I Loved You More (18 page)

“But that's not the real reason you go there.” Hank says, “I like why you go there and I'd like to go with you.”

“Why do I go there?” I say.

“You're curious about human nature, especially men,” Hank says. “When you go to the Spike, it's like getting in a satellite to orbit Pluto.”

“I'd like to see Pluto too,” Hank says. “And I'd be in good hands because I trust you.”

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS, THAT
night before Hank comes over, I feel I'm some kind of lascivious despot corrupting an innocent child. Hank Christian, an innocent child. Fuck, we're all so homophobic.

When I open my apartment door, I can't believe my eyes. Hank's dressed in clean jeans, a black belt, white tennis shoes, and a button-down, long-sleeved blue Oxford shirt tucked in his pants. A shiny green winter parka. His hair washed and shiny. Standing there in the hallway of my building, he looks like he was going out on a date. A heterosexual date.

“What?” Hank says.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Don't I look enough like a gay?” Hank says.

“Come in and sit down,” I say. “I'll get us a beer.”

Hank unzips his parka, lifts his right arm up, smells his pit. Then his left arm.

“See! No pits. And it's hot in the subway,” Hank says. “Mennen Stick. Always works good.”

I step back, let Hank walk in, then close and lock the door. That place right there, one of the only two places in the apartment big enough for two to stand, for a moment we stand. Mint breath. Mennen stick. A quick touch of hands. Not the way guys usually touch, but this is Hank. His eyes, always takes me a while to look right into Hank's eyes.

That night, after my deep breath, when I look, Hank is scrubbed and shiny as a new silver dollar. Light coming out of him as if light was what he's made of.

I've cleared away the papers on my writing desk, pulled up my other chair, so we can sit. Hank takes off his shiny green winter parka. I get us two Buds out of the fridge, find the opener in the drawer, sit down next to Hank.

“You don't go to Pluto looking like Jupiter,” I say.

Hank laughs up his chest, takes the beer.

“I ain't got no leather hats and chaps and shit,” Hank says.
“Only got four shirts and two pair of Levi's, and I'm wearing one of each.”

Maybe I'm jealous of all that light is why I feel I need to cover it up.

“You don't understand,” I say.

“You want to
be
the drama,” I say, “or
watch
the drama?”

“Gruney,” Hank says, “for Christ's sake, I'm in
jeans and a blue shirt
.”

“You want to disappear, right?” I say. “Well, believe me, right now you look like.”

“A straight guy,” Hank says.

“Yeah,” I say. “So let me give you some homosexual leather bar fashion tips.”

“But the way you've talked about it,” Hank says, “these guys don't care about fashion.”

“I'm just saying there's a uniform,” I say, “with not a lot of variables.”

“Plus,” I say, “you're beautiful.”

“Come on, Gruney,” Hank says.

“And we need to put a lid on it,” I say, “Believe me, you walking into the Spike looking like a beautiful straight guy, every man in there is going to want a piece of you.”

AT THE BACK
end of my apartment, really only two steps from my writing desk, under my loft bed, just at the door to my bathroom, I have a little space only I ever go into. The only other place in my apartment where two can stand, but nobody ever makes it that far. On the wall by the bathroom door is a full length mirror, to the left there a bookcase and my stereo. On the other side, under the steps up to the loft bed, my closet and my chest of drawers. A space shaped like a horseshoe just long enough to lie down in, wide enough to turn around. How many nights I've danced in front of that mirror, the fluorescent light from the bathroom slanting down in, to Luther Vandross, Teddy Pendergrass, Barry White, Randy Crawford, The Reverend Al Green.

That night that Hank steps into my place where only I ever go, when he stands in front of the mirror, what I've planned on doing is getting Hank out of that blue ironed Oxford shirt and into something less frat boy, more street.

But when Hank walks into that private space of mine, there's something in my chest like I can't breathe. Propinquity. Hank's just right there and he's taking off his blue shirt and it's for sure I'm going to fall over. I take his blue shirt and hang it up on a hanger. Then it's his sparkling white T-shirt you can see his nipples through that's got to come off. So the T-shirt comes off. And there I am standing in the tiny space holding onto Hank's white T-shirt that smells like Mennen stick and Hank's subway ride down from the Upper West Side. In order to get to my chest of drawers I got to move and there's no way I can move and not touch Hank's naked arm, or his naked back, or his naked chest, or all of the above. So I do what I always do when I don't know what to do. Drop what I'm doing and grab whatever is nearest. Hank's white T-shirt is on the floor and what I have in my hands is a Marvin Gaye album and I put it on the turntable. By then I've maybe touched Hank's naked chest and back a hundred times. I stand there trying to find breath, watching the turntable arm lift up, watching the turntable arm move over onto the record, watching the turntable arm hit the record. That crackle.

That quick, it's magic the way things happened with Hank. “Got to Give It Up” starts playing. I'm rummaging through my chest of drawers looking for God knows what. “Got to Give It Up” is the best dance song ever. Sure enough, Hank starts dancing with himself in the mirror. The same way I dance when I am alone. In that same spot.

“So how'm I supposed to look?” Hank says.

Hank looks exactly the way he's supposed to look and that's the problem.

“Incognito,” I say.

“Latinate!” Hank says.

Hank goes to the fridge and gets more beers. He wants to
hear “Got to Give It Up” again. So I pick up the turntable arm – that loud record crush through the speakers – set the turntable arm back down, and it's “Got to Give It Up” again. Hank hands me a beer, we touch glasses, do a toast, and before we know it, we're fully involved. Hank and I are dancing and carrying on and shit,
Vogue
-posing in the mirror way before Madonna knew about it. Things go from bad to worse and instead of going to my extra-large dark T-shirt drawer, I go to my disco trunk. In no time at all Hank and I are deep into disco drag. I forget all about dressing down and we're dressing up. In that tiny space,
No more standing outside the wall / I done got myself together, baby, and I'm having a ball
. Trying on outfits for the leather bar the way two high school girls try on dresses for the prom. Really, I wonder if I've ever laughed so hard.

At one point, Hank is wearing the black platform shoes with green glitter on them I wore at Ursula Crohn's, a pair of white silk boxer shorts with an embroidered snake coming out the fly, a black fishnet wifebeater, and a blue sequined skullcap.

Me, I'm in a black leotard, a leopardskin T-shirt, and a bowler hat.

Showing up like that at the Spike. Shit. We'd never get past the bouncer.

WHEN HANK AND
I finally get out of the apartment it's past midnight. Hank's wearing two or three old T-shirts of mine, black and extra-large that hang down over his ass. Big sleeves that go down past his elbows. A pair of my work boots – a size too big, and my old green expandable baseball cap that comes down to Hanks' eyes and covers up his shiny black curls. An old thermal sweatshirt with a hood.

I wear the same thing, only different.

There we are, Hank and me, covered up, dressed down, anonymous males, going to the place that is the extreme of male, a homosexual leather bar, the Spike, and the around around
macho pose the top the bottom do-si-do big hard cock staredown sex dance of the underworld. What life is like on Pluto.

THERE'S A WAY
you can be high. Back in those days it was two shots of tequila, a hit of San Simeon, and beers to nurse ‘til you drop. At the Spike that night I'm high that way. Hank isn't far behind. Our backs lean against the bar, Hank's elbow against my elbow, our ballcaps pulled down. Hank and I are sipping Buds, Hank and I are watching. Behind us, the bar back with its bottles, glowing green, glowing blue, clear, amber, glowing Wild Turkey dark brown. From underneath the bar, Judy lights from down low so the bartenders can see. Hank and I, our backs are to the bar. In front of us, three men deep. Beyond, the bar is dark. Smoky dark. A foggy night, an ocean of men, dark waves. They have a sound, the waves, here and there bursts of pirate laughter, then no laughter. And underneath, always underneath, the deep voices of men, their low sex chant, the sound just before the hurricane hits. Disco music so loud Hank and I can't talk. We try at first but we have to yell.

“Chthonian!” I yell.

Hank cups his ear. “What?” he yells.

“Chthonic!” I yell again.

“What?”

“Latinate!” I yell.

“Sounds Greek to me!” Hank yells.

Hank, the way laughter moves up through him. The men standing around us at the bar all turn, inspect our intrusion, lots of attitude. So we quit laughing, quit talking, just lean against the bar. Every now and then we smile, but mostly we're overwhelmed, just taking in the whole huge Pluto Greek chthonic thing.

Hank's clearly out of his element, but as far as I can tell, he's doing fine. Looks like every other guy there, except for those who want to stand out. We've both taken off our thermal hoodies and tied them around our waists. There's a Bud in his fist, his ballcap is pulled down, he has that fuck-you, tough guy face.

Looks like a real regular. Plus, his arm is against mine, and if anything goes wrong, I'll know right off.

An hour goes by, maybe two, more beers, more smoke, more men crowd in. When Hank and I first got to our spot at the bar, besides Hank's elbow, my body could stand free without touching another body. I could see the bouncer at the door. There's too much smoke to see much now. On the other side of Hank, there's an especially tall guy facing the bar, but other than him, all I can see is Hank and the men in front of me. Beyond them, not three deep but five, the foggy night, Pluto, the swell of ocean, dark waves, the sound of the waves. Disco beat, you can feel it in the floorboards through your shoes, in your elbows from the bar. At times, when the men recognize a song, “We Are Family,” “Love Is In The Air,” “Bad Girls” – ten years we've been listening to these same fucking songs – the pirates whoop, they holler, shake their asses. Sometimes my feet can leave the floor.

Two more guys squeeze in, order beers, then stay. They're wearing only chaps, their bare asses hanging out. The one guy in front of Hank, his ass is smooth and hairless. The guy in front of me, a trail of dark brown hair up and out his ass crack. Only inches away. Hank raises an eyebrow, puckers his lips, points with his lips down at their asses, gives them a thumbs up. My buddy Hank.

The circling crowd is a long slow snake eating its tail. As the night goes on, the bar is jammed. Bodies press right up against us. The heat of bodies. No room to move. Those bare asses right there. Propinquity. You'd think I'd be freaked out, but that night with Hank, because I'm worried about
Hank
freaking out, I realize something. Why I go there. Drunk enough, high enough, I am jostled, pushed, poked, and shoved. Just a normal guy. Another guy in the crowd. There's no way I can't be touched.

Hank is keeping his hands high, but so far I get no sign from him he wants to go. Then there's an elbow poking me in the side. It takes me a while to realize it's Hank's. He's got something to say. The way we do it, the way we find to talk, Hank starts it off.

He turns his ballcap backwards, dives his head down, puts his lips right up to my ear. He enunciates every syllable and keeps it short. Disco Speak.

“So how do you get a cock up your ass?”

Surprise. Surprised because the way Hank is looking at me he really wants to know. But it's a question I can't answer in Disco Speak. So I turn my ballcap around, dive my head down, put my lips at Hank's ear, say the next best thing.

“Carefully,” I say. “Or not.”

Hank's not satisfied. His head dives down, moves in to my neck, puts his lips in close.

“Seriously.”

Disco Speak in the middle of chaos. I turn to the bar, try to get a bartender to look at me. I have to wave my arms and yell. The place is so loud I can't hear that I'm yelling. Really I don't need another beer. But I need the time. Something to do while I decide how to answer Hank. What words to use. Just when is ass-fucking too much information. Plus I've never talked about getting fucked. To anyone. When shame is that close to you, when it's a part of you like breathing, you don't even know it's shame.

The three bartenders are pouring beer, popping bottle caps, pouring shots. They are gladiators in their bright arena, the crowd yelling for blood. On the mirror above the bar:
no sissy drinks – Coke, Sprite, tonic, club soda mixes only
.