Manhandled (10 page)

He gives me a skeptical look, and I run out to the sidewalk, rushing along until the throb in my head asserts itself and makes
me dizzy. I slow to a walk and finally reach 22 Alvarado Street.

I linger out front, because the place brings me nothing. Since I’ve recalled the address, I expect a kind of homecoming, that
relief when you return to your own place after a long trip. Instead, I feel like a foreigner.

It’s a small wood-frame bungalow on a tiny lot, white with dark green trim. The neighborhood is old, though well kept. There’s
no car in the driveway. Of course not— it’s back in the parking garage where all this started. I go up to the door and try
it, knowing it will be locked because people are careful about such things. I go along the porch and try a window and, as
I tug at it, the front door opens.

“Hey!” a male voice says. “What are you doing?”

I freeze, lost again. I stand with my mouth open, unable to speak because I have no idea what to say. My heart starts pounding,
my head reeling, and I have to steady myself against the house. The guy comes over. “You all right?”

“Not really,” I say as my legs start to buckle. He grabs me, keeps me from falling, and helps me inside, where he eases me
down onto a sofa.

This is a mistake. Act first, think about it later: It’s my greatest failing, and now look where it’s gotten me. This guy
looks so out of it. “How about some water,” I say as he slumps on the sofa. He nods, and I know something is going on in him,
but I’m not sure I want to know what. I’m not into the drug scene, though he appears to be. He damn well better not OD on
me.

He drinks half the water, then looks up at me, and I think he might cry. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

He shakes his head and answers: “You won’t believe me.”

“Try.”

“I got mugged in a parking garage and I can’t remember anything.” He rubs the back of his head.

“Let me take a look,” I say, and he bends forward, lets me examine him.

“Here,” he says, and I see the patch of dried blood, the crusty gash.

“We should get you to an emergency room,” I tell him. “If you can’t remember anything, you’ve probably got a concussion.”

“OK, but can I rest here a little bit? I think the worst is past, I just can’t remember.”

“Anything?”

He shakes his head, then stops and looks at me. “Nothing except this address.”

I pause. This is getting eerie. I’ve lived here six years and know he’s never been a guest. I clearly recall even the most
casual pickups.

“You know this address?”

“I thought since I remembered it that I lived here.”

Now it’s not only eerie, it’s sad. I’m starting to feel for the guy, not to mention noting how cute he is. Younger than me,
late twenties maybe, my type: small and slim. “Hate to tell you this, but you don’t.”

“I kinda figured that when it didn’t look familiar. I thought it would all come back—you know, that seeing something familiar
would trigger everything. But it’s like this wall has gone up and I’m feeling my way along, looking for the door, only all
I get is more wall.”

“Why don’t you lie down,” I say. “Rest a bit. It’s all right.”

I get a wet cloth and clean the blood off his head, then apply an antiseptic. When he’s cleaned up, I fight an urge to take
him into my arms and comfort him. I’m such a sucker for underdogs.

He stretches out on the sofa and I sit across from him. I think of stories about this kind of thing and how contrived they
are. Such a convenient gimmick, except now it’s real—not only that, it’s stumbled into my living room.

“You can’t recall anything?” I ask again.

He shakes his head and utters a small cry. I tell him I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean to press. “It must feel awful.”

He offers a sharp laugh and I let it alone, try another tack. “I’m Bill Larsen,” I tell him. “I live here alone and work for
an insurance company downtown. Any of that ring a bell?”

“No.”

“Odd that you know this address but don’t know me. There must be some connection.”

“If there is, I don’t remember what it is.”

“OK, how about we just start from scratch, like two guys who just met. You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m gonna fix us something anyway.”

I’m scrambling eggs when he joins me in the kitchen, refills his water glass, and slides onto a stool at the counter. My cat,
Mickey, is underfoot and hops up into his lap. “If he bothers you, just push him off,” I say, but the two become instant friends.
I like that.

“How about we give you a temporary name,” I suggest. “Just until we figure out who you are.”

He’s rubbing Mickey’s neck. “Sure. Why not? Gotta start somewhere.”

“OK.” I take a long look at him and run down a mental list of names, settling on one I think fits him. “How about Alex?”

He says it a couple times. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Fine.” I set a plate of eggs in front of him. “Let’s eat, Alex.”

We don’t say a whole lot during our meal. I mean, how do you talk to an amnesiac? I know I should get him to a hospital, but
my mother hen side has kicked in and besides, there’s something about him I really like—a kind of sweetness I haven’t encountered
in a while. When he finally starts eating, he does so with a smile, and I feel a little rush, as if I’m claiming him in some
way. I remind myself he’s a lost soul, not some stray dog I can rescue, but that thought makes him even more appealing.

After breakfast he asks if he can shower. “I woke up on a concrete floor and I feel really grungy.”

“No problem.”

As I step into the shower, I experience an awful moment as I realize I could be stepping into my own shower and not know the
difference. Under the warm spray, I try to calm myself. I push away the uncertainty and concentrate on Bill, who has taken
me in without question. Not many people would do that. I have no idea who I am, but being with Bill is somehow very comforting.
The way he talks seems vaguely familiar, as if we’ve spoken many times before, but that can’t be. Maybe it’s just wishful
thinking. He’s attractive, after all, and self-assured, yet so warm and open. As I soap myself I think I’d like to get to
know him a lot better—once I figure out who the hell I am.

While he showers, I sit and think of how real life is too absurd for fiction. Nobody would believe this if I wrote it. My
editor would laugh at such an idea, yet here it is, the honest-to-goodness truth. When I hear the water stop I remain seated.
Alex comes out wearing just a towel. His dark hair is wet and curly. His chest is smooth, with subtle definition. He stands
in the doorway and says he feels better, but he looks like he’s about to cry. I go to him, wrap my arms around him, and tell
him he’s not alone. “We’ll figure it out,” I say. “Until then you can stay here with me.”

“But you don’t know anything about me.”

“Well, you don’t either, so that makes us even. Besides, I like what I see.” I look into his brown eyes, so trusting, so vulnerable,
and I can’t hold myself in check. I lean in and kiss him and it’s like everything in me turns loose, all that emotion I usually
spend on the page suddenly boils over. He responds without hesitation and I lead him to the bedroom.

He drops the towel and I get a look at all of him as his cock starts to fill. I reach down and take it in hand, and he moans
and squirms as I pull. I get my lips on his again, get my tongue into his mouth. Seconds later I’m out of my clothes and easing
him back onto the bed. “My mystery man,” I tell him between kisses. “My Alex from nowhere.”

I don’t think the mystery part has any influence on what happens next, because we are soon beyond any kind of who’s who. I’ve
got my face in his crotch, sucking dick, and he’s doing the reverse, feeding on mine like a starving animal. We lie this way
for some time, gorging ourselves on each other, and then he surfaces, climbs up onto me. His cock is against mine, he’s gently
humping, and he tells me, with the sweetest smile, “Right now I don’t care who the hell I am. This just feels like home.”

“I know what you mean.” I give him a long kiss, then roll him over onto his back, pull up his legs, and slide a finger into
him. He clamps his muscle and I know I’m gonna solve him, that I’m going to get inside him literally and figuratively. I pull
on a condom, get myself lubed, then push into him. All the while my eyes are on his because the connection is more than just
cock and ass. When I start to pump, he smiles, then laughs. Tears are on his cheeks now and I think maybe he’s seeing how
crazy it all is but that, like me, he knows it’s right, that we’ve been thrown together in the craziest way and it may be
the best thing ever.

I lean down and kiss him while I thrust steadily into his tight little hole. He’s got a hand on his cock, working it slowly,
and we set up a rhythm that lasts and lasts. I want to cum in the worst way but hold off, slowing up every time I feel the
rise because I don’t know what will happen next. He’s got a life somewhere, maybe a partner who’s frantically searching for
him. The idea makes me want to devour him, take all there is and then some.

He lets out a sudden groan and starts squirting big gobs of cum up onto his stomach, and I pound harder at the sight, letting
go finally, unleashing a monumental climax. I cut loose verbally as well, telling him how good it is, what a great ass he’s
got. Finally, I wind down, empty physically and emotionally. I slide out of him, toss the rubber, take him into my arms. He
nuzzles against me and tells me, “I didn’t think I could. Not knowing… just so lost.” He laughs. “And now…”

“Amazing,” I say, and we share a warm laugh, then drift off to sleep. It feels like hours have passed when he nudges me awake.
He’s got a copy of
Men
magazine in his hand, one of the ones I write for. “I think I found something,” he says. “I’m not sure, but …” He opens it
to the masthead, to the names of the publisher and editor, contributing writers, illustrators. “Alan Frazier,” he says, pointing
to the name. “I know…I mean, I think…” He’s shaking. I take the magazine from him, look at the names: Alan Frazier, Editor
in Chief, and there below it, among the contributing writers, Darren Davis, my pen name. And then I see it all.

“Omigod,” I say, and I start to laugh. “That’s it! You’ve solved it!”

“I’m Alan, aren’t I? The garage…it’s at the magazine. Hollywood Boulevard. I don’t live on Alvarado, I live on…on… Halston.
It’s coming back, all of it … only…”

“Alvarado Street.”

“Yeah, I don’t get the connection.”

I point to the list of writers. “Darren Davis,” I tell him. “I’ve been writing for you for a year and a half. We e-mail all
the time.”

He looks down, shakes his head, and I know he’s retrieving information from that badly shaken memory. I take his hand, hold
on, give him time. When he looks back up at me he asks, “What’s the last thing we said in our e-mail?”

“You were talking about having to cut one of my stories and I was arguing about it. ‘Big Job’ was the title.”

I see it hit home. He lights up with recollection. “Yes!” He grabs my arm, laughs. “You wanted me to cut the second scene
instead of the last.”