The Truth About Love
by Orianne
The
kid’s name is Michael. He works as the second assistant cameraman on The Drew
Carey Show. Brad met him when he did the second Drew Live. He is a skinny kid,
just turned twenty three, with strange, muddy eyes hidden under a mop of
blondish hair. He tells Brad that he is studying to be a vet, and Brad thinks
that there’s a first: someone in show business having dreams of being a working
grunt.
Brad
thinks that Michael knows he has a girlfriend; Brad made it a point to mention
her on the set. Brad also made it a point to flirt with Michael, carefully, so
carefully, feeling him out to see if he was ready, willing and able. After the
last day of taping, Michael finally consented to meet with him.
They
meet in the evening, after Michael gets out of class and Brad gets out of
The
room is apricot colored, with pictures of boats and horses on the walls. Brad
sits down at the desk near the window, watching Michael shift from side to side
in front of him.
He
toys with the stationary on the desk, not moving. Michael must want him to make
a move, to say something, but he doesn’t. Michael chews on the skin of his
thumb and finally sits down on the bed. He turns on the TV.
Brad
thinks about his girlfriend. She might be finishing up at work now, or just
coming back to their house. She works as a makeup artist; their bathroom is
full of moisturizers, eye pencils and lipsticks of all shades. Perhaps she is
just walking in the door; perhaps she is checking to see if he is home.
Brad
stands up, goes over to the bed. Michael shoves his hair out of his eyes and
looks up from the television; on the screen some hard rock band shrieks,
“Living with these changes.” Michael reaches for the remote.
“Leave
it on,” Brad says. “A little mood music.” He smiles.
In fact, he doesn’t like the song; he’s too old now for loud music. But he
likes noise.
Michael
smiles back. Brad wonders if he’s ever been in this situation before and sits
down next to him. Michael turns his head, his hair falling in his eyes, and
Brad dimly remembers the reason why he’d decided to take a chance with this
otherwise ordinary-looking kid; his hair seemed golden in some lights, dark red
in others.
Michael
reaches for him, and Brad moves away, saying, “What, are we at the drive-in?
You think you’ll buy me a milkshake, too, if I put out?”
Michael
looks baffled. Brad says, more gently, “Just relax.”
Michael
lies on his back. Brad unbuttons his shirt, takes off his belt, unzips his pants. When Michael tries to move Brad shushes
him, puts a hand on his chest. He tosses the pieces of clothing away as he
works.
When
the kid is naked, Brad is disappointed. Michael’s body is slight, evenly tanned
by either days on the beach or, more likely, a salon.
He dyes his hair, Brad notices. The carpet doesn’t match the drapes, as the
saying goes.
For
a moment Brad considers tossing him out. *Everything in this town is a fake.*
But then he figures, as long as he’s gotten this far, he might as well
continue. He wets his fingers with saliva, motioning the kid to turn over.
The
kid, nervous and confused, tenses at the first feeling of Brad’s fingers in
him. Brad puts a free hand on his shoulder, repeating, “Just relax.” The kid
presses his face into the apricot bedspread. Brad feels him breathing, slow,
deep breaths at first. It is not until his breathing changes into short excited
gasps that Brad feels desire: the kid is transfused by eagerness, his hands
clutching the edges of the bed in the attempt not to move. Brad removes his
fingers slowly, fumbles in his jeans pocket for the condom. He unzips his
pants, not bothering to take them off the whole way. He puts the latex sheath
on expertly and enters the kid.
For
a few moments, everything is perfect. Brad can forget about the apricot room,
the television now screeching something like, “Way up high, or down low,” the
thought of his girlfriend waiting for him at home, even the kid he is currently
fucking. For a few moments he can close his eyes and lose himself.
And
then it’s over. Brad withdraws from the kid. His body is slick with sweat. He
pushes himself off the bed and goes into the bathroom to dispose of the condom
and to urinate. When he comes back out, the kid is sitting up on the bed, hands
drumming on his stomach.
Brad
moves to the desk, sits down and stretches his legs out. He looks at the kid.
“You
can go now,” he says. Brad is always interested in this moment. It is easiest
when the guys shrug their shoulders and take off with a “Thanks, man.”
Sometimes they hang around, but not that often.
The
kid looks hurt. He gets off the bed, snarling, collecting his clothes. Just
before he gets to the door, still buttoning his shirt, he looks at Brad and
says, “You’re a lousy lay.”
Brad
doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, if someone had to hate it, I’m glad it was you.”
Still
cursing, the kid slams the door behind him. Brad looks at his watch. It is
He
returns the key to the front desk and goes out to his car. It doesn’t look that
dark, but Brad doesn’t know if that’s because the days are getting longer or if
the city’s just getting more brightly lit.
It
is not until he gets back into his car that he feels the numbness come back. It
seems that everything about this situation is familiar to him. Already
Michael’s face has begun to fade into the gallery of his past; he’s damned if
he can remember anything about what just happened. The kid has already become
just another kid in another hotel.
He
knows there will be others, other hotel rooms, other kids. He knows exactly
what every day of his life will be like, days and days stretching ahead of him,
and he can see no pleasure in any of it.
He
thinks about calling his girlfriend, but he doesn’t know what to tell her yet.
He knows she’s expecting him home. He knows she wants to hear his story.
He
needs a drink. He needs distraction. *And this is what I always say. And this
is what will happen.* He lights a cigarette and turns up the radio.
He
drives to a bar called Smog. It is a small place, and it looks more of a dive
than a hotspot, which Brad likes. He is becoming too comfortable with dives.
He
scans the bar, spots a man in his late forties, wearing a gray cardigan,
drinking alone. He seems like the best bet. Brad goes to sit next to him.
He
tells the man that his name is Carl. The man says that his name is Robert. He
laughs at everything Brad says. Brad can’t tell if he’s laughing out of
drunkenness or if he’s actually being funny.
Finally
he asks, “Look, Robert, do you want to get out of here? I can drive you home.”
Robert
shakes his head.
“Why not?” For a moment Brad thinks of pulling the old, “Do you know who I am?”
trick, then changes his mind. Regally, Robert asks the
bartender to call him a cab. Brad says, “What’s wrong with me?”
Robert
looks at him with contempt. “If you want to get fucked so badly, young man, I
suggest that you find someone who will take cash.”
Brad
doesn’t get rejected that often, but it happens. He smiles and gets up. He has
the impulse to say, “See you around, old-timer,” but he’s not sure if Robert
will get it.
He
goes back to his car and drives to a bar near the airport. He hasn’t gone to
this place many times before, but he feels like he’s going to go crazy, and if
he doesn’t want to fall apart, this bar is his best bet.
When
he walks into the bar, the first thing he hears is Pearl Jam on the sound
system. “I would rather starve than eat your bread.” He can barely see in the
dim light; when his eyes focus, he zeroes in on a man wearing a purple silk
shirt, sitting in the corner, hanging over his drink.
Brad
goes up to him, gives him a name. The man stares at him with the frank, puzzled
look of the very drunk. Brad lifts him out of the booth, takes him outside.
He
puts the man in his car and starts to shut the passenger side door, but the man
makes an inarticulate grunting sound, groping for him. Brad steps closer to the
car. This is too awkward, too public, he doesn’t want
it to go this way.
The
man gurgles deep in his throat. Brad jumps back, not quickly enough, as the man
vomits. His shoes and pant cuffs are splattered with puke.
He
takes the man out of the car, drags him back by the bar and leans him up
against the wall. The man slides to the ground. Brad takes out his cell phone,
calls a cab, and walks away.
He
begins the drive home. *It’s just one bad night, it won’t always be like this.*
He will say anything to himself to feel something.
He
walks in the door to his house. The lights are turned down low. His girlfriend
sits on the couch, watching TV.
“Hi,
honey,” he says. The tone of his voice is familiar to him. Once more, he sees
the rest of his life lining up in front of him.
She
gets up off the couch and walks slowly towards him. He can only see her outline.
She moves close to him, her hands brushing over his chest.
“I
want to hear it,” she says, and her voice is a caress. “I want to hear it all.
I want to feel what you feel when you fuck those men. I want you to tell me how
they touched you. I want to know, Brad. I want to know.”
His
arms encircle her, feeling her solidity. She waits with upturned eyes, and he
lets his breath out, just before he goes into the story, the truth.
The
End