The Men from the Boys (9 page)

“His eyes.” And I hate it, this power. Hate always knowing, always being right.

Javitz understands. “It's still bothering you, isn't it?”

“What?”

“That conversation. The one you'd like to forget you told me about.”

And I
shouldn't
have told him, except that I tell Javitz everything. I had to talk to
someone
about it, even though it pained me to do so, to say the words, to repeat exactly what Lloyd had said that late Sunday morning several weeks ago.

It struck me hard. As if this was it, the one conversation that was too primal to tell anyone, too frightening even to admit to ourselves. We were in bed, lethargic and lazy, or at least I was, until he said the words. We had been watching through the skylight as the sun seared the rain clouds. “It's going to be a nice day after all,” I said, just before he landed the bomb.

“Jeff,” he said. “There's no more passion.”

I rejected his statement at first, because it came so soon after my father's death. I was in the
throes
of passion. Lloyd had been there, helped me through it. I loved him all the more for it. What was he
talking
about?

“Us,” he said. “The passion between us.”

“There's passion between us,” I insisted. I touched his face. “Dog. Come on. Of
course
there's passion.”

“Not like there was with Eduardo.”

He had me there. If that was the kind of passion he said no longer existed, could I argue with him? But
define
“passion,” I thought. Go ahead, I dared him silently, define it.

“Don't do this to me,” I said, the only response I could muster. “Not now. Not so soon after my father ...”

And so he dropped it. But I told Javitz about it, admitted to him that no, Lloyd and I hadn't had sex in months, that we didn't even
want
to have sex—at least, not with each other.

“Limerance,” I told Javitz. “He said he missed the limerance.”

Javitz had exhaled a thick cloud of acrid smoke into my face. I coughed viciously and cursed him. “Limerance,” he said, ignoring me. “Go read a paperback with Fabio on the cover if you want limerance.”

I didn't understand his bitterness. Now, as I stand in his hospital room ready to take him home, he can see that I don't want to discuss it anymore. “This is
your
day,” I say, and he makes a face as if he knows that's a lie. Dear old accommodating Javitz. He deserves better than us.

“Let's go home,” he says, taking my arm.

And so we do.

Provincetown, June 1994

We're out in a boat in the middle of the bay, and I'm frantically slobbering sunblock on my nose and forehead, feeling exposed and vulnerable to the sun and the wind.

But Lloyd's having a ball.

“Isn't this fun, Cat?” he shouts, gunning the motor and sending us lurching forward through the water in a sudden burst of speed and spray.

“Be careful,” I admonish. “This isn't a speedboat.”

Hardly. It's actually just a small shallop, rigged up with a motor, rented from the wharf for twenty bucks for three hours. I doubt we'll stay out here that long: Lloyd's original idea had been to dock at Long Point and spread out a picnic, but between us we had only four dollars after renting the boat, hardly enough to purchase suitable provisions for lunch. “Who cares?” Lloyd said, grinning. “Let's just go for a ride.”

The idea had come to him as we lay dreamily on the breakwater. He suddenly sat up, looking over at me with the sun in his green eyes. “Let's rent a boat, like we used to,” he said, taking my hand and pulling me along. My first inclination had been to decline: we hadn't prepared, we hadn't brought any water, we hadn't made any sandwiches or packed our bathing suits. But we also hadn't rented a boat in a long, long time—not since two summers ago, when Lloyd and Javitz and I had tried to learn to water-ski. The carefree spontaneity of those days suddenly rushed back at me in a nostalgic punch to the gut. I couldn't turn Lloyd's enthusiasm down.

“If we were going to rent a boat,” I yell over to him now, “we should've planned to get some skis.”

“I thought you never wanted to try that again.” Lloyd laughs.

I did make that vow. I was under water more often than above, and suffered some major water burns after losing my grip and spiraling backward through the waves. Javitz and Lloyd did better, although they took their share of tumbles. Lloyd was determined to master the technique, but we never did try it again.

“Well,” I admit, “maybe I'd just watch this time. But
you
could do it.”

He shrugs. He slows down the motor, releasing his grip on the cord until it rattles to a stop. The boat eases into a steady drift. “I don't mind a quiet ride,” he says.

“Really?” I laugh. “We seem to be taking a lot more of those than we used to.”

Lloyd reaches over, touches my hand. “Let's do it,” he whispers, getting close to my face. “Right out here.”

“Lloyd!”

“Come on. Nobody will see.”

“Somebody might. There are other boats out here.”

He slides over to kiss my neck. He stands briefly to join me on the seat, and the boat rocks sharply to the left.

“Lloyd, this is too dangerous. This is just a little boat—”

He pulls back. We look at each other for several seconds, and then we smile. Lloyd turns his face up into the sun, and I notice how his ear lobes lift slightly, curling up as if drawn by the light. I had forgotten how they did that, how adorable he looks when he raises his face to the sky.

“I'm sorry, Lloyd,” I tell him. “I know how you always want to be spontaneous.”

“Don't be sorry,” he says, reaching over the side of the boat and scooping up some seaweed in his hand. We've drifted into a garden of sea grass, growing up from the floor of the bay. He plucks a tiny yellow flower from the tip of a reed and hands it to me. “Let's go back,” he says, and pulls the cord on the motor.

I hold the flower between my thumb and forefinger. It's like a miniature star in my hand, no bigger than a bead. Then the motor kicks into life, the boat shuddering in response. I grab ahold of my seat, dropping the flower. Lloyd lets out a whoop. We take off in a bolt of energy and forward motion. I laugh, too.

“I'm glad we rented the boat,” I tell him as we walk back to the house. “I really am.”

He puts his arm around me. “I know you are,” he says. “You don't need to convince me.”

“I'm not trying to convince you. Maybe next time we can go water skiing—”

“Oh, Cat, don't be so silly.” He kisses me there on the front step of the house. I fall into his embrace. He kicks the door open behind him with the sole of his foot. We stumble inside.

Javitz isn't there. It's just as well, as Lloyd begins undressing me in the kitchen. I notice the redness of my skin right away. “Look at me, I'm burned.”

My arm is as red as fingernail polish. Where my watch had been a white line now encircles my wrist. “You look like a candy cane,” Lloyd says, grinning.

We kiss, falling down onto the bed.

“Be careful,” I tell him. “I think it's a bad burn.”

“Weren't you wearing sunblock?”

“Guess not strong enough.”

We kiss again. Our door is closed but we hear Javitz return. He calls to us but we don't answer. He knows what we're doing. We hear him walk into the kitchen.

“Oh.” I remember something. “Javitz wanted to get lobster for tonight.” I look up at Lloyd while I take his dick in my hand.

“Sounds good.” Now he's got mine.

I start to pull his. “Come on,” I laugh. “Get hard.”

I go down on him. He doesn't get very hard, so I stop, pulling him up on top of me. We kiss a little harder. I cover my hand with spit and start jerking myself off. The sheets are wrinkled and still a little sticky from the night before.

Lloyd starts playing with his own dick. We lie very close to each other, shoulder to shoulder. We breathe deeply, nearly in sync, spiraling our fists down on our dicks. For a few seconds the air in the room feels heavy with moisture, then we each pop, him first, then me. He beats me in distance; I manage to do little more than dribble, having come twice the night before.

Lloyd rubs my semen into my chest. “Careful,” I implore. “That's my burn.”

He stands up and reaches for his underwear to wipe off his hands.

“You two finished in there yet?”

It's Javitz at the door. Spooky how he always knows when we're done. As if he were outside the door, listening.

“Yup,” Lloyd calls out. “Come on in.”

I make a little sound and pull up the sheet to cover my nakedness. I don't know why; Javitz was once my lover. It's not as if he hasn't seen me nude. But, unlike Lloyd, I'm very particular about showing myself. On the dance floor is one thing; hanging out at home is another.

Javitz comes in. He sits down on the bed. “Lobsters okay?” he asks Lloyd.

“Sounds great. And I bought some corn.”

“I was going to make veggie pie, but I guess that can wait,” I tell Javitz.

He smirks. “Oh. Am I interrupting one of your nesting traditions?”

He knows that veggie pie carries significance. Comfort food. Mom food. Mom as in Jeff, in this case. When I make veggie pie, I go all out. Sometimes I even throw in those Pillsbury breadsticks that you twist and lay out on a cookie sheet. Both Javitz and Lloyd adore them.

“I'll get domestic tomorrow,” I tell them.

“The flip side of Jeff,” Javitz quips. “They wouldn't believe it at Spiritus.”

Lloyd sits down beside Javitz and pulls him backwards. They fold together in their own version of the breathing position. Javitz nestles his head in the crook of Lloyd's shoulder. They're always doing this, these two. Here's Lloyd, naked, fresh from shooting his load, cuddling with another man who probably hasn't gotten off today and who most likely wouldn't mind doing so. Still, Javitz doesn't complain: he snakes his arm around Lloyd's waist and pulls him closer.

I sit with my back up against the wall, the sheet draped over my loins. Maybe it's my history with Javitz, but I don't participate in their love locks. Our skin is distant now; our touch remains rare.

“Look,” I say. “Don't drop the lobsters in the pot while I'm in the room. I don't want to even hear them scratching in the refrigerator.” Lloyd has to crack the tail and claws off and give them to me. “Get rid of the eyes,” I say. “I don't want to see the eyes.”

“Why are you so squeamish about
lobsters,
for God's sake?” Javitz asks. “They're the cockroaches of the ocean. You have no problem ripping the flesh off the rib cage of a chicken.”

“I might if I had to see their eyes.”

“Cat, you're meant to be a vegetarian,” Lloyd says. “You should've stuck with it.”

“Excuse me, but since when did lobsters become a vegetable?” I challenge.

He grins. “It's just that the meat is so
succulent—”

“Oh, yeah,
baby,”
Javitz says, simulating orgasm on top of Lloyd. “Suck you
lent.”

“Succulent if you don't mind that green stuff that oozes out,” I say, cringing. “Just tell me when you're going to drop them in so I can go outside.”

“If your tricks could only see you like this,” Javitz laughs. “I don't remember you being such a femme.”

“It's because
I'm
so butch,” Lloyd laughs. Javitz rolls his eyes and tickles him. Lloyd shrivels up in hysteria.

“If you're so butch, how come I'm on top?” Javitz demands. Then he looks up at me. “You don't mind me topping your lover in front of you, do you?”

“Be my guest.” I smirk, waving my hand.

Of course, Javitz would debate me on that point of privilege, the assumption that Lloyd was something I could offer with a grandiose gesture. “Why do lovers always assume first right of refusal?” he has argued, and we've all laughed, but he has a point. Why is it that Lloyd and I can roll around naked, yanking on our puds, but Javitz can only join in after we're through, a sheet discreetly placed across my lap? Despite our blurring of so many boundaries, we have never contemplated a three-way, no matter how feverishly the Provincetown tongues have wagged in that direction. How I wish they could see this little scene. “Is
that
how they do it?” they'd gush. “The two of them down there, the one guy above, watching it all? Do they all sleep together in that one little bed?”

They're standing up now. My lovers. “Come on, Cat,” Lloyd says, pulling on a pair of spandex bike shorts. “Get dressed and let's start dinner.”

“You can husk the corn,” Javitz instructs, “if we have to execute the lobsters.”

“Fine. You always leave too much corn silk on them anyway,” I tell him.

I wait until they're both gone before I get out of bed. I look at my skin now and conclude it's really not such a bad burn after all. It'll probably fade into a very nice tan. I lean against the radiator while I pull on my cutoffs. Of course, I'm thinking about Eduardo, whether he'll call me, what he's doing at this precise moment. I'm thinking about what makes a lover, what in the end sets someone apart in that special category, the category all queers aspire to fill, but where they too often come up short.

I can't think of anything insightful or profound. Nothing that I can write about later, nothing that I can share with Javitz and Lloyd in a late-night discussion out on the deck. So I just yank the sheets from the bed, finally ready to start over fresh.