Frisk: A Novel (Cooper, Dennis) (9 page)

"I'm making a decision," Gary whispered.

"Can I help?"

"Not really." Gary backed into a shadow. "It's like this," he continued quietly. "I always fantasize murdering people I play with, but something usually stops me. I think it's beauty. But whatever it is, it's not there with you. I really want to kill you. It doesn't seem romantic at all. It feels like the practical thing to do."

"That's interesting," Joe said. "But what exactly are you saying?" It was impossible to tell from the actor's expression.

"What ... I ... just ... said." The phrase left Gary's mouth at a trudge, like it was physically deformed or weighed some incredible amount.

"Well, um, you shouldn't do it, because I don't want you to, and I'm half of this." Joe tried to gesture emphatically.

"If I don't do it," Gary said, "that'll be why. But it's the only reason, which is strange, because there should be others, right?" He crouched down, rummaging through the articles on the floor. Clink, bang, tinkle .. .

"But you're not going to do it. That's what I need to hear you say.". . . Clunk, clang, ding, thump. Gary held up a knife, smiled. "Answer me, Gary," Joe said, almost yelling.

Gary strolled toward Joe, still smiling, knife shaking wildly in one hand, cock scrunched up in the other. "I really think I'm going to kill you," he said hoarsely. "I can't fucking believe it."

The knife stopped just short of Joe's right nipple. Joe gazed at the nipple. Then he gazed at the point of the knife. He raised his eyes to Gary's tight little smile. He lowered his eyes to the smudge of pre-come on the head of his own cock. When he shut his eyes a second later, the four things-pink nipple, knife point, crinkly smile, white smudge-were superimposed against the reddish darkness of his lids. It looked like a flower. "God, Gary, you know what?" he said. "I-"

Stab.

SPACED

1987-1989

Pierre sits on the edge of the bed, gently kicking a wet towel. It's on the rug where he dropped it. First it looks like a twist of whipped cream. Another kick, it's discarded gift wrapping. Kick, a scroll. I'm perched to his right, elbows balanced on my knees, chin in the heels of my palms, staring down at the scroll or whatever. "Thinking?" Pierre whispers, kicks.

"It's complicated," I say, turning to see him. My eyes zigzag down his chest, stomach, crotch like they're watching a tiny or distant rock climber. "If you mean me," Pierre sighs, "I'm easy. If you mean you, well, what can I do to help?" My eyes have drifted back to the towel, which glows in them. "Usually the problem's simple," he continues. "I'm not what you expected, or maybe you're nervous or shy ..

"No." I shake my head. "You're exquisite. I mean, there's this mental transition you have to make-and I'm not saying you specifically, I mean the collective `you' or whatever when you've experienced someone as an image and suddenly he's sitting here talking to you. You have to reevaluate him, but I've done that. And you're great."

"Mm," Pierre says, glances at his watch, which is all he's wearing apart from a thin, gold bracelet. "But, uh, fourteen minutes are already up." I nod vaguely. "It's not always the case," I add. "Certain people don't translate. Like that pretty brunet in that porn video, Pleasure Mountain? Scotty was so `me.' Ever see it? But when I actually bought him, well ... maybe he'd just gotten older but. . .

Pierre lies back on the bed, entwines his fingers, cradles his head with them. "Mm-hm." I turn sideways, stare into his crotch. "Like, kids want to befriend their favorite cartoon characters. I did. Well, my dad took me to Disneyland so I could meet them. He aimed me at these huge walking toys and, well, I tried but ... they couldn't even alter their facial expressions.

"That Scotty was similar. I mean, he looked vaguely like the star of the video I'd loved, but there was something wrong in his-" Pierre feels a grin sneaking up. "Weird," he says. "Anyway, why don't you suck my cock." He hates spouting cliches like that. Still he checks my expression to see if it's worked. I'm shaking my head. "Or lick my ass," he adds. "Fuck me with a condom, uh..."

"Your skin, you mean," I mumble. Pierre raises his head. "What?" I reach down, pinch an inch of his thigh, jiggle it like a faulty house key. "Skin," I repeat. "I get to use your skin, and the little areas of your skeleton I can feel underneath, and whatever I manage to squeeze or suck out." Pierre feels confused, which must look ultra-unappealing. So he relaxes his face.

Then he props himself up on his elbows. "Yeah, uh, okay." "Well. . . " I lean down, sniff his crotch. "That's information. Crotches smell pretty identical from guy to guy, if they're clean." I sniff again. "But because you're a beauty, the smell's more profound. Still, what does it tell me that a hundred other men haven't already learned. No, the profound stuff's in here." I poke his stomach.

Pierre's face gets confused again. Shit. "Go on." He hopes I'm too spaced out to care. "Well, if I think you're one of the most extraordinary boys I've ever seen, and I do, then logging your tastes, smells, sounds, textures isn't enough somehow, for me at least. I want to know everything about you. But to really do that, I'd have to kill you, as bizarre as that sounds."

"Maybe." Pierre squints at me. I look calm, but if the slightest insanity distorts my face, voice, he's ready to leap for his clothes. "So that's what I'd do, if I was courageous-kill you. I'll dream I'm killing you while I go over your body. I'll seem like your usual sex fiend, but I'll actually be far away in a place where your life's meaningless and your body's carved open."

Jesus, Pierre thinks. "You know," he says, "I do this a lot, fuck for money. I just came from another guy, in fact. But it's true that the way men deal with me is like I'm a kind of costume that someone else, someone they've known or made up, is wearing. The way they look in my eyes and the way they look at my skin is completely different. Is that what you mean?"

I'm looking intently at his cock, which I've stretched very taut. It looks like a fat, misshapen rubber band. "No." I let it go. It lands, wobbling, on his thigh. "Really, you should just know that you fascinate me so much that in a perfect world I'd kill you to understand the appeal. If there's any way you can take that as a supreme compliment, do."

"I'll try." Pierre glances at his watch. "So, are you planning to pay for a second hour?" he asks. "Because otherwise ..." I nod, my hand swimming around on his sandy-colored stomach, in the cove between his hipbones and ribs. "For now just lie quietly," I whisper. "Get stoned if you want." "I don't do drugs," Pierre says, reaching for a pillow. "I need to keep an eye on stuff."

For the next forty, forty-five minutes, Pierre receives the ultimate, detailed massage. That's how it feels. Still, so little of me actually skims him and what does touch down is so wet or pointy, or moves so continuously, that he has to raise his chin five, six times and reorient himself in the hotel. I'm always right there inching gradually up his body, hunched down like I'm licking a very large envelope.

From the thighs down, Pierre's dry if kind of grungy. From crotch to neck, which I'm currently studying, he's varying degrees of soaked, tingling. He's relaxed enough generally to mumble some pointers-what feels good, what's boringsome of which I acknowledge with grunts, snorts, moans. Now I'm licking his left ear. "So what are you thinking?" he asks.

My tongue leaves his ear for a second. "Lots." It relands with a squish. A few minutes later I start breathing normally, lean back. Pierre figures I'm bored, rolls over onto his side. "Phew, I-" "Wait," I say. "I'm almost finished. Uh, could you spit in my mouth?" I cringe hopefully. "Or we could kiss," I add. Pierre stiffens. "I don't kiss." "Fine." "I just can't." "No problem." "My boyfriend..."

I lie back, fix my eyes on the ceiling. "Line up your mouth with mine. Then I'll do this." I open my mouth very wide, as though I'm screaming. I shut it. "You cough up as much as you can. Okay?" Pierre poises over me, aims. I really do look like I'm screaming. Whereas his face feels so slack he probably looks retarded. As if I'd notice. Besides my open mouth smells so ... He sniffs.

He lowers his nose, inhales a bit more of my breath. "That's really weird," he mutters. I close my mouth. "What?" He looks in my eyes, which are tense, pissed, alert, something. He doesn't care what I'm feeling one way or another. Au con- traire. "That I can smell my body in your mouth. I mean, it's happened before with guys, sure, but I've never paid much attention."

I squint. "Really?" "Yeah. Look, reopen your mouth." I do. Pierre bends, sniffs. "I definitely smell sweat, B.O., whatever." Sniff. "My ass. And there's something else too, but it's vague." He peeks at me, snickers. "This is fun. Weird, but fun. Okay, get ready." He starts coughing and snorting up stuff from the darker recesses of his throat and nose.

He emits grayish goo in a long, unbroken, lumpy thread. Then he wipes his lips. I swallow noisily. "Thanks. The only other thing is"-I prop myself up on my elbow- "when I was fingering your ass, I felt some shit. So could you use the toilet and not flush it? And piss into one of those glasses?" Pierre has to bunch up his lips to keep from laughing.

"I'm not being abject," I say. "It's not, `Ooh, shit, piss, how wicked,' or anything. It's, like I said, information." Pierre nods. "Then what are you going to do with it?" he asks. "I don't mean with my shit, I mean with the information." My face scrunches up. "Uh, create a mental world ... uh, wait. Or a situation where I could kill you and understand ... Shit, I sound ridiculous."

Pierre shrugs. "Well, you do and you don't." My eyes fix on the sheet that separates me from him. They startle or widen, like they're seeing something miraculous. "It's really hard to articulate this," I say. "I didn't used to try, because it was a mindless urge. But ever since I started to analyze it, it's gotten so complex and clouded with daydreams, theories ...

"Like those fringe cults who believe UFOs founded the earth? Obviously there could be zillions of species out there in the universe. I'm sure UFO cultists used to be curious, period, like anyone else, but now they've thought ... too hard? Their thoughts are over-elaborate and impractical. They can't think, well, three-dimensionally. Maybe I'm like them in a certain way, but I'm much more pragmatic.

"I mean, I know there's no God. People are only their bodies, and sex is the ultimate intimacy, etc., but it's not enough. Like you. I find what I know about you amazing, so amazing I can't get beyond my awe. So part of me wants to dismantle that awe or whatever, and see how you work. But I know that's selfish. Your life's as important as anyone's, including mine ... so, I'm stuck.

"Maybe ... if I hadn't seen this ... snuff. Photographs. Back when I was a kid. I thought the boy in them was actually dead for years, and by the time I found out they were posed photographs, it was too late. I already wanted to live in a world where some boy I didn't personally know could be killed and his corpse made available to the public, or to me anyway. I felt so ... enlightened?

"Or maybe it wasn't feeling at all, but shock or numbness or ... I don't know. I think of it as religious. Like insane people say they've seen God. I saw God in those pictures, and when I imagine dissecting you, say, I begin to feel that way again. It's physical, mental, emotional. But I'm sure this sounds psychotic and ... oh, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Pierre shrugs. "It's sort of sad," he says. I take a breath, let it out. "Probably." He eases off the bed, spends a half minute stretching, fingers to toes, swiveling side to side. "It was kind of pointless to explain myself," I announce, smiling badly. "Still, better you than my journal, I guess. And you really are beautiful, but I've said that a hundred times." Pierre shrugs. "Thanks."

He pulls the bathroom door shut, feeling stiff and hard to operate. He hadn't noticed how stiff until now. Plus, he looks pinker, shinier than usual. "And sticky." He walks to the toilet, arms straight out like Frankenstein. Then he unwraps a glass, fills it with piss, which is orangy from all the vitamin B's he gulps. Then he squirts the extra piss into the sink, turns on cold.

He sits on the toilet, pushes a turd out, stands, yanks a handful of TP and wipes himself. The turd floats in the blue water, reeking. Pierre tries to inhabit the thoughts of someone who'd think shit is a message from someone who laid it, but he's too fucking normal and too deeply into hustler-robot mode. He wonders if I want the TP kept separate, then thinks, Who cares, drops it into the bowl.

Pierre wakes up for good. As he's lying there yawning, he vaguely remembers a couple of false starts inspired by a ringing phone. He looks to his left. It's eleven. Next thing, he's stumbling down the hall toward his phone machine. "Wait. Coffee," he whispers in a shredded voice, veering into the kitchen. He does what he has to, then plays back the messages, sips.

Beep. "It's Paul at Man Age. Appointment, twelve-thirty P.M., hour, Gramercy Park Hotel, room three-forty-four, name Terrence. Later." Beep. "Paul again. Appointment, two P.M., Washington Annex Hotel, room six-twenty, a play-itby-ear, name Dennis, I think the same Dennis from last night. Check with us mid-afternoon. You're a popular dude. Later." Beep. "P., it's Marv, you there? ... No? ... Call me at work. Love ya."

On his way to the shower Pierre makes a stop at the stereo, plays side one of Here Comes the Warm jets, an old Eno album. It's still on his turntable. It has this cool, deconstructive, self-conscious pop sound typical of the '70s Art Rock Pierre loves. He doesn't know why it's fantastic exactly. If he were articulate, and not just nosy, he'd write an essay about it.

Instead he stomps around in the shower yelling the twisted lyrics. " `By this time/I'd got to looking for a kind of/substitute ...' " It's weird to get lost in something so calculatedly chaotic. It's retro, pre-punk, bourgeois, meaningless, etc. " `... I can't tell you quite how/except that it rhymes with/dissolute.' " Pierre covers his ears, beams, snorts wildly.

Tying his sneakers, he flips the scuffed-up LP, plays his two favorite songs on the second side, which happen to sit third and fourth, and are aurally welded together by some distorted synthesizer-esque percussion, maybe ten, fifteen seconds in length. Pierre flops back in his chair, soaks the interlude up. It screeches, whines, bleeps like an orgasming robot.