100 Boyfriends Page 4

  He looked at Cortez’s hair. It was baby soft and blond on the tips, naturally. Cortez was a Black boy with blond hair. Now, someone had said Cortez’s daddy was a white man. Nobody knew. But his mama had run away after he was born; she was last in New Orleans. It was understood that he was the son of one of the white men whose family owned the property Cortez’s family lived on—that was the way Mickey’s grandma had explained it. All Mickey knew was that Cortez intimidated him, and that his presence held Mickey in place like a magnet. Hate was not the first emotion Mickey could conjure when thinking about Cortez, though. Whatever “it” was, it rumbled in his stomach, like a fear or excitement, like those three seconds before a roller coaster hurled itself from a very high peak. Cortez unlocked his lips from Mickey’s and Mickey exhaled hard. He was left alone with that feeling of relief that washed through him whenever Cortez exited the bus.

  * * *

  MICKEY LIVED WITH his grandparents and his dad. His parents were never married and his mother had moved up to Kentucky to finish her master’s degree. “I’ll come back when I can get a better job. I’ll move us into a bigger house,” she said, packing. The next day she kissed and hugged him within an inch of his life and left for school. Mickey’s mother was studying speech pathology; it was explained to him that she was studying to help kids who couldn’t speak well mute their r’s and clip their vowels, whatever that meant. He missed his mother, naturally, and the way she read to him each night. The last book he remembered her reading to him was The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It was his favorite. Sometimes Mickey had half a mind to grab his clothes and sail up a river—or at least he would, if he could swim.

  When Mickey got home, the air inside his grandparents’ house was smoke-filled, gamy, and peppery. His grandfather had come in drunk and was cooking a rabbit he had run over on the road somewhere; he was fond of running over animals with his car. He was making gravy for the meat and the thought of the poor rabbit in the pan was making Mickey sick to his stomach. “Is that dinner, Pa?” Mickey asked, really hoping it was not.

  “No, this ain’t for little boys, ya hear? This is for Dad. I’m taking you and your grandma to dinner in town tonight, so save your appetite.”

  Mickey saw through the window that his grandma was in the backyard taking clothes off the laundry line. If they were going out to eat later he knew that she would be taking her biggest purse to dinner, as always.

  Mickey’s granddad drove an older Cadillac—what year, Mickey couldn’t remember. It only played eight-track tapes and his granddad had to use a converter to play Mickey’s favorite tape, a gas station compilation of sixties soul-pop tunes. Mickey sat in the front seat in between his grandparents and swayed his little body to “The Oogum Boogum Song,” the Supremes, and “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me.” The tape had to be his favorite thing in the world.

  The trio got up the highway on their way to Quincy’s. Quincy’s was a steak house and country-style buffet. Their signature was a type of yeast roll put on the table before your meal, and the commercial for the restaurant featured a cartoon anthropomorphic yeast roll with arms and feet singing, “I’m the BIG. FAT. YEAST ROLL.” It was all certainly a carry.

  Mickey’s granddad had been a cook at Quincy’s some years before and said he couldn’t eat the food there because he knew it was all “utility-grade” meat—that is, animals they would find dead and turn into meat before rot set in. Mickey didn’t care; he always ate from the ice-cream bar first anyway. He liked the way the pillowy melted marshmallow foam drizzled down his soft-serve vanilla ice cream, which he often topped with gummy bears. Mickey glanced over at his grandmother going to town on a full plate of fixings. He looked down in her purse and, as expected, she had already found a way to sneak a hellified amount of fried chicken in there, all wrapped up in napkins, the grease from the chicken turning the napkins translucent. His grandfather was smiling at them both, sipping iced tea.

  The three rushed back home so his grandfather could catch Jeopardy! The living room was dark except for the bluish light of the TV. Mickey looked down at his Black skin. The luminous effect of the screen made it look simultaneously iridescent and even darker than it actually was. Right as he got lost looking at himself his father burst through the living room door.

  Mickey’s father was all about big entrances—you could feel the charisma of him six feet before he arrived. He said a quick hi to his parents, who didn’t even look up from the screen to acknowledge their son. Mickey followed his dad to the bedroom they shared in the back of the house.

  Mickey loved his dad. It was mostly his smell—a mix of alcohol, pork cracklings, and cheap cologne. He would sit in his dad’s lap when he would play dominoes with the men at the pool hall in town, and lean his head against his dad’s chest just so he could smell him. It was a very peaceful smell.

  Mickey sat on the bed and watched his dad’s nighttime preparty ritual (which happened most nights of the week). He would dash out of the shower, toss on cologne and deodorant and hair grease. After this he would always proceed to spray a grotesque amount of starch on his Levi’s 501s and iron them till they were stiff as a board. His father sometimes called him “Mouse” (’cause his name was Mickey). “Yeah, Mouse, imma find you a pretty stepmama tonight! Look at the crease in these pants! You could fuckin’ cut ya’self on ’em!” None of these stepmothers ever materialized, but either way, Mickey loved watching his father’s nightly beauty rituals. He was less like a dad and more like an older brother. It worked.

  His father threw on a pair of pristinely white Converse and a green Izod polo, grabbed the keys to his ’76 Volkswagen Beetle, and hit the door. “See you when I get home, Mouse, stay up and wait for me, ok?”

  “Ok, Papa,” said Mickey. His father picked him up off the bed and hugged him tight and kissed him on the forehead. He sat him down and was off.

  Mickey always wanted to tell his dad about Cortez but always kept the matter close to himself. For one, he didn’t want his Father Bear thinking he was a punk, and two, he knew that any kid who snitched on another kid was a dead kid. If he got Cortez in trouble he would have to fight Cortez and all his scary-ass cousins for the rest of his life. It was all very lose-lose.

  Mickey’s grandparents had gone to sleep and he pulled out two VHS tapes from a pile by the TV. One was a bootleg copy of an hour of BET videos and the other was also a bootleg copy, of his favorite movie, Flashdance.

  He put on the BET tape and rewound it to his favorite spot—the Janet Jackson “Pleasure Principle” video. What wasn’t to love about Janet Jackson? She had it all: she had bangs, she drank water out of a bottle (this baffled Mickey), and she was a dancer who lived in a warehouse. Was this a thing? He cross-referenced it with Alex, the protagonist stripper / performance artist in Flashdance, who also more than likely drank water out of a bottle, but most definitely was a dancer who lived in a warehouse. All the evidence was clear; all the coolest people were dancers who lived in warehouses (he was on the fence about the bottled water part). As always, Mickey alternated the tapes and practiced the routines until 2:30 a.m., when his dad got home, and Mickey would curl up beside him and hear about all the gossip at the club.

  The next morning Mickey missed the school bus. He and his dad were up talking too late. His father called in sick to work and took Mickey to breakfast and dropped him off at school ten minutes after the morning tardy bell had rung. He was late with a stomach full of Hardee’s biscuits and strawberry jam. He felt satiated.

  He stepped into Ms. Dickerson’s class and spied the new boy—he and Mickey were wearing the same sleeveless gray ThunderCats T-shirt with a full print of Lion-O (the team leader) on the front and the red-and-black ThunderCats emblem on the back. In Mickey’s head, immediate friendship seemed like the next step.

  “My mom goes to Dollar General too!” exclaimed Ed, Mickey’s new immediate best friend. He had this feeling in his stomach now, the same as when Cortez would bother him, only much more violent, yet sweet
too, like three packets of Pop Rocks fizzing in his stomach all at once.

  Ed was from Texas. Mexico before that. He was dark, but not like Mickey. He was more medium brown, like a cinnamon color, as opposed to Mickey’s indigo. He had an accent that Mickey had only ever heard on TV before.

  He had a rattail and his bangs almost covered his eyes. Ed’s father and mother both went to Athens State University, the college in the next town over; they were finishing agricultural degrees. Ed had no brothers or sisters. Both boys agreed that they wished they had “Cheetara” T-shirts (the female psychic feline warrior from ThunderCats). They also both agreed that they should share crayons all day.

  After school Mickey sat sweating on the bus. Ed was right next to him. Ed’s parents had moved into the renovated old post office in the center of town. This was along Mickey’s route. Mickey had focused on Ed so entirely that he hadn’t noticed that Cortez wasn’t riding the bus that day.

  The windows were all down on the bus and Mickey could waft Ed’s smell—Dial soap and sweat. It had a sweet smell to it, different from his dad’s, but still, a peaceful smell.

  “I never talked to a Black person,” said Ed, which he punctuated by putting his arm around Mickey’s shoulder. Ed smiled big and removed his arm and they both sat close, elbow touching elbow, side by side. They both watched the cotton in full bloom as the bus raced through the fields.

  The bus let Ed off and Mickey waved goodbye to him and then it hit. Cortez was nowhere to bother him.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and sank back into his seat. He almost wished Cortez could have been there to see his new friend Ed. He even fantasized about him and Ed beating Cortez up.

  Mickey went straight to the room he shared with his dad. He wrote Ed’s name on the wall in pencil and erased it over and over and over again.

  The next day at school Ed didn’t show up, and neither did Cortez. Both boys missed the next day and the one after that.

  Ms. Dickerson explained to Mickey that Ed’s parents had found more suitable housing near campus and he would start attending the elementary school in the town the next county over. He then heard from his grandmother that Cortez’s uncle and cousin had been arrested and he was in New Orleans with his mom again. It was the end of the school year so none of it really mattered. There was a new feeling in Mickey’s stomach now. It felt like the bottom was falling out of it.

  Later that day on the school bus with neither predator to probe him nor friend by his side, Mickey let out a big sigh as the bus stopped to drop the other kids off. He was bored.

  ACT II

  100-PAGE BREAKUP LETTER

  LETTER OF RESIGNATION

  I AM FUCKING MY COWORKER’S HUSBAND.

  I know that I am a horrible person. I don’t know if I’m more horrible for doing it or for not giving a fuck that I am doing it—even the quandary of it all just overwhelms me.

  I work at a nonprofit. I’m sitting at my desk in the back of the office, tucked into a corner. From this vantage point I can see all movement in the office, and so naturally I am masturbating at my desk.

  I am watching the new receptionist, Arnold, who sits at the front of the office.

  He just started college this year and works part-time. His clothes are always tight, so tight in fact that I can often see the lining of his underwear through his pants. He is equal parts chubby and fit—he’s built like a tenth-grade football player and his body is a constant source of inspiration for me. He looks like a human sausage packed tightly in respectable H&M off-the-rack wear, and all I can think about is getting inside his asshole.

  Earlier this morning I saw him kiss his girlfriend goodbye and he had to stand on his tiptoes to meet her lips, as she is a good head taller than him. I could see that fat ass of his and his body in relevé. It sent me over the edge.

  He’s talking on the phone and I am jerking my dick to the sight of his tender-ass lips moving and I’m hoping that I can bust a nut before anyone else in the office turns around to see me. Three, two, one … mission accomplished. I don’t even wipe the cum off my dick, I just quickly shove it back in my pants and fling all the cum on my hand onto the carpeted floor and rub it in with the bottom of my wing-tipped shoes. I roll my head back and take a deep sigh. There is something very liberating about masturbating in an office. But this feeling soon washes away and it’s back to work, work, work.

  I’m a data analyst at a nonprofit whose goal is to pair underage children in foster care with services. In and of itself, it sounds like a noble life but in truth I am surrounded by sketchy, burned-out, nonprofit employees. The office manager is this lady by the name of Sue Lauren—she had been a caseworker for years before moving into the lofty yet still underpaid position she holds now. I remember doing cocaine in her office with her at a Christmas party one year and she confided in me: “I was at my old job, hungover and helping this blind orphan cross the street and realized that I had always hated my job. Like, why did I have to be the person to help him?”

  It’s lunchtime, and I know this not by the clock but by the sight of my office buddy Sean, who’s twirling gay as all fuck from the elevator and making a beeline to my desk. I am pretty sure that at some point I’ve seen this queen unironically skip through the office. As the saying goes, he’s so gay Helen Keller could tell. I remember when he first started working at the center two years ago. Within half a day at the office I had him bent over the sink in the bathroom with my hand over his mouth so no one could hear the whimpering noises he was making while I was fucking him. This continued for a month or so until we were over it and now we are lunch partners.

  Sean is thirty-nine, Pilipino, and therefore ageless—he doesn’t look a day over sixteen and this is only punched up by his draconian skincare regimen and the fact that he’s a middle-aged man and still dresses like a ho in his twenties. I can’t tell what breezy and optimistic avenue of San Jose Sean grew up on and floated out of but it has to be a groovy one—this bitch is always feeling it. At lunch I can hardly ever get a word in edgewise during our “conversations,” most of which are attacks of unsolicited advice from him. Advice on my clothing, career path, choice in neighborhood, and, sorely, my love life.

  “I mean, we’re both pushing forty, girl! I just want you to find happiness like I did! You can’t troll a bathhouse forever!” He is actually giggling as he says all of this and this is why I am fucking his husband.

  We are walking back to the office and Sean is chatting me up and I am annoyed.

  We have a small argument about the filmmaker Joel Schumacher and his claim that he had slept with ten to twenty thousand people. I made the argument that it was logistically improbable that that ever happened and Sean is dead set on convincing me it was completely plausible. “All you would have to do is sleep with two new guys once every two days for fifty years! Simple!” he chirps, staring me down, as if his assured eye contact alone should be the thing that convinces me.

  I, being what one therapist jokingly referred to as a “clinical sex addict,” am no stranger to the thought of wanting to be washed over by a nameless void of men, but the consistently unreliable variable that one can never count on in any sex scenario is other people. I know this from experience.

  I became depressed in the period after my father died. When I flew back home to the East Coast to clean out his house, I happened upon a photo SD card of my dead father getting head, fucking random women, and jerking off. In my grief I jerked off to the content of the card for about a week and then, when that feeling no longer satisfied, I went to the bathhouse every day after work for a period of months. I would often get a room and leave the door open with a towel over my head, and would lie completely still and let anyone who wanted to fuck me. I can’t say how many different men it was as I couldn’t see them—what I do remember is one man inserting himself in me and a particular feeling of a water nozzle spraying in my butt. This man was urinating inside me and I took the towel off my head to see who on Earth this hooligan was. It w
as the man I would come to know later as Sean’s husband. We exchanged numbers and continued to meet up until a point and then I didn’t see him for a while.

  I remember the first Christmas party that Sean brought him to and introduced him to me as his husband. We looked each other in the eye and said hi as if we had never met before, and by the end of the party the husband and I were wasted and sucking each other off in the alleyway behind the building. This was two years ago and we have continued on since.

  * * *

  WE ARE STILL WALKING and Sean is still mindlessly talking and I have a hollow feeling that he has never once noticed me not listening to him. But I forgive this transgression because it is comforting to have someone to walk with. I like walking with Sean because it is essentially like being alone or more accurately like being in company, though unnoticed.

  I have always been in the practice of being unnoticed.

  I am a middle-aged man, and slightly portly, my hair is prematurely graying and I wear boat shoes. No one takes the time to give me the once-over twice and I’ve possessed this gift since I was a child. My mother once explained to me that all through her pregnancy she would often rush to the doctors to check in on me because I would not move in her stomach for days. Upon arriving on the planet not much changed. My first memories of childhood are of spending much of my day stationary and talking to myself, and when I did move it was me playing hide-and-seek for hours with no one. I don’t even recall an imaginary friend—it had always been just me.

  But back to Sean.

  Sean is, for all intents and purposes, an imaginary friend. Sometimes, just to test his listening, I say quite clearly (though in a hushed tone), “I am fucking your husband, Sean”—to which he always replies, “What did you say?” It’s uncanny how much this man chooses to ignore me. I do the same to him often.