Date: Sat, 29 Nov 2008 01:08:08 +0100 From: Julian Obedient Subject: On His Own 6 It was still raining when Howard woke the next morning. He wondered how he had gotten to the point where his judgment had become so bad. He flicked on the television and watched clips of people being evicted from their homes in several northeastern and Midwestern states. Some people really have troubles, he muttered, but then he remembered. The memory of Keith kicking him, of his groveling, of the knife, of life-and-death danger, and then of standing helplessly in the rain waiting for the luck of a cab, trembling with relief after a close call, shook him again with the aftershock of his behavior. What did he want? He drank a sweet black coffee and shook off his perplexity. Perhaps he would enjoy a slow walk through the park. He could think about what he might say on his program about these evictions in the light of the banking house bailouts. It was hardly raining anymore. He showered. He felt the hot spray massage him. He stretched and felt his torso. He twisted this way and that and let the ache out of his back. He admired his own body in the mirror that made up one of the walls of the shower. He tensed himself. He gazed at his image and watched himself rise and stiffen. The hot water beating upon him excited him, like gentle blows of a gently disciplining whip or the gaze of an admirer. Sunday morning. Lucas was walking beside the stone wall that encloses the park, just on the outside, trying to tear himself away from some destructive force grasping him from within. The rain had stopped and the sun was squeezing itself into the fibers of the day. Lucas was lean to begin with and now he was almost gaunt. Demand for him on international runways and for big-time magazine shoots had increased wildly. That could not be the reason, his lithe near-gauntness. But his time had definitely arrived. He could wear a suit gorgeously no matter how formal or rumpled it was supposed to look, no matter how oddly deconstructed or accessorized. Everyone knew it. The camera loved him. It was obvious. You could see it. Every part of his body looked good. Every part could draw attention. He could smile without smiling. He could make an off-hand glance look seductive. On him, a leer look like a supplication. He was offered so much he had to turn some things down. The ones he did take he did without heart. That alienation was his meal ticket. That very alienation came across in the magazines exactly how the advertisers wanted it to. He was mysterious and drew the readers into him and focused their attention on a fantasy of consuming possibilities. His eyes were enough. He crossed the park and continued to the gym on Forty-fourth Street. He realized he was torn by anger. At Cynthia? No. At Nick. Because? Because he does not see what's going on inside me. Because he doesn't help me get out of the hole I'm in. Boy, that was a fucked-up way to think. He was angry at himself, and he had to hold back from slamming his locker. His breath was hard. His body was tense. He needed all the discipline he had to go slowly. But he had it. He began the really strenuous part of the workout after thirty minutes. He was moving with the graceful intensity that can sometimes come with fury. Harnessed within him was the dangerous excitement of free-flowing anger. It kept flowing. It didn't stop. He had it in his muscles. It was the motor of his movements. His breath was a fire that blazed in him. He finished, showered and swam a hundred laps. Then he showered again. In front of the mirror he looked at his violet eyes as he fixed his hair, a towel slung carelessly across his waist, the statue of David as if redesigned by Armani. No one had eyes like him. No one except Nick. They had both noted that they had the same eyes. When he looked into Nick's Luke got frightened. He couldn't figure out where he was when he and Nick looked into each other's eyes. On which side of the gaze was he? He splashed cold water on his face and then used the wind machine to blow it dry with its hot gusts. He pulled on his jeans, doc martens, and a loose, sky-blue, over the head sweater. In spite of himself, he winked at himself in the mirror before he turned to leave the place. He was shining with radiance and desire. rtrned frm th ded, he texto'd Nick from inside a juice bar as he sipped freshly-squeezed wheatgrass juice. hope u r home ths evng. wl b, Nick thumbed back. He truly liked Luke. He could just gaze at him forever without doing anything else. Nick was cutting up a pineapple. He cubed it, collected it in a glass bowl, and poured rum over it, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator. If it's making you crazy imagine what it's doing to me, Luke said, standing, leaning his palms on the table, watching Nick swiftly dispatching his task. What are you talking about? Nick said. How I keep coming and going. You're welcome to stay for a while, Nick grinned. You still like me? Luke said. Have you ever heard me say otherwise? Nick said. No, Luke said, but sometimes I don't listen too good. He grinned and brought his lips to Nick's and kissed him tenderly, surrendering. Where have you been? Nick asked. Around, Luke answered. Around but not in touch, Nick said. Yeah, Luke said. Very much not in touch. Please forgive me. Where are you now? Nick said. I'm in touch, Luke said. For how long? Nick said. Luke laughed. Only time will tell, he said, and kissed him again. Then he backed off and they gazed into each other's eyes as streams of violet rays pierced their skin and irradiated their hearts. I don't want to go, Luke said. Well, you don't have to, Nick said. Luke was not sure exactly what Nick meant or what he wanted and stayed silent a moment. I want to give myself to you, he finally said deliberately, but I am afraid you will not take good care of me. Nick said nothing. I hate when you are quiet like that. It makes me want you unendurably, painfully. Nick moved to him and took him in his arms and stroked him with one hand and slowly dragged a finger of the other softly down from his forehead to his throat. He looked attentively at him. Of course it was necessary to talk, but it also was essential to be silent. Nick pressed his mouth to Luke's and drew his breath out of him and then filled him with his own. He felt the urge to possess him surging in his blood. Luke drew back. You are extraordinary, he said, frighteningly so. I've never felt the strength of someone else's presence so strongly or so happily. He was thinking of the heavy weight upon him that Cynthia had become and of the lightness he felt right now. And that's scary. That's way more vulnerable than I think I can be. Nick silenced him with a kiss and he yielded himself to it. What are you going to do to me? he said. Howard found the connection he was looking for and scribbled something in the pocket notebook he always carried with him. He stuffed the notebook and his pen back into his jacket pocket and slumped down on his haunches at the edge of the pond and looked out over it. He stood and walked over to the tennis courts. There was Robin leaning against the fence, talking on his cell phone, adorable as a blossoming adolescent despite his thirty odd years, lanky in his white tennis shorts, ankle high white socks, and a white polo shirt with a soft rolled collar, open two buttons at the neck. Robin clicked the phone shut, saw Howard, and smiled. You're not up for a match, are you? Depends what kind of match you mean, Howard said, drawing Robin to him and kissing him on the lips. But I could use a cup of strong coffee. You look good all in white. They walked passed Twelfth Street and stopped at The Gansevoort Street Café. I'm going to Washington, Robin said, for the magazine, as part of the inauguration coverage. I expect we'll be broadcasting from there that week, Howard said. We could share a hotel room, Robin said. Howard did not mention the thing with Keith the night before, and Robin did not mention that it was Luke he was talking to on his cell phone, Luke calling to say, without giving a reason, but Robin could guess, that he was not going to meet him at the courts for tennis. They agreed to take a room together in Washington. It's on me, Robin said. Don't be ridiculous, Howard said. We'll split it down the middle. It'll be chaos. It'll be a lot of work. Eliot's coming down, too. But he has someone to stay with who was hoping to see him again. We'll have fun, Robin said. Yeah, Howard said, smiling, understanding what he was saying. But for right now, come home with me, Robin said. Sure, Howard said. A bed in need, he began. Is a bed indeed, Robin said. It's good to see you again, Eliot said with delight seeing Nick standing there when he opened the door. He took him in his arms and he kissed him, and without prompting or prelude, they plumbed the depth of each other's desire. You haven't changed a bit, Eliot said. It's so good to see you. Want a carrot? I got somethin' better 'n that. I bet you do, Eliot said, blowing on his neck and feeling his sex harden. You're heating me up, Nick said. That's what I intend to do, Eliot said. Doncha want me to? I do, Nicked cooed and brought his mouth to Eliot's again. The magnets of desire drew them closer. They kissed; they lost their balance. They fell sideways onto the couch. The bed is better, Eliot said. Come with me. They held each other. They quietly breathed. There's no one like you, Eliot. Thank you, Nick said. Eliot kissed his nose. That goes for you, too, he said. Howard looked great. He seduced the camera and never surrendered his authority. It was palpable. He had ratings to prove it. Or is it that we are now living in a world that provides us with fuel but withholds nourishment from us, that wants us to produce but not to create, that wants us to obey and to submit and that we call it free choice and personal decision? He waited a beat and then gave his signature sign off, Until tomorrow. Verdi's Dies Irae played, credits rolled, and they were off the air. Until tomorrow, Donaldson said jubilantly. Another knock out. I feel like I'm knocked out, Howard said. I'll take you out for a drink, on me, Donaldson said. We can go to the bar at The Plaza. You paint a bleak picture, my friend, Donaldson said touching his scotch to Howard's vodka. I can feel pretty bleak, Howard said quietly. About the way the world's going? About that, sure, but it comes with the territory. I mean I can feel pretty bleak. It's not even about anything. It's just pervasive. When did this start? Why do you ask? You know why I ask. Around the time I stopped seeing Nick. Does that have anything to do with it? You think you're telling me something? Do you think you want to come home with me? I appreciate that, but I'm not sure how good I'll be. No strings attached, Donaldson said. I'm married. Remember. I am, too, Howard said. How can I forget? We can let it slip our minds for a night, Donaldson said. Ok? Ok, said Howard. Debra swirled the ice in her glass and listened to the tintinnabulation. How do you think he will take it? Barbara said by the mirror, rigorously brushing her long blond hair until it shone. Howard will be reasonable. He'll even be happy for us. And he was. But, you know, he said, as they walked through the park at twilight, I have come, after all these years, to depend on you, on your common sense and stability. It's not enough, Debra said. I know, he said, a grudging admission, but a real one. There were no sticky details and difficult arrangements. They were fortunate. He was one of the highest paid broadcasters and she was the features editor at Elle. He would keep their place in Chelsea and she would move into Barbara's place on Fifth Avenue and keep the house in Connecticut. What am I going to do with a seven room duplex? he asked Porter Robinson at dinner the following night. You might take a roommate, or a houseboy, he said. Or you might sell it. Not in today's market, Howard said. Besides, I'm used to the place and I need some stability. It was after the meal and they stood on the terrace outside Robinson's penthouse apartment looking west over the park. I understand, he said. Sexually, they did not get off the ground. They spent a few hours talking about politics, the opera, places they liked to go, forcing one subject after another, lubricating it with good liquor, and then they shook hands goodnight at the door, and as they did embarrassedly kissed in order to avoid not kissing, and then Howard was by himself going down in the elevator. The air smelled good and green from the park. Howard was annoyed with himself as he walked down Fifth Avenue, hands pocketed, the wind blowing his scarf. All night he kept sounding like he was complaining what ever he said or that he was needy, like he wanted something he had already acknowledged to himself that he would not get. He knew he was giving Robinson the upper hand but he hadn't been able stop it. Displeased with himself and oppressed by the gloom in his mind, Howard hailed a cab and rode through the nearly empty night streets of Manhattan down to Chelsea. The glare of the streetlights at the intersections interrupted the quiet darkness of the late night cityscape. Benny's was still open and Howard went in for a drink, reluctant to go back to his empty apartment -- no emptier, really, than it was most of the time when Debra lived there because of Debra's extensive travels and frequent absences, yet actually emptier now because of her willful withdrawal from domiciling there. He had to get rid of that sharp edge he felt that kept his mind whirring and his body tensed. The place was quite empty, hardly anyone there. It was late. I'm going to start closing, Jody said. Howard downed an unnecessary shot of vodka and went back into the night. The moon, a waning crescent floated slowly over Twentieth Street, slowly downward trailing towards the river. Howard turned the light on in his study and pulled off his suit jacket and his shirt, opened his trousers, pulled off his boots and socks, stripped the rest of the way down to black bikini briefs because he liked to live with the shades up and the curtains open, and fell onto the soft quilted blanket on top of the leather couch. He flipped the light off from a switch by the couch. Overhead through a skylight he saw the black sky and the myriad dancing stars that haunted its inestimable distances. He looked at stars that were dead and ones that had not yet been born. Time disappeared and he felt the simultaneity of all events. He slept. [When you write, please put story name in subject bar. Thanks.]