Tell Me It's Real (16 page)

“You okay?” Vince asked me. “You’ve got a weird look on your face.”

And that, ladies and gentleman, was when it really began.

The Greatest List In The History Of The World

Seven Things I Learned About Vince Taylor:

A Perspective

By Paul Auster

1) Vince Taylor Is Comfortable With His Body (Dear Jesus God, That
Ass
)

I did as Sandy told me, bringing in the pajamas he’d gotten me that he had sworn cost him at
least
$15,000 (no one can embellish like a drag queen). Vince smiled up at me as I handed him the pajamas, while I simultaneously took Wheels off his lap (and resisted the urge to hiss “bad dog”). Wheels glared up at me as I reattached his cart and sent him on his way. I turned to tell Vince where the bathroom was so he could change, only to find him standing at the other end of the couch, sliding his bike shorts down his mad crazy hot thighs, bending over slowly and in deep concentration as if trying to keep the pain at bay.

It was at that time I learned Vince liked to wear a black jock under his bike shorts. It was also at this time that I found out that I really enjoyed black jock straps. Like
intensely
enjoyed them. To the point that I was sure God himself had come down from heaven and said, “Here, my son, I’ve brought you a gift. Check out that sweet ass framed by black straps. You’re welcome.”

I didn’t even bother to think on whether Vince was doing what he was doing on purpose, because I couldn’t get a single coherent thought together (though, in retrospect, I am absolutely certain that Vince was a fan of
Baywatch
because he had the slow-motion thing down
pat
). All I could really focus on was that ass framed by the jock, the white skin even paler against the black fabric, and the light dusting of hair on his ass. He lifted one foot slowly as he bent forward and pulled his leg out of the shorts. Then he did the same with the other foot, bending forward
slooowly
to get the shorts off completely.

Once this master class on How To Give Someone An Erection By Doing Almost Nothing was completed, he stood up straight and lifted his arms carefully above him and leaned back slightly, stretching out what I’m sure were very sore muscles. My dress shirt rode up the front of the jock and the hair on his stomach was so dark that it looked like night. This, of course, led to the second thing I learned about him.

2) Vince Taylor Is A Manipulative Bastard (And I Have No Self-Esteem)

Part of me wanted to do a little dance, possibly break out the Hammertime bit that I knew how to do really well (it’s really about how fast you can move your feet and hips. Don’t tell me you’ve never tried it because you’d be a big, fat liar, so just stop: Hammertime). That part of me wanted to dance because Vince Taylor was wearing
that
jock with
my
shirt and standing in
my
house doing this totally awesome pseudoyoga stretch that was obscene given the fact that his junk was practically visible.

At least I know he’s circumcised now
, I thought, somewhat relieved. I didn’t have anything against uncircumcised penises, it was just that I’d never had one before, and I didn’t want for my very first one to be with Vince, because I was pretty sure I couldn’t handle anything new on top of everything already happening. Then it hit me that I actually
had
that thought, like I was going to get anywhere near his cock at some point in the future. I had to stop myself from running out of the room in sheer embarrassment.

But he knew. That smug bastard knew
exactly
what he was doing. I knew this because while I was ogling the magnificence that was the sight in front of me, he kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, making sure I was watching him do his thought-out, choreographed peep show. He stretched back even further, though a mild grimace shot across his face, as if the position pained him.

But then he decided to take it one step further, coming back up from his stretch. Probably one step too far, if what happened after was any indication.

He reached up and started to unbutton my dress shirt, starting with the bottom button, moving his hands slowly because he knew I was watching every single movement he made. The first button slid out and he spread the shirt a little, exposing the top of the jock and the hairs on his stomach. He rested his hands on his skin for a moment, gently tapping where the hair disappeared into the fabric.

Then he moved onto the second button, and undid it just as slow. Unfortunately, it brought back that doubt that had plagued me ever since I was eight years old and that jerk Brady Johnson (older, meaner, and just plain stupider) had called me a fat ass on the playground and had tried to rip my shirt off over my head to show everyone what he called my “big fat titties.” That day, for the first time, I felt like I wasn’t good enough, that I was somehow lesser than everyone else around me. The little voice inside my head was born that said I was gross and disgusting, and everyone who said something negative about me was right.

So watching Vince undress in my living room brought the voice back, loud and in charge. It had been quiet for a few days, maybe because I’d been floating in a state of suspended animation. But the voice reminded me of when I’d first seen Vince, surrounded by Darren and the other homo jocks at the club. It reminded me of how Vince had looked when that twinkie Eric had started to grind up on him like I wasn’t even there, the jock friends looking on and grinning at him like they were part of some great, big secret club that the rest of us couldn’t belong to. It reminded me that Vince did not push him away. It reminded me of that Bear Dude later in the night who grabbed a handful of his ass as he brought them closer together to pretend to dance when in actuality it was just fucking with their clothes on.

By then, Vince was to the third button, but his grimace had returned and that spark in his dark eyes had faded slowly. He was still the sexiest thing I’d ever seen, but he was tired, so very tired. Before I could stop myself, I moved until I was in front of him and batted his hands away carefully. He briefly looked surprised, but then just grateful, only a little bit of the former smugness returning.

My hands shook as the surreal act of unbuttoning my own shirt on another man washed over me. We didn’t speak, and I tried to focus on my fingers, trying to be as quick as I could be without acting like I was ready to pounce on him and put my balls on his chin.

I was hyperaware of how he breathed, these low, shallow breaths through his nose that I could feel on my forehead when he exhaled. He smelled medicinal, as if the hospital had leached its way into him. But underneath, there was the scent of sweat and soap, nothing flashy, but still noticeable. His chest rose and fell underneath my hands as I undid the next to the last button. I almost stopped on the last one but I wanted to see the bar through his nipple again (and I
really
wanted to touch it).

The last button came undone and the shirt opened completely, the bar through his nipple only hinted at through the fabric of my shirt. We both were breathing heavier than we should have been, and the close proximity was doing nothing to help me. I wanted to turn my face up and press my mouth against his. I wanted to slide his shirt off the rest of the way and run my fingers through the hairs on his chest. I wanted to wrap my lips around that piercing and tug on it until he gasped and grabbed my head.

But it was too much. It was too fast. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

I blushed brightly and stepped away. I thought I heard him sigh, and he turned and put the pajamas on.

God, that fucking ass.

3) Vince Is A Big Baby When It Comes To Pain And Whines Incessantly

Oh Lord, does he.

And he gets grumpy too. Quickly. I couldn’t help but think it had a little bit to do with me nixing his attempt at whatever he was trying to do. But an hour later, he was in full-on bitchy mode, especially when he started to nod off and I kept having to wake him up.

“You can’t go to sleep yet,” I said as I reached out to give him a little shake. We were both sitting on the couch, but at opposite ends, me trying to put as much distance as I possibly could between us without making it extraordinarily awkward. I didn’t want him to sleep because I’d changed my mind and was sure he would die from the concussion the second he nodded off. “Still a few more hours.”

He scowled at me as his eyes snapped open. “I’m not trying to sleep,” he said with a growl. “I’m just making sure my eyes still close okay. You know, as a sign of brain damage. From when you hit me with your car.”

I tried to keep from getting angry. “You ran into my car door,” I said evenly. “From an insurance perspective, I’m pretty sure I can argue that you’re at fault for this.”

“You didn’t maintain a proper lookout when exiting your vehicle,” he retorted. “Everyone knows that I had the right of way.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t been riding so close to the cars, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Maybe if you had looked before you opened your door, I wouldn’t be almost dying.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “What happened to this being
totally worth it
?” I mocked, trying to mimic his deep voice. Instead, it came out sounding like I was an asshole.

“It was,” he grumbled. “I would do it again if I had to.”

What the fuck?
“You’d run into my car door again? Why?”

He looked down at his hands. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

And, of course, I started to sputter. “What… you can’t say that… that’s just… I… you… so damn
cute
… why… just
why
….”

So, after that, at least for a moment, I was a bit more lenient. I let him nod off for a few minutes before I woke him up, just to make sure his pupils weren’t dilated and he could remember my name and answer a simple question. I asked him who the vice president was and he looked at me like I was out of my goddamned mind. “How the hell am I supposed to know that?” he grumped at me. “I didn’t vote.” So, instead, I asked him to count to five. When he started counting out of order and slurring his words, I got freaked out. Then he grinned and winked at me and said, “Just kidding.” At that moment, I gave very serious consideration to making his concussion much, much worse, but then he whined a little bit in the back of his throat and sounded so much like Wheels when he was hungry that I crumbled completely.

Manipulative bastard.

So, of course, when I finally told him he
could
go to sleep and stay asleep, he wasn’t tired. I listened to him bitch and moan on my couch about how much his back hurt and how much his ass hurt and, wow, wouldn’t it be nice if there was someone who would be willing to give him a massage? He’d sure like a massage, he said, to ease his sore muscles. He wondered aloud if there was anyone in his immediate vicinity who would be willing to provide such a massage; perhaps a certain individual feeling guilty about something? Perhaps that guilt extended from causing a certain accident to happen? It was entirely possible, he hypothesized, that should a person feel guilty about such an accident that caused injury, an easy atonement would be offering to give said injured person a rub down.

It took six minutes of me grinding my teeth before I got up and went into the kitchen, telling him I’d get him some more juice. While I did this, I also ground up two of the muscle relaxers into the juice and brought it out to him, not feeling guilty in the slightest (about the secret-drugging thing; I still felt like crap that he hit my car). I stood next to him as he drank it down, smacking his lips, telling me how much he loved pulp in orange juice.

It was twenty minutes later that I found out that, regardless of whatever else he was, Vince was a lightweight who got stoned very, very easily. We were sitting on the couch watching
Animal Planet
(“I could wrestle an alligator,” he told me confidently) when I felt eyes on me. I looked over at him and saw the loopiest grin on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re awesome,” he said, a slight slur to his words. This time, the slur sounded real.

“Uh. Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. How come….” He got distracted by something on the ceiling. “Whoa.”

“Oh boy.”

He looked back at me, trying to widen his eyes. “You poisoned me!” he said, trying to be stern, but his lips kept quirking into a smile.

“I did not!” I said indignantly, even though I sort of did.

“You made me high!”

“You need to go to sleep.”

He tried to point a finger at me, but it kept going off in other directions, like he was trying to dance with one hand. “What’d you give me?” he asked, very interested in his hand. “Crack?”

“You think I gave you
crack
?”

“Maybe.”

“Is there anything about me that screams crack?”

He grinned as he swayed. “Your butt crack,” he whispered before dissolving into giggles.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “You are going to be so embarrassed when you wake up tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re giggling like a five-year-old girl.”

“I am not. I’m all man.”

“So you’ve tried to show me.”

“Hey,” he said

“Hey, what?”

“Why won’t you… oh, man, the room is like all twisty.”

I started to get a little concerned. For my couch. “Are you going to throw up?”

He shuddered. “I sure as shit hope not. I hate throwing up. I hate being sick. I hate being hurt. My back really hurts.” Now he started to pout. The effect was unnerving.

“I’m sorry,” I sighed.

“My bike’s all busted.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Maybe that bike had a special meaning. Maybe it belonged to my late grandfather and it’s the only piece of him I have left.”

Ouch. “Did it?”

“Did what? Your ceiling is pretty.”