile gangs and fights he’d gotten into at school. It sounded edgy and fun to me, a true contrast to central Florida and its retirees and orange groves.
He asked about fistfights at my school. Had I been slugged? Had I thrown a punch or two? I told Dan I hadn’t, but I mentioned Gus Andriakas and his situation. I described his plethora of shiners and swollen lips.
“Your friend needs a lesson in technique,” Dan said. “Throwing a punch is not all fighting’s about. It involves foot and shoulder movement, positioning your hands. It’s as much about defense as offense.”
I nodded like I knew what Dan meant.
“Tell your friend to come to the house next Saturday, in the afternoon. I’ll teach him a few things.”
After we finished our meal, we smoked in the parking lot while Dan explained basics of motorcycle operation: the throttle, gear pedal, clutch grip, brake action. The cigarette made me light-headed, and I found it hard to concentrate. “Am I going to drive today? I don’t have a license.”
Dan shrugged. “We’ll be off-road, in the woods. You don’t need a license for that.”
My pulse raced. “What if I crash into something?”
Dan grinned. “You won’t. We’ll take it slow.”
North of Clearwater, the housing developments and shopping centers thinned out, making way for cattle ranches and citrus groves. Dan turned on to a county road that led to a wooded area. We slowed to a crawl, then left the pavement and bounced along the road shoulder till we reached a dirt path leading into the woods, about six feet wide. It took us into a forest of long-leaf pines and live oaks, slash pines, clumps of saw palmetto and turkey oaks.
The path was bumpy, and the land rolled, and the ride was rough compared to the paved roads we’d traveled earlier. I tightened my grip on Dan’s belt loops, fearing I might get jolted from the seat. Dan turned his head and shouted over the engine’s growl. “Put your arms around my waist and lock your hands together.”
I did as he said, and my wrists pressed against Dan’s flat belly, just above his belt buckle. My pulse pounded in my head, my dick stiffened, and I thought: Is this what sex between two people is like? This physical closeness? This movement? This warmth? Dan inhaled and exhaled, his body in motion against my hands. My nose nudged his neck and I smelled his hair.
The sun shone from its apex in a cloudless sky. Some trees stood forty or fifty feet tall, casting long shadows as we passed. Dan pointed to the top of one long-leaf pine, to a bald eagle’s nest big as a moving van tire, constructed from sticks and tree branches. A male eagle stood guard on a nearby limb. His curved beak was pumpkin orange and his black feathers reflected sunlight. His white head swiveled, focusing on me and Dan and the motorcycle.
We reached a clearing the size of a tennis court. Dan braked, killed the engine, and we dropped our feet to the ground. Dan lowered the kickstand. “Hop off.”
I didn’t want to let go of Dan’s waist, but I did as he’d said; I slid from the seat, and it felt odd to stand on solid ground, after all the bouncing. Dan swung his leg over the Honda’s handlebars, removed his helmet, and hung it by the chinstrap from a handgrip. I took my helmet off too, placing it on the seat. Dan pulled a comb from his pocket and stared into the Honda’s rear-view mirror while he rearranged his hair.
The woods were strangely quiet, now that the motorcycle wasn’t sputtering. Birds tweeted and a squirrel barked from a live oak’s limb. I followed Dan to the clearing’s edge and we peed, side by side. I stared at Dan’s penis, at the golden arc of urine streaming from the glans, fixing the vision in my mind.
After we wiped our hands on our pants, Dan tapped two cigarettes from his pack and handed me one. He lit mine first with his Zippo, then his. We squatted in the sand, next to the Honda, smoking in silence for a while.
Dan said, “Your friend, the Greek kid. What’s his name?”
“Gus.”
“You think he’s gay?”
“Gay? What do you mean?”
“Is he homosexual? Up north, in Philly, we use the word gay, not queer.”
I said I didn’t think Gus liked boys.
“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” Dan said. “My cousin, Richie, is gay, but you’d never know it. He plays ball and that sort of thing.”
I drew on my cigarette and tapped the ash. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone gay before.”
Dan raised his shoulders, then let them drop. “It’s nothing to fear. My cousin’s okay, he’s just different.”
“He doesn’t get beat up?”
Dan grinned and shook his head. Then he rose. Extending his hand, he pulled me to my feet. “Come on,” he said, “it’s time you learned how to ride my bike.”
We didn’t return home till nearly dark, and by then I’d pretty well mastered operation of Dan’s Honda: shifting gears, how to turn, smooth acceleration, braking. I drove dirt paths through the woods, alone or with Dan on the seat behind me. I crashed only once, when I took a curve where the sand was loose-packed. I was alone when this happened. The Honda’s rear wheel lost traction, it went into a skid, and the bike fell onto its side (and on me), bruising my leg from ankle to hip. I walked with a limp for several days after, but I didn’t mind. I was almost proud of the pain.
That night, over dinner with our family, Dan proclaimed me a “quick study.” I regaled my mother with my driving feats while my sister sat next to Dan with a bored expression. My spirits had never been so high. I was effervescent—until Dan rose from his chair. It was getting late and tomorrow we had school.
My mood plunged. How could this be? I’d spent nine uninterrupted hours with Dan and now he would leave me? Even worse, my sister would walk him outside; she would kiss him in the moonlight. All I got was a squeeze on the shoulder.
Loneliness engulfed me while my mother clattered dishes in the kitchen. I felt as though I’d stood next to a warm fireplace all day and now someone had doused the flames with a bucket of water, leaving me shivering in the cold. I fled to the bathroom and turned on the hot water. I stripped and climbed into the shower and wept like a five-year-old while I soaped my naked body.
The Saturday following New Year’s Day we gathered in my garage—Dan, me, and Gus. Dan had brought two pairs of boxing gloves. The garage wasn’t heated, but the temperature was reasonably warm. Dan stripped off his shirt. He told Gus to do the same. I’d never seen Gus bare-chested; I was shocked at how skinny he was. I could count his ribs. His arms were like licorice whips, and his shoulder blades stuck out like shark fins. One of his cheekbones was purple and scabby. Dan laced Gus’s gloves, then I did the same for Dan. I smelled his cologne and his cigarette breath.
We opened the garage door, for better light, and kids from the neighborhood gathered on the driveway to watch. Dan spoke to Gus like a teacher, describing jabs, hooks, and uppercuts; blows to the belly, feints, footwork. He demonstrated in slow motion. He discussed the importance of positioning hands and elbows to fend off an opponent’s punches. He talked about head movement, how to duck swings, how to avoid direct hits. “Always keep moving,” he told Gus. “Don’t give your opponent a stable target. Stay on the balls of your feet and dance. Keep your fists up front, a little below chin level…”
They sparred, Dan doing strictly defense. Each time Gus swung at Dan’s chin, Dan slapped the punch away. “Try a one-two combination. Surprise me.”
Gus circled, bouncing his heels. He kept his gloves high, his chin low. He swung for Dan’s head, over and over, not landing a single punch. “Faster,” Dan yelled, “speed it up. Don’t give me a clue what you’ll do next.”
Gus sweated in the cool afternoon air. His chest heaved. He kept dancing and his breath whistled in his nose. He threw a left jab. Then, just after Dan ducked the jab, Gus tagged Dan’s temple with his right glove, not a direct hit, but a glancing blow that jerked Dan’s head. The kids on the concrete cheered.
“That’s better,” Dan cried. “Keep coming at me, don’t let up.”
Gus threw another combination, a flurry of punches. None of them landed but Dan was in retreat, ducking his head and rocking his shoulders to avoid Gus’s gloves. Gus backed Dan up against a workbench, one scattered with tools, nearly toe-to-toe with him, and landed one on his ribs. Dan pinned Gus’s arms to his sides. “Whoa, now. Good one. Take a rest now, take it easy.”
One side of Gus’s damp face lay against Dan’s chest. Gus’s eyes had lost focus. His shoulders rose and fell and he breathed through his mouth. His dark hair gleamed, plastered to his forehead, a series of shiny commas. I drew a breath and shook my head, jealous of their moment of intimacy.
My mother won a raffle at work. The prize was a three-day vacation in Fort Lauderdale at a resort on the Atlantic with two swimming pools, a golf course, and a marina. The prize included two adjoining rooms with queen-sized beds, a daily breakfast buffet, and dinner for four each night in the facility’s chic dining room.
“Dan can come with us,” my mother told Patricia. “He can share a room with Curtis.”
Oh, boy.
We arrived in Fort Lauderdale on a Thursday afternoon in late March. The sky was cloudless and sunlight reflected off turquoise seawater, off waves rolling onto a beach that looked like table sugar. Off Dan’s ID bracelet.
Our first-floor rooms overlooked the Intracoastal Waterway and the resort’s marina—an orgy of white fiberglass, chrome and stainless steel, and blue canvas. A liveried porter delivered our luggage to our rooms on a brass cart, and my mother tipped him a dollar. Straw baskets shrouded in cellophane held fresh fruit: oranges, apples, bananas, grapes, and papayas.
The unit I shared with Dan seemed utterly decadent. Our bath towels were thick as doormats, soft as velvet, brilliantly white. My shoes sank into cut-pile carpet. Our queen-sized bed was equipped with a velour duvet and six over-sized pillows. The drapes were velour as well. A console color TV (a twenty-five-inch RCA with a remote control unit) sat in one corner, and a radio with double speakers rested on a nightstand. Two brass lamps with fluted shades hung on the wall above our bed. A leather-upholstered recliner hulked in another corner, next to a floor lamp and a side table with an ashtray the size of a dinner plate.
Dan unpacked carefully. He placed his hanging clothes in the closet, his folding clothes in our dresser. I sat in the recliner and studied the room service menu: a buck for a cup of coffee, three for a hamburger. Ridiculous!
“Look at this,” Dan said, emerging from our bathroom with two fluffy robes, terry-cloth jobs, blue and white striped with the resort’s name stitched over the breast pockets. He tossed one to me. “Let’s try them on.” He stripped to his jockey shorts, taking his time folding his clothes before donning his robe, while I sprang a boner. Muscles rolled under his smooth skin. I longed to touch his chest, his belly, the bulge between his legs. I had to wait five minutes before I undressed so my erection could subside. The robe was soft like velvet, heavy as a blanket, and I felt like a prince, wandering about the room barefoot, munching a Red Delicious apple. Dan flopped onto his back on the bed and interlaced his fingers behind his neck. His head rested on a stack of pillows. He stared at the ceiling and told me, “I could live in this place forever.” I looked at the golden hair on Dan’s legs and thought to myself, So could I.
We spent our first afternoon pool side, slathered in suntan oil, relaxing on cushioned chaises. The pool was as big as a basketball court, clear and sparkly. Clumps of coconut palms and hibiscus shrubs with red and yellow blossoms banked the pool deck. Guests sunned themselves, floating on canvas rafts in the pool, lounging beneath umbrellas, sipping iced cocktails delivered by an aproned waiter.
My mother had purchased new swimsuits for all of us, and I thought I looked pretty smart in mine. It wasn’t real tight fitting, but when it got wet it clung to me in all the right places. Two girls my age stared and whispered.
Dan’s suit was made of an elastic material and was anything but modest. Even when dry, it revealed the outline of his genitals and the crack of his butt. I noticed several women, and even a couple of men, eyeing him stretched out on his chaise, the hot sunshine reflecting off his oiled skin. He wore Ray-Bans and I couldn’t tell what he was looking at, so I tried to be discreet as I stole glances at him.
My sister had brought her portable radio and she tuned it to a local station playing more ads than music. I found the noise irritating and, after a while, decided to explore. I followed a concrete sidewalk that wound through a junglelike garden with exotic shrubs and trees, varieties I’d never seen. The sun bathed my shoulders and the top of my head, warming the concrete beneath my bare feet and relaxing me. I was far from home and school and the banalities of my life.
I came to the resort’s golf course, to the eighth hole. The putting green was emerald and flat as a coffee table. No one was about and I stepped onto the green. The stubbly turf pricked the soles of my bare feet, not unpleasantly, and I wiggled my toes, grinning. I was suited for luxury, wasn’t I?
Our evening meal did not go smoothly. Dan and my sister quarreled beforehand, about what I didn’t know, and both of them sulked throughout dinner. My mother drank two Manhattans and got tipsy, telling jokes no one laughed at. Then I spilled a glass of cherry cola on the linen tablecloth and a few drops hit my sister’s new dress. She called me a blockhead, said I was worse than ants at a picnic, while a waiter brought club soda for my mother to dab onto the stain. My cheeks flamed. Then the waiter got our orders wrong, and I ended up with baked snapper (yuck) instead of prime rib. My mother stumbled and nearly fell on the way back to our rooms, and my sister retired without even saying goodnight to Dan or me.
Back in our unit, Dan closed the drapes. He undressed and put on his robe. I did the same. We watched television lying side by side on the bed with our heads propped against our pillows and our legs crossed at the ankles. Then Dan rose, fetched his cigarettes, and held the pack toward me. “Want one?”
