DAMAGED - A Bad Boy Romance (95 page)

I had found a pit not twenty feet or so away from the tree. I also got to take a look at the field from a few different perspectives. Usually, I go straight out to my chair, and straight back to the house. It seemed to me that there were a lot of rote behaviors that could use a bit of change. The pit was more like a shallow depression in the soil, but it would work for my purpose.

The rocks were piled up at the edge of the pit. The only real problem left to solve was the transportation of the cat. It wasn’t that I was necessarily squeamish about dead things, but I also wasn’t overly fond of touching them. I decided it would be undignified to carry the thing on a pair of sticks, or something like that. Just the thought of dropping the cat en route, or poking at its skin with a stick was undignified for both myself, and the animal; we both deserved better than that.

The strangest thing about altered states of mind -- you can’t tell if it’s reality that has been altered, or just yourself. I came to a more visceral appreciation of my own confusion while I picked up the corpse.

“Just yesterday, I’m not sure I would have picked you up,” I told the cat.

The fur was dry, and the body was stiff, but not too dead. The eyes were gone, and little flies buzzed around the body. The corpse smelled like a dead thing, but the smell wasn’t atrocious. Just a bit musky -- the scent of bacteria eating the body, instead of bacteria living within the body.

We walked over together to the pit, and I set the corpse down with a fair amount of attention. Unlike the rest of my morning, the ritual -- if you could call it that, was much more somber. I was operating in a zen-like state, thinking about nothing except respect for the fallen.

Placing the stones on the corpse required a bit of balance, but they all seemed to fit in the appropriate place. By the time the whole thing was done, I had created a small, ugly pyramid as a headstone for an unknown dead cat.

“Good work, Stoker,” I congratulated myself.

I wanted another cigarette. I felt like it would have been a good time to smoke, but my hands smelled like the dead, and my tobacco was inside.

“One will have to do,” I said, and then turned away from the funeral mound.

Then it hit me. Really, the cat had been the catalyst.

Sometimes I can’t believe myself. Usually I think I have it all together, and then I get slapped in the face by something that had completely slipped my consciousness. Just like that cat needed closure in order for my life to move on, I needed to get some closure with that guy from the night before.
Christ,
I thought,
I didn’t even get his name.

I totally beat myself up for shit like that. Usually my conscience stays quiet and out of the way, but that Foxy had done a number on my brain. Sometimes, when you open a door and step through, you find that the door you came through has been closed, and you can’t quite get back to the other side.

Fucking Thomas
… I realized.
He would know.

I needed to find that Faerie.

The walk wasn’t that far overall. My mind ended up drifting a couple of blocks into the journey, and soon enough, I was there. I loved going for walks for exactly that reason. I could have anything on my mind, and by the time I was done, I usually had come to some new perspective on life which was going to help set things straight. My brain really was so fantastic, if only I would give it enough of an opportunity to share its thoughts with my moment-to-moment experience. Strange as it is to think of my problem solving abilities as something that is external to myself, it sure felt like that sometimes.

I spotted Stoker a block away. He was looking calm, and relaxed. The sun was low in the sky, so the lighting wasn’t too harsh. He was wearing some beat old clothes that weren’t really stylish at all, but he managed to pull it off.

Some people can wear anything and make it look good.

He must have felt me looking at him, because he paused and turned toward me as I approached. For a minute, I was afraid he was going to blow me off, but it turned out that my fears were unwarranted. He raised a hand up to glare from the morning light, and when he recognized me, he just stood there for a while. He didn’t wave. He didn’t walk away. In fact, all he did was take a seat on a wooden planter that was posted outside of the nearest apartment building. I wasn’t sure if that was his building, but I suspected as much. I was in the right neighborhood, and he looked comfortable.

“I stalked you,” I told him when I was within comfortable speaking distance. “Actually, somehow, I ended up stealing your jacket.”

His posture was relaxed, and he had a coffee cup in his left hand. I realized that it could have simply been a case of ‘rose-colored glasses’, but I loved the way that he sat. He looked so casual, yet not sloppy in anyway. Some people look sloppy when you look at them like that, but this guy seemed like he could do no wrong. His eyes narrowed while he looked at me, but he wasn’t angry; more like perplexed or suspicious.

“How the hell did you get here?” he demanded.

His hand went behind his ear, as though he were reaching for something which wasn’t there. I watched him fidget for a moment, and then close his eyes. He took a deep breath through his nose, and then settled down again to look at me with renewed focus. I had to sigh myself in order to catch my breath. Eye contact with him was an incredibly satisfying experience.

I didn’t respond to his question. Not really because I wanted to play it coy, but because I didn’t feel a response was necessary. With a smile, I brought my hand out from inside of the jacket, and stepped forward toward him. Reaching my hand out, I passed him his billfold and identification.

“Here you go Mr. Genier,” I offered. “I was going to steal a couple of bucks for a cup of coffee, but I didn’t get around to it.”

“Everyone calls me Stoker,” he replied. “I’ve got some coffee. You can come inside if you like.”

I nodded, and followed him up the steps to his apartment.

He struck me as different from the night before. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it, but his entire disposition seemed less harsh. I wondered if it was because he had just woken up, or if maybe he put on that hardened exterior like a mask before heading out for a night on the town. Another thing I noticed was that he wasn’t so self-conscious. The first time I saw him, it was incredibly obvious to me that he was one of those naturally magnetic types of personalities. In that moment, I didn’t feel that same level of magnetic intensity, but there was something else in its place.

His eyes were softer. He wasn’t pulling me in toward him with his sex appeal. I felt like I could be comfortable in his presence. The whole experience was totally different for me, and frankly I enjoyed it a lot more. I didn’t have as much tension in my body. The thrill of getting fucked by the Stoker from last night was great -- don’t get me wrong; it’s just nice to be able to relax and spend time with someone.

“You look different in the morning than you do at night,” I told him; obviously my thoughts were a bit more expansive than that, but it would have to do.

He nodded, and we entered his apartment. The place was spartan, yet another surprise based on what I had expected his lifestyle would be like. I’m not sure what I thought his living room would have looked like.

Cigarette boxes and empty bottles of whisky.

Trophies from previous lovers, and an electric guitar.

Maybe even a stripper pole in the center of the room next to a mirror where he snorted all kinds of drugs.

Those were the sort of things that I expected to find. Instead, I saw a relatively humble place. Practically no furniture was present. Honestly, it looked more like the home of a practicing zen buddhist more than a late night club hot shot. There wasn’t much mess at all, but then again, there weren’t really many things around which would lead themselves to creating mess.

His kitchen was also similarly basic. He had a clear jar of oats, and some fruit on the counter. Looked like he had all of two pans. One of them was a cast iron skillet, and the other was a small pot. He pulled a ceramic mug from the shelf that had a white dove against black.

“Celebrate Him,” the cup said.

I looked at the mug while he poured me a cup of coffee, and he noticed my attention on the mug.

“The church down the street offers free coffee sometimes, and I stole their mug,” he offered.

I nodded, and smiled. “Of course you did,” I replied. “Thanks.”

“I hope you don’t take cream or sugar, because I don’t have any,” he said, dismissively.

“Black works fine for me,” I said, raising the cup to my lips.

The coffee was good. A lot of coffee is acidic, or generally not pleasant to drink, according to my personal tastes. The coffee that Stoker gave me had rich floral notes to it, and was more like a rich tea than anything else. Though my first sip was tentative, I soon was bringing entire mouthfuls into my mouth, even though the liquid was still a bit hot.

“It’s better when it’s first brewed,” he commented, as he washed his own mug, and set it back on the shelf to dry.

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” I confessed.

“It?” he replied.

“Seeing you. Seeing your place. You know. I just assumed, based on the type of person I thought you were last night, that it would be different.”

“Well you shouldn’t assume things. You don’t know me, really. Besides, what do I really know about myself?”

I paused for a moment, and stared at him.

“You serious?” I asked, taking another sip.

“All I’m trying to say is that each of us are alive, each and every day. It just really seems to me like the fact that I’m alive means that I have the ability to make choices and affect change in my daily experience. As soon as I tell myself that I have a certain type of identity, or even that I
should
be something more or less than what I am -- I’m essentially robbing myself of the ability to
be
something right now.”

I nodded, pausing a moment to absorb what he was saying, and apply it to the situation. “Basically, what you’re saying is that I can be anything, but in order to do that, I have to be aware that being is a process which is happening right now.”

“More or less,” he said, stretching his body upward toward the ceiling. “Only problem with that attitude is I don’t think you can force it. Being is something that you are whether you think about it or not. I think it might be useful for me to be more aware of that fact.”

“So, even right now, I don’t know who you are?” I asked, in confusion.

“Not really. You are interacting with me, and your interactions can inform the judgments that you make of my character. The problem is that even when you make those judgments, they may not be entirely accurate. They are probably accurate for that time, and people tend to demonstrate similar characteristics as they continue to exist; this is the basis for personality. However, if you’re turning me into a cartoon character, and you’re surprised that I’m not that cartoon character, I can’t really feel sorry for you.”

“You were a total asshole last night.”

“You were begging for it,” he snapped back, without a moment’s hesitation.

When he spoke, his eyes locked onto mine. I felt the urge to look away, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. Looking him in the eyes was actually difficult, but not because I was ashamed. I found it difficult to match eyes with him because he was intense, and I was intimidated by my own attraction to him. 

“Thanks…” I said, taking a deep breath, and finally closing my eyes just to collect my thoughts.

I wanted to kiss him, but I felt like there were still things that we needed to clear up before I could take an action like that in good faith. Things were going well. I loved the authenticity of our experience in that moment. I really felt like the two of us were connecting; like we had let our pretenses fall, and were experiencing one another just as we were. The feeling was refreshing, to say the least.

“I was thinking about what happened last night,” I began. “I’ve never done anything like that before. Don’t people usually wear condoms?”

“They do. If you’re concerned about STDs, you shouldn’t worry about it. I test regularly, and if you’re interested in fucking again, I’d be glad to go to the clinic together with you, if it will give you peace of mind. Do you have anything I should be worried about?”

I shook my head, and looked up at him so he would know I was telling the truth. “That was the first time I had ever had sex with a man before. To be honest, my love life isn’t exactly prolific. I actually spend a lot of time alone.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Not at all. I’m trying to make myself more vulnerable to new experiences. Last night was definitely an example of diving into the deep end in order to learn how to swim, but I made it through alright.”

I paused. “Do you?” I asked.

“I try not to regret the things that I do, but I can think of a few things that I’d like to do differently.”

We went over everything. The conversation meandered quite a bit, but everything felt so natural that I hardly cared that we didn’t stick to one topic. We talked about Thomas, and about the drug experience. I told him about how strange I felt earlier that morning, and how disconnected and weird the night before was after I got home. I told him all about my experience on the rooftops, and he laughed when I showed him the scratch on my leg.

“You didn’t strike me as the athletic type,” he said, “but I guess that’s what I get for making assumptions about your character.”

He told me about how he had gotten into a fight, and how lucky he had been to get out of the club without being arrested.

“I guess we both got lucky last night,” I said.

“I know I did,” he replied, looking up at me and offering a smile.

It was just a matter of time before we touched each other. The sexual tension in the room was practically explosive. Every single hair on my body was standing at attention. My pupils had dilated; I know they must have because all of the colors in the room started to grow brighter. A flood of adrenaline coursed through my body, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to hold off any longer.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

I looked at him with curiosity in my eyes. There could be no question about the subtext present in his question. I knew exactly what he was talking about, but I couldn’t believe that he was inviting me to make the first move toward him. Once more, I was bumping up against my preconceived paradigm of our relationship.

I was the bottom. He was the top.

I was the passive receiver. He was the one who initiated the experience.

The magnetism that I had felt toward him when I first saw him increased. I felt drawn toward him, and I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and get lost inside a kiss. We hadn’t even really kissed the time before -- not like this anyway. I desperately wanted to know what it felt like, and I was practically licking my lips in anticipation.