Eric Shaw Quinn

He lifted one of the blades in the mini-blinds to check.

Again.

As soon as he’d let the flake of metal fall back into place, he longed to peer into the darkness of the courtyard once more.  Where was Gianni? Had he stolen the money again? Did he get busted? Had it really been that long?

He checked the clock.

Again.

3:17.  Four minutes later than the last time he checked.  Over an hour since Gianni had taken all the cash in the house and left with the promise of more “product” as he insisted on calling it in case the place was bugged.  When they weren’t high he just called it rock.

Michael swore to himself that this was the last time.

Again.

He wondered how he would ever get rid of Gianni.  He wondered what he’d do if he did.  He checked through the blinds.

Again.

Where was he? Gianni was all about promises, mostly unkept.

Gianni had arrived on a promise, three Valentine’s Days ago.  Michael was working for a Real Estate agent friend of Dolph’s who lived in the absurdly named Mt. Olympus neighborhood, just north of West Hollywood.  The market had just crashed, again.  D’wayne, the real estate guy, was trying to start a business out of his decidedly non-Olympian, Brady-Bunch-Split-Level house.  He was picking the bone of the corpse, brokering foreclosures and short sales to  help people get out of the homes and condos he’d shoehorned them into.

Michael was a writer, so he always needed work.  He did light typing, mail merges and wrote ad copy as needed to market the firm.

In sneering tribute to the a Valentine’s none of them felt like celebrating, D’wayne took the “staff” – i.e. Michael and D’wayne’s roommate Doob – out for a celebratory dinner at Numbers.  At the time, Michael had still been pretty new in town and unfamiliar with Number’s storied history as gay bar, restaurant and a soupcon more.  They had a great French meal, a bottle of champagne and a number of drinks – a large number.

As the night progressed, the tables were cleared, the lights were dimmed and the bar became the center of activity.  Michael could not help but notice the blond kid eyeing him from the bar.  It was Valentine’s Day and Michael was that most unfortunate combination — at gay bars at least — he was gay and really smart.  He had not been given-the-eye often in his life.  Encouraged and hopeful, he remained when the rest of his party said their good-byes.

“I think I’ll just stay for another drink,” Michael said, as he excused himself.

D’wayne and Doob exchanged a look.

“Here?” Doob asked.

“Why not?” Michael said.

“Sure, why not,” D’wayne said with a curious smile.  “Come on Doob.”

“Michael, are you sure you know . . .” Doob began.

“Let’s leave Michael to enjoy himself,” D’wayne cut him off, yanking Doob’s arm.  “See you tomorrow, Michael.”

Awkwardly, Michael made his way over to the bar.  He found a place near the guy who’d been eye-fucking him for a half-hour.  Michael took a bar stool and ordered a martini.  Eye-fucker wasted no time.  He got right up and walked right over to Michael.

“Hey, you on your own?” he asked, shoving in beside Michael.  He captured one of Michael’s legs between his own and took a little ride.

“I was,” Michael grinned.  His heart swelled with hope and optimism.  He began to imagine the story of how they had met on Valentine’s Day.  “I’m Michael.”

“Hi Michael.  I’m Markie.”

For the next hour, as Michael bought them drinks, Markie hung on Michael’s every word.  He took an interest in what Michael did, cared about, dreamed of.  But more than anything, he never once looked over Michael’s shoulder at any of the many hot guys surrounding them.

“It’s a school night for me,” Michael said, noticing the time.  “I don’t live far.  If you’d like a night cap? Or, something.”

“Or something sounds great,” Markie said with his usual enthusiastic nod.  “How much did you want to spend?”

“On what?” Michael asked, confused by the question.

“Me,” Markie said with a laugh.

“Oh,” Michael said, his heart on the sticky bar floor at his feet.  “I didn’t . . . I don’t . . . I’m sorry to have wasted your . . .  I see.”  He understood again that the only way a guy who looked like Markie would talk to him was for profit.  Michael gave Markie a brave smile as he tried not to cry at the hustler bar where he suddenly realized he’d been drinking alone for that past hour.  He began to rise.

“Don’t go, yet,” Markie said, grabbing his hand.  Same smile, but for free.  “I like you.  Maybe we can work something out.”

The grin was irresistible to a man with a broken heart, Markie knew.  He knew when he floated the idea of Michael financing a drug buy, it wouldn’t seem quite the same.  The sex would just be a gift with purchase.  A couple more martinis and it seem like a positively great idea to Michael.

They drove into darkest Hollywood.  Michael was more nervous about driving on so many martinis than he was in the neighborhood.  He waited outside of the frowsy residential hotel after foolishly giving Markie the cash.  Michael lucked out.  Markie needed a place to stay that night and, more important, a place to use.  He came back.

“Listen,” Markie said as soon as he got back in Michael’s car.  “There’s this guy who can party with us, if you want.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Michael said, reaching up and stroking Markie’s deceptively sweet face.  “I kinda think just the two of us . . .”

“He’s got more stuff,” Markie shrugged.  “So, I could stay a lot longer.  All night.”

“Well,” Michael said, considering.  He still thought they were talking about marijuana.

“And he’s got the biggest cock in Hollywood,” Markie said, with a nasty little giggle.  “You can watch him use it on me.”

The blood left Michael’s brain.

“Sounds great,” he said.  It did sound great.  It turned out it was the biggest, but everything else turned out to be a lie.

Gianni arrived at Michael’s apartment that night and never left.  He didn’t live with Michael.  He disappeared for days and weeks at a time.  But there was something about Michael that just kept bringing him back.  Michael thought it was the fact that he was a soft touch, but he was wrong.  Gianni kept coming back because Michael was the only person he’d met in America who treated him like a person.

There had been no sex that night Michael brought Markie and Gianni home from the drug buy.  With the promise of good times yet to come they kept convincing Michael to spend more and more on the little rocks they smoked on bits of steel wool jammed into glass tubes.  Gianni even got Michael to try some.  Michael thought it tasted like dirt and refused to do more.  He experienced none of the euphoria so seductive that the lives of his two guests had been consumed in its pursuit.

When they finally left, Michael felt as much relief as sadness.  He called in sick and chalked it up to experience.

D’wayne waited to laugh after he hung up the phone.

Gianni returned again and again.  He used.  Michael watched and hoped.  Determined that they use together, Gianni gave Michael lessons on how to “smoke up,” as he called it.

“Suck,” Gianni teased.  “You gay boys know how to do that.  Suck that pipe.  Hold the smoke till I tell you.”’

Michael struggled to hold the smoke in his lungs until the cocaine exploded there and blew his brains out.  It was as though he’d been granted super powers.  Every sound was magnified.  He seemed suddenly to appear where he’d been all along and to be present there for the first time.  He wanted sex with complete abandon.  Gianni, twice his size, had to fight him off.

“Be cool,” Gianni said, laughing as he held Michael in his chair.  “You know I’m not into that gay shit.  Just be cool.”

Their romance was born of a love that neither understood and which neither of them could shake.  The getting and the sharing of “product” was how they expressed their feelings.  Gianni used his sexuality to string Michael along.  Michael offered home and hearth without judgment to a man who lived on the streets, when he wasn’t in jail.  They slept together in Michael’s bed, cuddled like puppies, sure of each other.

The scratching on the door woke Michael from his dozing.

Again.

Michael’s heart raced with fear and anticipation as he went to open it.

“Did you know they’re making a TV show across the street?” Gianni said stepping in and holding the door open.  “Look what I brought you.”

Michael recognized them from their sex video.

“Hi, you must be Michael,” the blonde woman said, her words as smeared as her makeup.  “I’m Milan.  Close the door Cody.”

 

. . . to be continued.