Quicksand Pt. 04

But Evan savored his time alone with Jonathon. More and more frequently, Jonathon asked Evan to "pretty himself" and the wardrobe of lingerie expanded. Corsets. Fishnets. Crotchless body stockings. Evan gleefully complied. Jonathon was always gentle and, when their amours became raucous, it was in a mutual carnal frenzy.

Then one day as he prettied himself, Evan heard Jonathon conversing with someone. When he emerged from the bedroom, there was an older man on the couch with Jonathon waiting.

"Now, I'm not going to pretend I had never had a threesome before," Evan confessed. "Every gay man has. But it was always consensual, naughty fun. This was different. This was some old lecher leering at me like livestock."

Evan gathered himself before continuing. When he resumed, his tone betrayed how deeply angered he was with himself. "I should have walked out right then and there. Just got dressed and left. But I didn't. I went along. And the old fuck couldn't even stay hard enough to do anything but paw at me and call me 'his lovely' while Jonathon had his way with me. Gruffly, brutishly. I felt ashamed."

Evan sat on the couch across from my desk with Lucy in his lap and stared at the window gleaming with sunshine. I sat mute and incapable of breaching the silence. Thankfully, there was no clock ticking. Neither of us needed a measure of the sadness that stretched for soundless minutes.

"The next morning," Evan finally continued, "I left for class as if nothing strange had happened and went about my life as a student. I remember I had a drawing workshop after lunch. It was a sunny winter day, perfect for sketching barren trees against a backdrop of brownstones, or frozen fountains, so we went to Washington Square. I wound up sketching a homeless guy stretched out on the snow beneath a tree, maybe dead, maybe still breathing. I didn't care. I remember that I captured something in that drawing. A despair. My instructor said it was the best work I'd done. Go figure."

Evan looked to me hoping for a Yoda moment. I shrugged pathetically as I realized how sterile my wisdom was.

"Somehow, Jonathon and I got back in a groove. Not that we ever spoke of what happened. That would have been too rational, too healthy. We simply persisted and things were forgotten. Probably a month later I was waiting in his apartment for him to get home. There was an outfit lying out on his bed, but I wasn't in the mood to get pretty for him. He came in late and drunk with two of his friends. He was angry that I wasn't gussied up for him. It was obvious what was on his mind. This time I wasn't having it. We argued in front of his friends. I accused him of pimping me out. He slapped me. I broke something, I don't remember what, and stormed out.

"Two days later, my student group met him at a gallery for a scheduled field trip. Everyone could feel the tension. When the class was over, Jonathon pulled me aside and told me I had humiliated him in front of his friends and that I was to gather my things from his apartment. It was not discreet, the way he berated me, and a classmate overheard the whole exchange. She told the others.

"I was bereft, but I kept my shit together as best I could. I couldn't believe that love was so fragile, that it could be shredded so wantonly. I had been stupid enough to think that Jonathon actually loved me at all.

"Regardless, my broken heart wasn't punishment enough. The story spread and I could hear people whispering wherever I went. I had convinced myself there was sophistication in having an affair with a professor. But the other students just thought it was pathetic. They saw me as a tool. No one tried to mask their judgment. My roommate just sneered and said I told you so. I was a slut, a pariah. I might as well have worn a scarlet letter CD."

"CD?" I asked, befuddled.

"Cum dumpster. The others were thinking that." Evan heaved a lamenting wheeze. "I saw it constantly in their stares.

"It culminated with one of my professors advising me to file a formal complaint. Jonathon had done this before, she said. I was just one in a long line and until one of us actually complained to the Administration it would happen again and again."

"And you did, right?" My question had an accusatory ring.

Evan answered with an impenetrable silence and looked back to the window. When he spoke again it was in shame. "Can you imagine what a naive little fuck I was? I didn't have a clue that I was just one in a series of pretty boys. I mean, shouldn't his trove of lingerie been a dead giveaway? It was probably the only reason he was a lecturer at all. Easy pickings. How could I have been such a dumb fuck?

"It was all more than I could bear. I didn't finish the semester. I left without so much as a goodbye and fled home in disgrace. My parents had no idea what had transpired. They only knew that I had failed. Again. Just as they expected."

Absent-mindedly, he stroked Lucy's sleek, black fur. She uttered her appreciation in guttural murmurings that rocked the lengthening stillness. Finally, Evan mused, "Have you ever seen that old classic film On the Waterfront?"

It took me a second to place it. "The one with Marlon Brando in it? Yeah. sure. Back in college."

Evan set Lucy aside on the cushion as he rose. "Brando played this washed-up boxer and at one point he says ..." his voice took on the squeaky rasp characteristic of Brando and his pursed, upturned fingers pleaded with the air. "...I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am." He dropped the impersonation and, in a disconsolate funk, walked from the room.

_________

Evan's lasagna was indeed savory, but I could still feel its heft the next morning as I pounded out miles on the treadmill. I missed running the cart paths that meandered through the golf course. I missed sucking dewy, fresh air deep into my lungs. I needed my old ways yet reminded myself how much better I had it than my cloistered friend.

A shoulder and back workout, then three rounds of sparring with the heavy bag, and I was ready to hit the locker room shower. I had two client meetings scheduled that morning, so I donned a suit and surreptitiously strapped on my concealed Glock. When I got to the office building, my head was on a swivel as I made my way through the parking lot, ever vigilant for a psycho behind every bush.

It was early afternoon when I finally made it home. As I entered my condo from the garage, the sound of strange breathing sifted through the still air. I turned the corner and discovered Evan doing yoga on the living room floor in a tank top and lavender tights. His laptop played a video beside him as he listened through earbuds, oblivious to the world. On his hands and one knee, he extended a leg back and upward, from perpendicular to full extension, repeatedly and slowly, flexing the glute with carefully modulated breaths. His command of the movements required steady exertion combined with grace.

Evan was turned away. He couldn't see me. His clothes clung to him tautly, lustrously, more revealing than bare skin. The quads and hamstrings were distinct and toned, the calf muscled and lean. The orb of his glute rippled with supple strength upon each contraction, activating separate sinews distinctly so that the muscle undulated and danced. Then he pulled the knee down, grazing the floor and tucking it to his chest, stretching, revealing the length of the muscle, before extending it again to its round, lithesome ideal.

As he repeated the movements with his other leg, his body was revealed to me in an unguarded display of elegance and grace. I felt every bit the naughty voyeur, but I was fascinated with the beauty of his form.

Suddenly he glimpsed me from the corner of his eye and crashed to the carpet in a heap. We were both embarrassed as he paused the video and shed the earbuds. He leaped to his feet with bashful chuckles.

I felt the heat of my blush as I stammered, "Sorry, Evan. I just turned the corner and there you were."

"Caught in flagrante yoga. Sorry about that. I didn't realize you'd be back so early. My bad."

"It's all good. So you do yoga every day?"

"Yeah. Gotta keep it tight, you know. Today is my glutes workout."

"Well, it's certainly working for you."

"My grandmother was the only one in my family who ever accepted me. One Thanksgiving she proclaimed in the middle of the family dinner, 'Forget the stomach, Evan Dear, the way to a man's heart is through a tight tushie.' That was her way of shaming them for their intolerance. Poor ol' gal. They kept her locked in the attic after that."

We laughed unabashedly. "A sage woman and you obviously took her advice to heart."

"I knew you were ogling." Evan rushed to my side and placed my hand on the sumptuous curve. Teasingly, he said, "Give it a squeeze just to be sure."

I did. It was a fleeting grope but confirmed all its luscious qualities. I freed my hand quickly. "All right, enough of this," I pronounced with an uptight laugh. "I've got work to do."

I started upstairs to my office then turned back to Evan. "I've got a yoga mat you're welcome to use."

He gave me a glowing smile. "That would be great. Thanks."

"And, Evan ..." I didn't know what I wanted to say. I finally stammered "You really are a beautiful, beautiful man."

He grinned wryly for a moment before giving a slight theatrical bow. "Thank you for noticing."

We had leftover lasagna for dinner. It was delicious yet underscored our dreary confinement. We both made an effort to converse, but there was nothing new in our lives to relate. Each day was becoming indistinguishable from the others. Especially for Evan. The claustrophobia was becoming oppressive. The menace outside the door pressed the walls closer and closer and the anxiety was unremitting. The toll was becoming apparent in his eyes.

That night I insisted Evan pick the movie. The only stipulation I placed was that it be light, smart, and absent any gratuitous violence.

"That's three stipulations," he observed.

The challenge seemed to animate him. He picked a rom-com, as I suspected he would. It starred Lake Bell and Simon Pegg and was slightly campy with a happy ending and lots of laughs. Perfect leavening for our flat, monotonous days.

I congratulated his choice as the end credits began to roll. That pleased Evan. He jumped up and announced, "I'm going to have a glass of wine before bed. Can I pour you one?"

"Sure. Why not?"

I gingerly reached for the lamp switch without disturbing Lucy, who had spent the last act of the movie ensconced in my lap. With the lamp on dim, I resumed petting her neck, sending her purrs into magic finger mode. Evan returned with our wine and sat close beside me. He joined in petting Lucy Fur.

"I don't want our custody battle to get ugly," he teased.

"In the spirit of conciliation, I'll settle for every other weekend."

The moment felt convivial as I smiled back and reminisced for an instant about how horrible yet wonderful my world had become over the past few weeks. Life had crept back into my existence.

I found my gaze lingering in the green of Evan's eyes. From this close, flecks of gold and a faint tinge of chestnut were revealed. Our fingers vied for Lucy's favorite spot and she raised a blissful din. "This is good," I said.

Evan chortled in agreement. His eyes drifted to my lips and then back again, with longing in his gaze. He leaned slightly nearer. "You can kiss me if you'd like."

I was caught unprepared and felt ensnared by his closeness. Retreating a scant inch, I blurted "What?"

Evan enticed, "I really wish you would."

I struggled to my feet, casting Lucy tumbling to her own devices. I barely registered her howl of alarm as wine sloshed from my glass. "What the fuck, Evan?"

"I know you feel it. Just give in."

"No! That would be a huge mistake."

"Why, Alan? Why do you deny yourself pleasure? I know you feel the urge. I've felt it in your embrace."

"Hug. We hugged. Like friends needing support."

"Okay, sure. Call them hugs. But sometimes those hugs went deeper. Admit it. Why are you so closed off?"

I started pacing. My eyes cast about for something to anchor on, some point of clarity. They found only the empty picture frame.

Evan pressed deeper. "I know your marriage fell apart. I understand you cheated with a gay man and your whole world came crashing down. But that was two years ago. Life goes on, Alan. You've got to start living again."

At that, I froze. Just as in Poe's story The Tell-Tale Heart, my guilt was moldering beneath my feet. It tormented me with its constant pounding. Evan's wheedling was prying loose the floorboards. The pounding got louder. "You want to know, do you? You really want to know?"

"Yes, Alan. I truly care for you."

The intimacy of those words struck me like a gut punch. I rejected the impulse to bare myself as quickly as it had arisen. No one was getting in. Not even Evan. "No." I shook my head. "I'm not an open book like you."

"Seven and an eighth."

"What?"

"Seven and one-eighth. That's my hat size, Alan. Seven and an eighth. Now you know absolutely everything there is to know about me. Can't you at least tell me what's eating you alive?"

"Once you know it, you will never be able to un-know it."

"I'm your friend whatever it is."

This is precisely why I kept to myself. People are exhausting. The rigors of being social, of knowing others and being known, wears a person down. The boundaries of me slowly crumble into "we". The I is exposed and, for better or worse, becomes "us". The effort was simply too much for me anymore. My exhaustion won out. I divulged what I could not even admit to myself.

"After Jenny kicked me out of the house," my voice was wooden and flat, "I called her again and again. I just wanted to talk. To find a way through. She wouldn't even pick up the phone. I heard from friends that she was a total wreck. The women were particularly concerned."

Lucy was perched on a bookshelf across the room watching me with the eyes of the betrayed. She was right. I couldn't be trusted.

"Three weeks after my 'golf game' with Matt, I got a call from her sister, Angie. I rushed to the hospital but, of course, they wouldn't let me in to see Jenny. I found Angie in the waiting room. The whole family was there and they were not pleased to see me. Her father actually squared off with me. Angie walked me down the hall.

"She told me that Jenny didn't have the right pills for suicide so she had taken a shitload of whatever she had. Luckily, Angie dropped by unexpectedly. Just checking in."

I looked over at Evan. His eyes were wide as he realized the undertow of my sadness. His pity sickened me. I deserved denunciation, not mercy. I turned my back on Evan and confessed to Lucy instead. As I approached her, she leaped away.

"The pills were slow but would have worked eventually. Angie said she discovered Jenny just in time. Jenny would be all right."

I strained to continue. "I was so relieved. You can't imagine. The thought of the world without Jenny was just ... well, unimaginable. She was too essential, too good. Whether we were together or not, Jenny belonged in the universe and, regardless of how much I hurt, I needed to know that she could find happiness again."

Relief swept over Evan as his sympathetic smile returned. My impulse was to slap his mollified face. "Feel better now, do ya? Are you glad for a happily-ever-after story?"

Evan was startled by my sudden hostility as I took a step toward him.

"I'm just glad Jenny's alright," Evan offered. "The way it sounded I was worried..."

"Shut up, Evan! Just shut the fuck up."

I loomed over him. He shrank away. I forced myself to calm down at least a decibel or two. I snarled at him, "That was when Angie told me that Jenny had lost the baby. Satisfied? That was the first I had heard that Jen was pregnant."

He looked confused and I felt scornful that he could be so dense.

"Yeah, Evan, yeah. The big news she was eager to share after my "golf game" was that she was heavy with our child. That our family was alive and growing within her womb."

I paced away from him across the room. When I turned back, he was rising to comfort me. I halted him with a glare. The tears welling in his reddening eyes disgusted me.

"Then Angie revealed it was a boy. How's that for a kicker? She was carrying the son I wanted with all my heart."

I found myself rushing at him and bridled my rage when I was mere feet away.

"Yeah, that's right, Evan. I had killed my own son! And you know what else? Jenny and I had already agreed on a name. Alan, Jr. I killed my own namesake."

Evan flinched at each word as if I were pelting him with stones. He cowered and fell back into the cushions.

"You were so fucking eager to know what's eating me? Well, now you know. I killed my own son! How's that for a happy ending, Evan? I killed unborn Alan Eberson, Junior!"

I had to escape. I was afraid of the rage incited by his constant niggling, always prying into my private life. I made for the stairs and screamed from the landing. "My own son, asshole."

The house rattled from the slam of my bedroom door.

_________

In the morning, I stood in the hallway outside his bedroom door. I sensed he was awake and listening to the stillness, but I cleared my throat to make certain. "I'm sorry, Evan. You didn't deserve that. If we were competing to see who had fucked up their life the worst, I'd call it a dead heat. I'm truly sorry. I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're my friend."

That day was like a dirge. I went to the clubhouse gym at dawn but ran the treadmill at a melancholy pace. The few people who saw me could intuit my mood at a glance and were gracious enough to simply let me be. I was back home, leaning against the kitchen counter nursing a glass of juice, when Evan came down. He offered a tentative "Good morning," but I could only fake a smile in return. I retreated upstairs for a shower and then sought refuge in my office.

The figures on my computer screen disassembled and settled into a muck before my deadened eyes. My focus was inward and far away. A rustle of satin sibilated behind me. I turned toward the sound.

Evan stood in the doorway in a silver kimono, lustrous white stockings sheathed his legs. His face was sad, his eyes begged for a resurrection of vivacity, of purpose, of life. He implored, "Please?"

He approached three steps, then stopped, his gaze locked with mine. One hand slowly loosed the belt. The robe fell open a trace. A white lace garter girded his shapely waist. The pouch of a lavender thong gathered his manhood, the crown of his cock etched upon glistening fabric. Evan hooked the kimono as he drew his wrists behind his waist. The sleek garment fell to the floor. I was captivated. His body beckoned; wanton, supple, and smooth.

"We both need this."

As he came nearer, my chair swiveled of its own volition to receive him. My hands rose to his hips. He took my head, pressed it to the flesh of his chest, and cradled me there. With a slow inhalation, I gathered his warm scent. It swelled within me like a first breath.

My arms circled his waist. His groin nestled against my belly. I felt his shaft rock in rhythm with our breaths. The gravity of his perfect orbs drew my hands lower. As I cupped each naked cheek, I offered the Buddha a silent thanks for yoga even though the Buddha's depictions suggested he had no part in the practice.

"You are such a beautiful man," I stammered. "What could you want with me?"

"Surcease of sorrow. For both of us."

Surcease of sorrow. Surcease and Nevermore. The lament of Poe's dreadful poem about loss was forever impressed in my mind.

My lips sought his flesh with slow kisses. They descended until they nestled his cock. I released a long, warm breath so he could feel the heat of my kindling passion. One hand pulled aside the satin fabric. I held his shaft as it hardened and played tender kisses across his soft fleshy crown.