May 3, 2011
Named Names

"I’ve never been in that bathroom alone," he says and my first instinct is to call him a fucking slut.  I don’t, but it stays with me for the rest of the evening.  It’s kind of hard to shake something like that when it’s said to you with a smile, a wistful tone, and possibly an air of pride.  We keep making our way through the porn shop.

Whatever it is we’re doing, I think, perhaps isn’t the best thing for either of us.  Wait, no.  It’s not the best thing for me.  I know this.  I realize it.  I’m fully aware of it right now.  He looks at me as I look absentmindedly at a wall of whips I’ve absolutely no interest in.  From the corner of my eye, I know he’s looking at me because what he said got a reaction from me that I can’t control.  He says after way too damn long, “Wanna get out of here?  How about a drink?”

Out in the street, it’s Saturday night and there are groups of guys everywhere, the odd lesbian couple every now and then.  Where do they keep the lesbians in West Hollywood?  Are they not allowed in this boys’ town?  He doesn’t say much which is good because I don’t feel like talking.  But a car full of guys pulls alongside for a moment, everyone calls out his name, he says, “HIIII!” and the car peels out.  I ask him who that was, all he says is, “Just some old friends,” just as his phone goes off with a text message he reads and laughs at.

A few blocks over at some sketchy but nice bar, we sit at a table while the music playing clears the dance area.  Everyone melts back to their little groups and he asks me what’s wrong.  But before I can even say a thing, some blond middle age guy comes over and they share a hug and begin nattering away like old friends.  I’ve no idea who this guy is.  I’ve no idea why an entire minute passes by and all I get instead of an introduction is some darting glances from this man, while the man I’m with keeps on talking. I get up and walk over to the bar for a drink I don’t think I want.

Later, much later, we’re walking back to my house.   We’re both feeling rather awkward.  He says earlier the man who came up to him in the bar, he was some one he used to have sex with.  Earlier still, he says two of the guys in the car were also people he used to have sex with.  He says the text message he got earlier was from someone who saw us walking by and wanted to say hi, and that they used to have sex as well.

He asks me a few houses away from mine if this bothers me because it shouldn’t: it’s all in the past and he’s different now.  He was a little lost before, he says, and I hope he’s not about to go into some weird born again type thing.  He says he used to be a little messed up when he was younger.  He says I shouldn’t think more about it.  He says I’m sure I’ve fucked lots of people he doesn’t know about.  I say, yes, he’s right.  “So, I don’t get why your acting like this then.”

I say, “I wish you just wouldn’t tell me shit like this.  I don’t want to know anything about it.  I don’t care to know.  The idea of you being in some porn shop bathroom while you’re getting fucked by a different guy each time, can you not see how that makes you look to me?  But, you know what? I shouldn’t pass judgment, right?  I didn’t know you before.  I know you now, here - ” he nods,

At my door, we’re both silent.  It’s okay.  There’s nothing he can say, nor that I can say to cut the tension.  I know he wants to come in.  I don’t want him to.  He looks at me and I look away.  He asks if I’ll be okay, if we’ll be okay.  I don’t say anything.  It isn’t cold out tonight.  He wants to come inside, I know he does.  But I walk in and close the door and I hear him call out my name, one of too damn many he knows.

[for this writing prompt via Visionaria.]

  1. ghoulnextdoor said: You really break my heart, you know that?
  2. cupcakesandcum said: I love this. Great job! Your writing is spectacular.
  3. 405 posted this