The Perils of Praline (11 page)

“In other news, an apartment fire in Hollywood continues to rage.” Video of Warren’s building engulfed in flames burst onto the screen, while Tawny Garcia-Gonzalez calmly read the voiceover. “The blaze has been blamed on a disgruntled tenant.”

The program cut to a shot of a nervous Warren with a microphone pushed into his face. “We were having a disagreement and I left the apartment to let him cool down. When I came back the building was engulfed in flames.”

Warren was gone and Tawny Garcia-Gonzalez was back. “Anyone with information about the arsonist should call the Box News tip-line number at the bottom of your screen. Fortunately, no injuries have been reported in this terrible crime.”

Tawny struggled to find an emotion for the casualty-deprived blaze. Finally she gave up and went to commercial.

Praline felt as though he might throw up. Not only was he a prostitute, he was also an arsonist. As they rinsed the dye out of his hair, Praline related to Clayton the sordid details of his first full day in Los Angeles.

“Wow,” Clayton said when he finished. “And I thought my life sucked. You might as well pack it in.”

Clayton had taken off his silk robe in order not to get dye on it. After rinsing Praline’s hair, the linen pajama top was soaked and clinging to his lean frame. He took it off and threw it over the shower rod. While he dried Praline’s hair, our concupiscent hero couldn’t help but study Clayton’s half-naked body in the bathroom mirror. His belly was tight enough to show each of his abdominal muscles and there was a patch of dark chest hair between his flat pectoral muscles. The pajama bottoms hung loosely around his hips, looking as though they might fall off at any moment. Praline’s dilemma over whether or not to have sex with Clayton returned in the form of an erection.

Praline’s hair was finished and, after a quick blow drying, Clayton seemed pleased with the result—though his voice was pancake flat when he said, “Wow, it looks great.”

Certain that he’d once seen a movie in which the hero broke a promise to a friend in order to save a sick child or a distressed damsel or a depressed homosexual with soulful eyes, Praline knew what he had to do. He stood up and pulled Clayton into his arms and kissed him.

The kiss was sweet and tender, though Clayton showed little actual enthusiasm. Passively, he allowed Praline to lead him to his bedroom, which was large, sparsely furnished and had the same high ceiling as the rest of the apartment. Clayton stood like a statute, albeit a horny statue, and let Praline slip off his pajama bottoms and lick his growing erection.

“This is so amazing,” Clayton said blankly. His penis, displaying more emotion, bobbed and bounced under Praline’s attentions. Determined to bring pleasure and some measure of happiness to his new friend, Praline took the prick in his hand. It was hard as steel and more than respectable in length. It perplexed him that anyone with a nice cock like this could ever be depressed. Taking it in his mouth, he delighted to feel Clayton’s entire body quiver.

Praline turned his attention to Clayton’s large, perfectly oval balls. Teasing them with his tongue, he gently took one then the other into his mouth. Clayton moaned softly and Praline was sure that by the time he was finished the young man would no longer be suicidal. He moved back up Clayton’s body and kissed him again, deep and exploring.

Clayton clung to him, breathing heavily. He waved at a dusty box on the nightstand next to the bed. Praline looked inside, finding an ancient tube of lube and some condoms. Getting the idea, he took the necessary items and came back to Clayton
,
whose legs were now waving in the air.

Praline quickly lubed Clayton’s butt-hole, slipped on the condom and positioned himself. He was so ready for this. Neither of his earlier sexual encounters had ended, well, satisfactorily. Easing himself into Clayton, he looked closely for a reaction. The young man’s mouth dropped open a tiny bit and he gave a barely audible whimper. Praline continued to fuck him, slowly at first, then when he received little response, faster. Hoping to elicit a reaction, Praline eventually plowed into the compliant young man at remarkable speed. And Clayton remained placid.

But then, without warning, Clayton bucked once, moaned twice and, without absolutely no manual stimulation, came in five copious spurts. The corresponding convulsions of Clayton’s ass forced Praline over the edge and he, too, climaxed, though with much more visible emotion.

When it was over, Clayton seemed to sink into the mattress, his breathing slowing to a near stop. Then, abruptly he sat up and said, “You know what we should do? We should die together.”

“That’s sweet,” Praline said. “But I was really hoping to cheer you up.”

“How should we kill ourselves?” Clayton asked.

Praline shrugged awkwardly. He’d really never considered suicide and didn’t have a preference—other than avoiding it completely.

“We could put rocks in our bathrobe pockets and jump into the pool like Virginia Woolf,” Clayton suggested. “I have an extra bathrobe.”

“Virginia Woolf killed herself in a swimming pool?” Praline asked. She’d been mentioned in his lit class at Laccacoochee Technical College, but he didn’t remember anyone bringing up that intriguing detail.

 “There’s a gas stove,” Clayton suggested. “We could tape the windows shut and turn on the gas. It’s supposed to be like falling asleep.”

“I’m not tired,” Praline said. “Could
we
go get ice cream? I’m sort of getting a craving.”

“We could stab each other.”

“No, thank you. Do you have cookies, maybe? Oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, snickerdoodles, anything?”

“I have Percocet, but only enough to kill one of us. I should have thought ahead, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a problem, honest.”

“We could jump off the Griffith Observatory, or maybe the Santa Monica Pier.”

“You know, I’d love to go sightseeing, but death isn’t really my thing.” Praline was beginning to think he should have just let Clayton kill himself, since sex had obviously not cheered him up and, strangely, seemed to have made him bent on killing them both. “I could bake a cake…if you have a mix.”

“I know,” Clayton said. “Let’s strangle each other.”

Praline attempted to say no, but Clayton’s hands were already on his throat. Instinctively, his own hands flew up and tried to pull Clayton’s away.

“No, me! Strangle me!” Clayton yelled.

Ignoring this, Praline continued his attempts at escape. Kicking the bed sheets, trying to push Clayton off, trying to pull his neck away, nothing worked. Oxygen starved, Praline’s world began to dim. The apartment turned gray around the edges, and then close
d
in like an iris shot in a silent movie.

After his first day at a new job, Praline attends a cattle call.

The door to the bedroom flew open and Jason rushed into the room. He pulled Clayton off our hypoxic hero and, red-faced and furious, screamed, “I told you not to have sex with him, didn’t I? Didn’t I tell you?”

In a hoarse voice, Praline explained, “He seemed so sad. I wanted to cheer him up.”

“He has a medical condition. It’s called Post-Coital Tristesse. Sex only makes his depression worse!”

“Now you tell me.”

Jason calmed down a bit, looked at Praline oddly, and asked, “Why is your hair blue?”

“It was my idea,” Clayton said without affect. “Isn’t it fun?”

“He’s supposed to blend in. How is he going to blend in when his hair is blue?” Jason asked.

“It’s L.A. No one blends in
,
so everyone blends in,” Clayton said, before he shrugged and asked, “Do we have any rope?” Then he looked around the room for something he might hang himself from.

Praline realized Jason was staring at him.

Something about the look was familiar. It took a moment to place it but then he realized where he’d seen the look before. For his nineteenth birthday, Praline’s mama had taken him to a restaurant in Atlanta famous for their desserts. He remembered standing in front of the glass dessert case gaping at a slice of the world’s most amazing chocolate cream pie. The crust was made of crushed chocolate wafers, which was enticing enough. But it was the filling that was so surprising. At the bottom, it started with dark chocolate pudding and then slowly, gradually turned into pristine, white whipped cream. There were no seams, no layers, just a smooth, flawless transition from chocolate to cream. It didn’t seem possible; he’d never seen anything so perfect. He’d glanced up at himself in the mirror at the back of the casing and saw on his face desire, bemusement, curiosity
,
and awe. And now, he was sure he saw those same emotions on Jason’s face. Okay, maybe it was a little heavy on the bemusement. But still, he was certain, Jason liked him.

They stopped looking at each other when they noticed Clayton wrapping a twisted sheet around his neck.

After they dropped Clayton off at the emergency room, quickly explaining how and why he was a threat to himself—or in Praline’s case, others—Jason and Praline picked up some Mexican takeout and returned to the apartment.

As they ate, conversation was sparse. Jason was still angry and/or bemused, and Praline was secretly enjoying the fact that Jason liked him. Though, it was a little hard
to
focus since he was also enjoying his dinner immensely. He’d just discovered mole sauce and was thrilled to find a new way to use chocolate.

“I talked to my boss,” Jason said out of the blue. “She said the internship thing is fine. You can start tomorrow.”

Praline was taken aback. He’d been sure Jason didn’t want him to take the internship
,
so why had he gone to the trouble of arranging it?

“My boss is Madison Harvey,” Jason explained. “It’s really Marilyn Harvey. She uses Madison because she thinks it’s hipper, more youthful. She runs internal casting for Box Studios.”

“Casting?” Praline practically shouted. This was such an exciting development. “You work in casting? Can you find Dave G. for me?”

Jason grew uncomfortable. “Not really. I mean, I could find out who his agent is, but that’s about all.”

“That would be terrific!” Praline all but shouted.

“His agent isn’t going to give you his phone number or anything.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you’re sort of a stalker,” Jason explained as politely as possible.

“I am not a stalker. Stalkers send creepy letters. I’ve only sent nice letters to Dave G.”

“Which I assume he hasn’t answered,” Jason said.

“I’m not sure he got them. And, now that you tell me people out here think you’re a stalker with virtually no provocation, I’m sure he didn’t get them.”

“Stalking is a felony,” Jason pointed out.

“They’ve made loving someone criminal?”

“Only if you’ve never met them.”

Praline found Jason so confusing. On one hand, he was friendly and sweet and helpful, and on the other, he was real stickler about insignificant things like laws and such. He’d pretty much decided Jason wasn’t a frenemy, since his affection and/or bemusement was so obvious, but still the young man never seemed to say anything nice to Praline. In fact, he often said things that weren’t nice at all. Weren’t friends supposed to say nice things?

After they cleaned up the dinner mess, Praline screwed up his courage and said, “I can’t believe you saved my life again. And you’re giving me some place to sleep again. And you got me a job. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a blowjob or something?”

Actually, to really follow commandment number seven, always repay a favor with a favor, he was going to have to give Jason a bunch of blowjobs. Which wasn’t that bad since he kind of, sort of, wanted to have sex with Jason. He didn’t know exactly why and never analyzed such things, but it had been a couple hours since he’d had an orgasm, so he was hoping Jason
would say
, “Sure, why not?”

Instead, Jason gave him a gentle look and said, “If you keep offering to have sex with me, I’m going to think you like me.”

“I like you enough to have sex with you.”

“Yeah, but I get the impression that bar isn’t especially high.”

Praline was a little offended by the remark, and would have said so if it hadn’t basically been true. It wasn’t that he had low standards; it was more that he’d been taught to be polite, agreeable and friendly to everyone. So, whenever someone paid him the compliment of offering sex he found it difficult to say no.

“Look,” Jason said, “you really need to learn the difference between sex and a thank-you card.”

“You’d rather have a thank-you card than have sex with me?” Now Praline was offended. “That’s not very nice.”

“If you mean nice in the ‘oh-let’s-all-be-agreeable’ sense, then no, probably not. But if you mean nice in the ‘I’m-actually-thinking-about-what-might-be-good-for-you’ sense, then it’s very nice,” Jason explained, and Praline decided he had to be the most annoying person he’d ever met in his whole darn life. “And, not that it’s any of your business, but at the moment I’m celibate.”

“You mean deliberately?” Praline asked. “Why on earth would anyone deliberately—”

“I had a bad break-up, followed by some awkward and kind of awful dating experiences, and I decided to take a break. There’s nothing wrong with that,” Jason explained.

“For how long?”

“A month. So far.”

Praline’s jaw dropped, “I’m so, so sorry.”

He couldn’t imagine why Jason would deliberately not have sex for an entire month. Sure,
Praline
had gone without sex in Lumpkinville for months on end, but never deliberately. It seemed crazy to live in a place like Los Angeles with hot guys everywhere and go without. It was just like working in a chocolate factory and denying yourself candy.

That sealed it, somehow, some way Praline was going to have to put an end to Jason’s celibacy. Whether he wanted to have sex with Jason or not was now beside the point. The guy needed help.

“
Hollywood Hospital
is on. Can we watch it?”

Nothing like a good sexy, nighttime soap to get you in the mood, Praline thought. Jason groaned but went into the living room and turned on the TV. Praline curled up on the over-used, tangerine-colored velvet sofa. As the credits rolled, he hoped they let Clayton watch the show at the hospital—if not, he should make Jason call him later and let him know what happened on the show.