Michael was a bad memory, relegated to the indistinct past along with his rat-faced friend. A simple ride to the airport was all it had taken.
Kenne had been on his way home to Spokane or Dubuque or Indianapolis or wherever it was demons were spawned from mortal women, and as usual, Michael just had to be the one to send him off. The thought of Kenne being anywhere other than with Michael thrilled Toan, so he was happy to be consigned to the back seat with the last of the bags they hadn’t been able to jam into the trunk.
Michael and Kenne chatted about mutual friends Toan had never met or sang tunes from Madonna’s latest tripe in a discordant harmony the whole way. Excluded from their conversation, Toan watched as the 7-Elevens and liquor stores lining La Tijera Boulevard slid by and leafed through the maps Michael kept tucked into the seat-back pockets. When the diversions ran out, Toan laid his head on a travel bag and his eyes caught a glint of something under the seat. He reached down, pulled up one shiny vinyl envelope, and then another. There were five in total and they confirmed every suspicion Toan had ever had.
When Kenne was safely away, Toan took the front passenger seat in silence as Michael fast-forwarded the disc to a cut he liked best.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Michael said, his head bopping to one of the innocuous club tunes he loved, little more than disco reinvented for the nineties, really.
Toan sighed, looked over at Michael, and silently held out one of the open condom packages he’d found in the back seat.
“What’s that?” Michael stumbled over his words, attempted a diversion by turning the disc player up a little louder.
“You tell me.”
“Looks like a condom wrapper. Where’d you get it?”
“Them.” Toan produced the other four, dropping them into the empty ashtray just below the radio. “I found them on the floor in the back seat.”
Toan knew it was over then and there. Michael concocted a story about liking to masturbate while he drove around town. Michael had convinced Toan of a lot of things over the the last few months: late night house showings, flat tires on the 405, plumbing problems in just about every house he’d put on the market, but that Michael—a man who had no great gift of physical dexterity—could actually manage to drive, shift, pull his dick out, unroll a condom, put it on, and whack off, all while making sure the CD player played an acceptable song, required more than a willing suspension of disbelief. It required stupidity and naiveté in fatal amounts. Toan laughed in Michael’s face. Of course, he had to call Tracey for a ride home when Michael threw him out of the car at Rodeo and LaBrea.
If nothing else, Michael’s departure gave the band plenty to razz Toan about in between sets at Incense. After two months, he’d tired a little of it, but they’d let it go when the next loser pulled an even bigger boner.
“What I wanna know is, how’d he manage to find his itty bitty little dick at night?” Tracey asked, her voice a little slurred from the between-set gimlets she’d been pounding down.
“Glow-in-the-dark condoms.” Al said it between quick swigs of his beer and with such a straight face it caught them all off-guard. Toan and Tracey both guffawed. Al smiled sheepishly. It was so seldom he was the witty one of the group.
“Oh! And did I ever tell you about the ring?”
“He gave you a ring?” Tracey asked with disbelief.
“No. He used to wear this ring. You know. A leather ring.”
“Oh,” Tracey and Al said in tandem.
“One night, when we’re having sex, he finally says ‘I love you.’ Whispered it in my ear. Very romantic. And then he takes it off and tried to put it around my dick. Like a freakin’ engagement ring.”
“He did not.”
Toan nodded and downed a shot Pat had slid up to him. “I think I still have it in a drawer somewhere. Two days later he had a new one on. Kind of prophetic, now that I think about it. Men as jewelry.”
“You can pick ‘em,” Tracey said as she finished her drink.
Toan nodded, his face settling into a space somewhere between laughter and sadness. “I sure can. But no more. Never again, ‘cause I’m going straight from here on out, baby.”
“Yeah, right,” Al snorted. “Once a dick smoker, always a dick smoker.” Toan and Tracey stared at him with amazement. “What?”
“Where are you coming up with these, Al?” Tracey asked, clearly impressed.
Al shrugged. “I read.”
They laughed, and as he checked his watch, Toan motioned for Pat. “One more quick round and then to the next set.”
Al dissented, slid his empty bottle across the bar. “I’m done. I’ll go find Ace.”
As Al headed out the back and the drinks arrived, Tracey turned and took on a somber note. “You okay with this?”
“What? Michael? Sure. It’s been months. I’m over it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t go there.”
“You know what your problem is, Rich?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”
“Damn right I am.” She put her hand on Toan’s knee. “You got the fable goin’ on in your head. Prince Charming-type shit. So instead of shopping, you let them pick you. Then you get all starry-eyed thinking, ‘Maybe this is the one.’ And the minute they say anything Disney-esque, you get sucked in, pardon the expression, only to get stuck with the tab, takin’ care of their neuroses.”
“How many gimlets have you had? ‘Cause that made no sense whatsoever,” Toan said, deflecting the truth.
“You know I’m right.”
“Trace, you know me. I don’t make the first move.”
“First? You don’t make any move, sweetie. Why is that?”
He shifted, wishing he hadn’t finished his shot. “You’re gonna tell me it’s fear of rejection, aren’t you?”
“Pfft. If anybody can handle rejection, it’s you.”
“Nice.”
“My point is, if you just wait for the fish to come to you, all ya get is the weak and the stupid. Look around here.” Her arm cut a tipsy swath across the room. “There are plenty of guys here. I bet half would kill to be with you. Ya got your choice. Cast your line, baby.”
Toan laughed and Tracey looked puzzled. “You really are a lesbian.” He got up and headed for the stage. “Next you’ll start using football analogies.”
Al and Ace were the least tanked of the quartet and managed to pick up the slack when Tracey missed a beat or Toan skipped a chord in the last set of the night. Still, they were on, and the set rocked with mostly original pieces and a few standards. Toan felt like ending with a different song, and instructed the band to go into “Best of Both Worlds.” By the time they launched into it, much of the alcohol in his system had been sweated away, and the lyrics took on a whole new meaning as he scanned the crowd and thought about Tracey’s counsel.
Why didn’t he choose? Was he afraid? There had to be fear behind it, but of what? Tracey was right, he’d been hurt enough not to really be phased by much. As he met eyes with a blond gym rat sitting at the end of the bar, a shy smile passed between them, and Toan quickly looked away. What if he’s not interested? What if I’m misinterpreting? I don’t wanna force myself on him if he’s not interested. He started scanning other faces, the painfully pretty and the stunningly average, in the huge crowd. Surely, there was someone out there he’d like to know, someone he could choose.
When the set ended, the other band members retired to the bar to increase their respective blood alcohol contents. Toan lingered behind. He’d made a choice and screwed up the courage.
He was a good-looking man about Toan’s height but bulkier, and his name was Peter. He seemed truly stunned that Toan had descended from the stage only to come up to him. Their conversation was light-hearted, Peter stumbling over words either from drunkenness or nervousness, Toan wasn’t sure which. He was an accountant, thirty-two. He had a charming smile and an upbeat personality, and they chatted in a corner until the band called Toan over.
“I’ll be back.” Toan excused himself, but Peter grabbed his arm before he could get away.
“Uhm, I live about ten minutes away. Would you maybe want to go by my place later?”
“Yeah,” Toan said, not exactly sure why he’d agreed.
The rest of the group sat with a man who looked more middle-aged than he probably was, a fact not helped by his outdated clothing. He wore a powder blue shirt and a knit flat-bottom tie born in the eighties. His hair was pulled tight, wrangled into a ponytail in the back, which only to accentuated how far his hairline had receded. He seemed a contender for least likely to come to Incense and definitely not someone his band mates would want to hang out with.
“Richard,” Tracey called, welcoming Toan into the klatch. “This is Davis Trendle.” Toan shook the man’s extended hand and then surreptitiously wiped the transferred sweat on his own pants. “Davis books for the Viper Room.”
“Really?” He nodded, playing it cool.
“Yeah,” said Davis. “You guys rock.”
“Thanks.” Toan sat and gestured to Pat for a shot.
“So, sport, how’d you come to our little corner of the world?” Ace’s inebriated eyes seemed to lag behind as he indicated the club with a turn of his head.
“Word gets around. You guys have a little bit of a following. Wouldn’t be a good booker if I didn’t pay attention. That and I’m in the market for a house and my real estate agent keeps playing the same CD over and over when we go for viewings. I asked him who it was. He told me.”
Michael is drowning his sorrows in the band’s music. A little smile crossed Toan’s lips. He’d figured Michael hadn’t even listened to the demo disc they’d put together.
“So, are you interested?” Tracey asked as if the question meant nothing.
“I think so, but I have a question.” Davis paused long enough to take a sip of his drink. “Can we cut the gay shit?”
“No,” Al unexpectedly jumped in. “That’s part of who we are. What makes us different.”
“‘Cause we play to a mostly straight, heavy-duty crowd,” Davis offered.
Before anyone could answer, Al piped in again with defiance. “No. Ya like our music or ya don’t. Easy.”
“I do like your music. You have some great original shit and you put a great spin on shit people love. But we’d have to at least tone it down. You know. Keep the pronouns gender appropriate–the way they were written. Girl sings about boy. Boy about girl. Do you think we can at least try and tone it down?”
“I think we can discuss it,” Toan said, trying not to cut off the great big balls Al had developed. “When are we thinking?”
“I’m always four months ahead. But I’d need to see a six-song playlist in the next three weeks. I’ll want input on it, so a disc of everything you got will help.” He produced a card, handed it over to Toan. “I think this can be good for all of us, as long as negotiations over gaiety don’t drag on and on.” He winked—a secret handshake, or so he thought.
The band decided to celebrate at Ace’s, but Toan excused himself, making damn sure Tracey saw him leave with his choice. He wasn’t sure if he had simply sobered up or if Peter had gotten drunker, but getting back to the guy’s apartment proved to be an exercise in puppetry on Toan’s part.
They’d barely made it through the door when Peter’s hands started roaming, pulling Toan’s I’ve Got Something to Say T-shirt off and tossing it across the room. When Toan tried to slow him down, Peter started struggling with his own clothes, stumbling onto the couch as sneakers went flying and jeans came down and erections went up. He had a perfect body, the shoulders broad, narrowing into a tempting V at the waist, and Toan couldn’t help draw closer, running his hands over a strong chest. Was it so bad if both of them got something they wanted out of the evening?
Peter kissed like a Hoover. He was one of those guys who not only wanted to play with your tongue, but needed to suck it out of your mouth and swallow it whole. The attention made Toan’s heart race, and he enjoyed the contact: the warmth of their bare chests as they pressed together, the rubbing of their dicks. But when they broke from a kiss and Toan stared down into bloodshot eyes, he realized part of Peter wasn’t in there. Part of him was pickled away, inebriated by alcohol or by the fantasy of groupie-rockstar sex. He wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning.
“Slow down, Peter,” Toan whispered.
“Don’ wanna,” Peter slurred, pressing his mouth back on top of Toan’s, an act of resuscitation rather than romance. His hands roamed over Toan’s ass, fingers making their way down. Toan kept swatting the hand away, but Peter never relented.
“I don’t get fucked,” Toan said as gently as he could.
“Wha?”
“I fuck, I don’t get fucked.”
Peter half giggled, half whined, “Oh man, oh man. Why are you doing this to me?”
“Doing what to you?”
“You know...you know...whatchur doin’ to me.”
Despite his excitement, Toan pulled away, let his hands rest on Peter’s chest as he looked down into crossed eyes. “I gotta go.”
“No, no, no...” Peter slobbered as he brought his tongue to Toan’s nipple. A jolt fired through Toan’s body, and thoughts of leaving, about doing the right thing, practically vanished from his mind. “Fuck me, then.” Peter turned over and presented his ass.
Toan wondered if he had a condom and then shook his head in disbelief that he was even considering such a thing. The guy was wasted, or worse, tweaking. “Peter.” Toan turned him over, “You’re not gonna remember any of this in the morning. You’re fried.”
The laughter erupted again and then dramatically cut off as Peter stared up, a scowl on his lips. “You really are a dumb bitch, aren’t you?”
Toan’s mouth gaped and an involuntary laugh escaped. “Uh, yeah. I guess I am.” He got up, leaving Peter writhing on the couch, and rescued his clothes from the floor. He stayed long enough to put them on and as he closed and locked the door behind him, he thought, I have to tell Tracey just how well this choosing thing works.
© 2009 Paul G. Bens, Jr.
Purchase your copy of Kelland by Paul G. Bens, Jr.
Originally from Northern Kentucky, Paul G. Bens, Jr., has spent the majority of his adult life in the entertainment industry working in casting on such diverse projects as Night Court, Ned & Stacey, Malcolm & Eddie, Likely Suspects, and Murder in Small Town X. Outside of casting, Bens has been many things: a film producer, a file clerk, an altar boy, a bartender, a boy scout and, for a second-and-a-half, an actor. As an author, Bens' short fiction has appeared in Cemetery Dance, The Egg Box, Outsider Ink, Scared Naked, HeavyGlow, Bleeding Quill, Twisted Tongue, Velvet Mafia: Dangerous Queer Fiction, Chick Flicks, and Dark Discoveries (forthcoming). Currently, Bens works in the legal department of a historic Hollywood film studio. Kelland is his first novel.
