The Skin of Things Weekend Portion
DONOVAN
That night when Cade came home at the end of summer, of course I had no idea he was coming. He was gone, and I didn’t even get his letters until a little bit later. I knew when he returned I would love him, though what that love would look like I couldn’t say. And I knew I was a little angry. When he came, I didn’t know if it was love or anger… no… petulance, that would win.
That was the night after Calypso came over. I never learned his real name. Does it matter? What’s in a name. We talked and talked about art and finally, in those moments before I knew he was about to talk about being tired and go to sleep, I put my hand on his corduroyed thigh, and then raised my hand up it, unzipped his pants and went on my knees for him.
And I admit it wasn’t for him. He was there, and I wanted sex. I always feel like there is no point in coming out and telling the world how gay you are if you are not actually having sex with men. I feel like it’s harder and harder to fuck, not because I’m older or uglier, but because people are afraid. For one brief shining moment people have courage to fuck, but men want to be men, and society wants to be society. We are afraid of orgasms. I won’t let Calypso be. I feel like in one half hour of conversation I’ve gleened a great deal about him and will be fine with never seeing him again, but the feel of this soft skin, the muscle under rounded ass, smooth back, the play of blue tattoo over white skin, the peppermint taste of his mouth, the soft hair of his pubis, the firm globe of balls, the fullness of cock, I will not be okay with not experiencing. The mutual giving of ourselves; if that doesn’t happen, I will not be alright.
I am still in the afterglow of the sex we had, lying on the couch naked. They say that once you’ve had sex you’re sated, but I don’t know who they is. Some times they are right. There is some sex that is almost ruinous, that leaves you not sure you want to be with anyone else again, or leaves you determined to go out and find a new experience. And there is some sex that is only like a primer, which immediately makes you ready.
I am just dressing again, flimsy tee shirt, old shorts, when Cade comes in with the key I gave him. The living room still smells of the cigarette I just finished. He is so tall. He is right there, and there is something in his face, almost as if both of us are not sure if we want each other, if we are happy with each other. I put my hands to his bearded cheeks and kiss him, and we hold each other. We don’t speak. We undress quickly and silently. That night, on that sofa, in the living room, never having reached the bed, knowing that the words of I’m sorry, where have you been, what did you do, who were you with, are too much, we give ourselves to each other. That’s too poetic a term for fucking, but it’s the truth because the real fucking is giving everything, giving everything including dignity. It’s laying face down while he holds you down and pushes his face into your back growling “I love you. I love you. I love you so much.” It’s being bent over the sofa or bending him over and thrusting while weeping, gathering as much of your lover’s body as you can, and the declarations of love turning into swears and curses and staggering groans. It’s the orgasm that is almost like weeping, that is a surrender that is a defeat and a victory because the great victory is to be loved and to be accepted in all of your weakness, and lying in each others arms, wet and weakened and strengthening each other, crumpled and wet like old paper towels, but, like old paper towels, used up, as was your purpose.
“I stood at the top of a mountain,” kiss, “and I saw a sunset but my heart hurt because I could only think of you.”
“I was walking down the street, looking at the full moon, and wanted to turn to you, but you weren’t there. I pretended you were and murmured a little conversation, so other the crazy people on the street stayed away. They thought I was crazy. Maybe they were right.”
“Your ear is like a little wet shell.”
“Your breath is like milk.”
“I… missed you so much. You… are my best friend.”
“Stop talking,” hand to face, “Look at me and just let me look at you.”
Donovan asks himself if he believes Cade has been sleeping alone all this summer. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t ask. Those first few weeks, when he was in love with Cade, his love for this man ruined his chances of getting laid anywhere else. And then there came the time when he and Cade were having furious sex, and after Cade left to find himself, Don decided he was too old to be a pining virgin. Things happened. That was the best way to put it. But when Brian came, that old love that was such a good love, he was primed. The truth was, far from good sex sating you, it only made you want more.
“Right now,” Cade stated, “I want us to sort of just rediscover what it was to be friends. See if we can live that way.”
Part of Donovan Shorter wondered if Cade could smell the sex in this house, knew he’d been naked with Calypso an hour ago.
What Donovan said was, “That’s a good idea.”
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When Cade woke up the sun was in his eyes, but there was a key jiggling in the door, and he wondered if that had brought him back to consciousness as well. He’d slept in his shorts and tee shirt on the surface of the bed, and now Donovan, in very old khakis and a rumpled dress shirt walked in, closed the door, and then pulled the blinds, saying, “Fuck all this. I’m going back to bed.”
“Where’ve you been?” Cade said.
“Watching the sunrise.”
“What time is it?”
“Six? Seven? Something like that.”
“Shit we just went to sleep like four hours ago.”
“But I wanted to see what sunrise looked like,” Donovan yawned long, and when he was almost finished, yawned again. “And it was beautiful.”
“I thought you were opposed to getting up early unless you had to,” Cade turned over, folding himself into a ball, and pulled the comforter around him.
“Well, I had to. And as soon as I pre make this coffee, I’m going back to bed.”
“When do you wanna head back?” Cade called into the kitchenette while Donovan took out the coffee pot.
“Uh…. Some time after we wake up, I guess. Whenever that happens. Do you have anything to do?”
“Not really. Say, won’t you be glad when the school year is over?”
“Good God, it’s hardly begun.”
Even though Cade woke before Don, it wasn’t until his friend woke up in the other twin bed and headed to the bathroom that Cade got out off his to turn on the coffee pot..
“I wish there was an alarm on it,” he remarked. “Next coffee pot will have an alarm.”
They were more or less alike in waking habits. Half passed out in their beds, with a cups off coffee on the night table between them, emerging to sip until Cade got up in a bit of a rush, locked himself in the bathroom and then, twenty minutes later said, “Don’t go in there for a while.”
But Donovan was sitting on the balcony overlooking Union Street on the way to the beach. He was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, thinking of what a beautiful world it was. Not even that the day was beautiful, though it was, the sky like blue glass, the white thin clouds, the sun shining on the rails of the tracks that passed before the row of townhouses and hotels they were in. There was something wholly beautiful in the world, like the beauty of an old friend even in his most worn out and unkempt condition.
“You wanna look around town?” Cade asked as he came out onto the balcony, “or do you wanna head home?”
When Cade said this, the blue sky was already becoming less blue, and the sun starting to hide behind clouds.
“I like the drive better than just hanging around here,” Don said, “and it’s kind of sad on Sunday with everybody leaving.”
Cade nodded.
“I would like,” Donovan said, “just once to take the train. See what it’s like. Not that clunky old South Shore, but the Amtrak into Chicago. Imagine what it would be like to be so rich you could spend your weekend Amtraking—is that a word?—to New Union to spend the weekend at your beach condo?”
The way he said it, though, Cade thought, did not make it sound good or bad. It was simply as if Donovan was saying, “Imagine.”
“You know, we should stop at some weird places,” Cade said, his car rolling over the tracks. “Bump around in Saint Joe’s. Not make a hurry of it.”
“Yes,” Donovan agreed. “A hurry is greatly overrated. Look. There comes the Amtrak. And all the little people getting on it, on their way back, just sitting on the benches awaiting.”
But by the time the word waiting was out of his mouth, they were past it and onto Benning Street.
On the platform Andrew sat beside Cory.
“I hope this train comes before the rain. Not that it matters. I guess we’re under a shelter.”
When Andrew said nothing, Cory shook his arm playfully.
“You alright, Baby?”
“What?” Andrew blinked at him. “Yeah.”
“You’ve been weird this morning. Something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Andrew shrugged. “I’m just ready to go home and sleep in my own bed.”
“Yeah,” Cory said, looking at him askance as the train approached.
Andrew had seen the message from Cade when he woke up this morning:
-Good night.
Andrew typed:
-Sorry for being out of line. I hoped you had fun anyway.
He was surprised when an answer came back right away.
-What are you talking about? I don’t regret anything. You alright?
-I’m fine. But the train is coming in right now, so I have to sign out. I just wanted to say sorry for being nuts.
He put the phone back in his pocket, aware Cory was looking at him with concern. As they stood up and picked up their bags, Andrew didn’t look back. It was nice, just to know, for the moment that Cory was actually seeing him.
