Date: Sat, 06 Sep 2003 02:22:38 +0000
From: Bobby Reardon <reardon_930@hotmail.com>
Subject: Role-Playing chapter 3

This is a fictional story. No one involved is based on any person living or
dead. The story belongs to me and I request that you ask me first before
distributing or archiving my work. Don't peruse this if you are not over 18
or the majority age in your area. Play safe in real life.

I've gotten a few responses to the story, which I deeply appreciate. I'd
like to get more. Even a few comments are better than nothing. If you have
any praises or concerns, let me know.


Years ago, I saw one of horrible sci-fi movies from the 70's, you know, the
ones where you only sit through the whole thing because you heard Sean
Connery shows his balls for 2.5 seconds. Anyway, in one scene, these poor
saps walk into outer space, only they aren't wearing the right suits. The
unfortunate extras swell to massive proportions, then explode into millions
of tiny, mediocre-FX-budget pieces. I'd always wondered how that felt.

Well, now I knew.

Carlo was sprawled out on the couch, his feet dangling over the edge, when I
came home from my shift. His eyes were swollen and puffy. I thought someone
he knew had died. When I reached to cover him with a blanket, he stirred
awake from his restless sleep. Our eyes met, briefly, before he buried his
face in those big meat hooks of his. Shame radiated from every pore of his
body. The urge to comfort him was overwhelming. All the greeting card
cliches ran through my mental Rolodex, butthe words rang hollow. They
must've sounded even worse as they limped from my esophagus.

"Gene, I'm so fuckin' stupid, fuckin' idiot. Fuck, fuck..."

Carlo never cursed, except after he'd stubbed his toe or burned his hand.
Each expletive was set in time with the heel of his hand slamming into his
forehead. The soft thumps produced no reaction from Carlo, but I could feel
each thud as if my own skin was bruising green and purple.

"Babe, don't do that. Teachers get lousy health insurance, remember?"

No laughter from my lover. No response at all. Did he even see me?

Oh yes, he did. Suddenly he raised his head from between his knees, and
transfixed me with a naked, sorrowful stare, a stare of devastation and
heartbreak. I knew then. We were over. I didn't even want to hear the words.

"Gene, I sent an e-mail to Angelo and I mentioned you and he told everyone I
had a girlfriend and then I confirmed it and Gene please, please..."

I backed away, willing his voice away, unable to shut out the verbal
daggers.

"It was stupid. A shitty thing to do, OK? Yeah. But we can make this work.
I-I...I...can"

I was at the front door when his last sentence tied my shoestrings together.
I literally could not move, even though every ounce of me screamed to find
the nearest exit. Instead, I spun around, the words from my mouth uttered in
what can best be described as a zombie tone.

"You can w-what? Put me in a dress? Give me tits? Cut off my dick? Think
that'll work?"

Carlo shook his head, waving his hands in all directions as he tried to
interrupt my speech.

"NO! I don't want to hear this shit. I want to hear ONE thing. 'Gene, love
of my life, I'm going to call each and every of my 50 relatives and tell
them I am living with a man. A gay man. Because I'm a big, fat queer.' Is
that what you have to say to me?"

For a second, our eyes met, and the chaos ceased. I thought he was going to
agree, I really did. When he dropped his head, the final shreds of our
relationship crashed right along with him. That fear etched in every pore of
his stubbled, quivering jaw made me want to cry. And that was one thing I
was not going to do, even if I had to rip out my eye sockets. I was not
going to cry over him.

'Get away, protect yourself' pounded in my throbbing head as I willed myself
to the bedroom, magically managing to avoid any photos of my great love, any
prize possessions, any memories of all the days and nights we'd spent
together. All the nights we'd spent together in this very bed. Maybe I was
lucky. I'd only found Carlo a few months ago. Imagine this news on our 10th
anniversary, or 20th, or...

"Gene, Gene, wait. Just let me work this out. You can't leave at this time
of night." I had a gift for drowning people out, and each time he tried to
speak to me, touch me, I froze. With each ice storm I packed another set of
clothes, another toiletry I needed in my pathetically small suitcase.

"Please, Gene, lemme do something."

I never wanted to hear the word Gene again. I wanted to change that blasted
name to Jeff or Billy Bob or Dick or Jethro. But right now, I just wanted to
get the hell out of this tomb as soon as I could.

"Let me use the phone."

Carlo nodded, and I dialed the first number. Suzanne. Busy. Typical. Second
number. Bob and Jeannette. Disconnected. Guess they forgot to pay the bill
again. Third number. Billy and Pablo. On their second honeymoon, frolicking
in sunny South Beach, Miami, according to their machine. Thanks for the
WORLD'S WORST TIMING, motherfuckers.

Carlo was behind me. Inches away. Breath on my neck. His tears running down
the back of my shirt. His knife in my heart.

"Gene, I'll stay on the couch. Won't say a word to ya. I promise. I promise.
Then in the morning, we'll talk."

John, please answer. If it's the last thing you ever do for me, answer. You
can keep my Erasure CD's for the rest of eternity if you just pick up the
fricking...

"Yeah?"

"JohnIneedsomewheretostaytonightrightnowpleaseJohn."

He must've thought I was an asthmatic crank caller. While I gathered my
breath, and courage, I repeated the words a second time.

"Did something happen to you? Did Carlo do something?"

"Oh, we're just fucking fine and dandy. If you're busy, let me know."

"Not gonna happen. I've got a few people over. As long as that's not a
problem, then you can use a spare bedroom."

"Thanks, man, I owe you."

"You don't owe me a thing. You know who your true friends are. Now get that
sorry ass over here. Love ya."

John was a casting director I'd run into over and over during auditions.
Then 3 years ago I literally bumped into him at a mutual acquaintance's
funeral, and we spent the rest of the night rolling joints, raiding his
fridge, and swapping very tacky stories about the departed party. He'd
warned me about getting involved with a "terminal closet case". He wasn't
the type of friend who would screech "I told you so" in my face, at least
not more than a half-dozen times. That's why I called him.

Somewhere during my conversation with the cab company, Carlo's constant
pleas had tapered off. He was silent. Hugging himself tightly. Ashamed.
Good. I wanted to say something to really gouge him. Tell him that it was my
fault for ever thinking a self-loathing, mama's boy, butch bore like him
would ever want to be honest with a cheap fag like me. Tell him I wish I'd
never met him and had left him in the darkness. Tell him I loathed him with
every cell of my being. But I looked in those sad brown pools and I knew I
couldn't. The reason I hated him was because I loved him. Only someone I
craved so much could hurt me this way. I was the fool, for letting myself
love him. I wouldn't make that mistake again.

My footsteps against the floor were the only sounds in the suddenly
cavernous apartment. If this place felt like a prison, then why didn't I
feel like I was being freed? I could still sense his presence. He followed
me to the door, fumbling with what to say, finally settling on nothing. He
didn't have to speak. He was inside my soul. One last attempt to exorcise
him, to give closure. I turned again, smacked his cheek, just hard enough to
leave a sting. Stared deep into those smoky eyes.

"Thanks...for everything."

Then I was gone. Climbed into the cab with my suitcase on my lap. I still
couldn't cry. Being the horribly stereotypical martyr queen, choosing the
most screwed-up headcase to fall in love with while ignoring the many
carefree, stable, sublime men and women (well, there must be one or two
hidden away somewhere) roaming the city, was bad enough. I wasn't going to
weep copiously and burst into a ballad of despair. This wasn't 1944 MGM.
This was 2003...fill in the blank film studio.

I paid the driver and dragged my bag up to John's apartment. Giggles and
electronica greeted me when I reached John's front door. Upon gaining entry
to his home, the first thing I noticed was the sea of writhing flesh, pizza
boxes, water bottles, dongs, and cooling candle wax on his living room
floor. No wonder John had a maid service.

He greeted me with a bear hug, crushing me so hard I nearly passed out in
his arms. For a short man he had quite a strong build. His terry cloth robe
did little to shield his uncut, throbbing erection which was currently
staining the crotch of my jeans.

"Sorry about this, John. I had no idea you had this kind of um...people
over."

John stroked my back in loving, slow circles. Whispered in my ear.

"Tricks come and go, pal. Friendships don't. Wanna talk? I can kick these
bums out, you know."

The "bums", several of whom I'd sucked and fucked on a recurring basis,
jeered and threw popcorn at him, but I knew they agreed with him. But if I
talked, I would burst into hysterical sobs on the spot and turn this little
scene into the world's first manic-depressive porno. Keeping my mask on, I
shook my head against his strong shoulder.

"If you do, then just ask. Don't even ask! I'm here."

He carried my bag to the guest room, returning a few moments later with a
small black bottle in one hand, a tablet in the other.

"I know you didn't ask my opinion, but you're better off without that prick,
IF you want my opinion. I can't do much to change things, but I, we, can
help take the pain away. At least for tonight, right?"

I shrugged my coat off while I recalled the peculiar elixir of semen, sweat,
and poppers. Once upon a time, nothing made me happier than a good old
narcotized orgy. Pot to waft my mind on a cloud of bliss. Or X to make me
not care how old, lonely and pathetic I felt. Or some other drug of the
moment, too many for me to remember anymore.

In the back of my head I think I had been hoping for this scene. Nothing but
dicks and mouths and asses to make me forget my own name, or that I even had
a name. Yet, here it was in front of me, like a dozen times before, and this
time, I wasn't taking off my clothes. I wasn't looking for the largest
erection or sitting on the cutest twink's face. Something, for better or
worse, had changed inside me. I knew that, as hot as the guys were, as
skilled as I remembered them as being, in the morning my problems would
still be there, along with a major headache and dried-up stains of God knows
what littering my entire body. For once in my life, I felt mature, or
ancient, or both. I kissed John on the lips, waved goodbye to the penis
gallery, and went to my bedroom. My clothes fell to the floor beside me. I
fell asleep. As I drifted away, I knew I'd dream of Carlo, and curse at him
for what he'd made me become. I didn't care. As long as I could see him
again, I didn't care. My last thought was of how alone I felt without those
big hairy arms wrapped around me.

00000

E-mail at Reardon_930@hotmail.com