Хлоя Бенджамин: The Immortalists

They go dancing to celebrate. Before they leave, Baksheesh Khalsa supplies hash and tabs. Raj strums a ukulele with Susie on his knee; Klara sits against the wall and stares at a fortune-telling fish she found in the novelty aisle at Ilya’s. Baksheesh Khalsa leans toward Simon and tries to engage him in a conversation about Anwar el-Sadat, but the windows are waving hello to Simon and he thinks he would rather kiss Baksheesh Khalsa instead. There’s not enough time: now they’re at a club, dancing in a mass of people painted blue and red by flashing lights. Baksheesh Khalsa yanks off his turban, and his hair whips through the air like a rope. One man, tall and broad and covered in beautiful green glitter, trails light like a fireball. Simon plunges through the crowd, reaching for him, and their faces crash together with startling intensity: the first kiss Simon’s ever had.

Soon they’re flying through the night in a cab, bodies straining in the backseat. The other man pays. Outside, the moon flaps like a number come loose on a door; the sidewalk unrolls for them, a carpet. They enter a tall, silver apartment building and ride an elevator to some high-up floor.

‘Where are we?’ asks Simon, following him into a unit at the end of the hall.

The man strides into the kitchen but leaves the lights off, so that the apartment is illuminated only by the street lamps outside. When Simon’s eyes adjust, he finds himself in a clean, modern living room, with a white leather couch and a chrome-legged glass table. A splattered, neon painting hangs on the opposite wall.

‘Financial district. New to town?’

Simon nods. He walks to the living room window and looks at the gleaming office buildings. Many stories down, the streets are mostly empty, save for a couple of bums and the same number of cabs.

‘Want anything?’ the man calls, his hand on the refrigerator handle. The tabs are rapidly wearing off, but he doesn’t look any less attractive: he is muscular but lean, with the tidy features of a catalog model.

‘What’s your name?’ Simon asks.

The man retrieves a bottle of white wine. ‘This all right?’

‘Sure.’ Simon pauses. ‘You don’t want to tell me your name?’

The man joins him on the couch with two glasses. ‘I try not to, in these situations. But you can call me Ian.’

‘Okay.’ Simon forces a smile, though he feels mildly sickened – sickened to be grouped with others (how many?) in these situations , and by the man’s caginess. Isn’t disclosure the reason gay men come to San Francisco? But perhaps Simon has to be patient. He imagines dating Ian: lying on a blanket in Golden Gate Park or eating sandwiches at Ocean Beach, the sky streaked orange-gray with seagulls.

Ian smiles. He is at least ten years older than Simon, maybe fifteen.

‘I’m hard as shit,’ he says.

Simon startles, and a wave of desire builds inside him. Ian is already taking his pants off, now his underwear, and there it is: boldly red, its head proudly lifted – a king of a cock. Simon’s own erection presses against his jeans; he stands to pull them down, yanking when one leg snags on his ankle. Ian kneels on the ground, facing him. There, in the narrow space between the couch and the glass table, Ian pulls Simon forward by the ass, and suddenly – shockingly – Simon’s penis is in Ian’s mouth.

Simon cries out, and his upper body bucks forward. Ian holds his chest up with one hand and sucks as Simon gasps in amazement and exquisite, long-dreamed-of pleasure. It is better than he imagined it would be – it is agonizing, mindless bliss, this mouth on him, it is as concentrated and intense as the sun. He swells. When he’s at the brink of an orgasm, Ian pulls back and grins, slick.

‘You wanna see this nice floor with cum all over it? You wanna come all over this nice hardwood floor?’

Simon pants in confusion, this being so far from any objective he had in mind. ‘Do you?’

‘Yeah,’ says Ian. ‘Yeah, I do,’ and now he is crawling on his knees, his penis – so red it’s nearly purple – extending toward Simon like a scepter. A large, meandering vein snakes along the shaft.

‘Hey,’ says Simon. ‘Let’s just slow down for a second, okay? Just really quick, for a second?’

‘Sure, man. We can do that.’ Ian turns him around to face the windows and takes Simon’s penis in one hand, pumping. Simon moans until a dull pain in his knees brings him back to the room and to Ian, whose own penis is persistently nudging Simon’s ass cheeks apart.

‘Can we just . . .’ Simon gasps, so close it takes effort to speak at all. ‘Can we, you know . . .’

Ian sits back on his heels. ‘What? You want lube?’

‘Lube.’ Simon swallows. ‘Yeah.’

Lube isn’t what he wants, but at least it buys him time. As Ian springs to his feet and disappears down a hallway, Simon catches his breath. Remember this , he tells himself, the right-before . He hears the light slap of footsteps, a bony thunk as Ian takes his place and sets a bright orange bottle to one side. There is a gloppy squirt as the lube is dispensed, then the slick sound of Ian rubbing it between his hands.

‘All good?’ asks Ian.

Simon braces himself, pressing his palms into the floor.

‘All good,’ he says.

Sun slices through the blinds. There is the sound of a shower running and the bodily, other-person smell of unfamiliar sheets. Simon is naked in a king bed beneath thick white covers. When he sits up, his legs ache, and he feels he might be sick. He squints at the room: a closed side door, which must lead to the bathroom; stock photos of urban architecture in sleek black frames; a small walk-in closet, inside which Simon sees color-coordinated rows of suit jackets and collared shirts.

He climbs out of bed and scans the ground for his clothes before he realizes that he must have left them in the living room – he remembers it vaguely, the night before, though it feels less like reality than the most intense dream he’s ever had. His jeans and polo shirt are crumpled under the coffee table, his beloved 320s by the door. He scrambles into them and looks outside. Hordes of people stride down the sidewalk with briefcases and coffee. In some alternate reality, it’s Monday morning.

The shower stops. Simon walks back into the bedroom just as Ian comes out of the bathroom, a towel slung low around his waist.

‘Hey.’ He smiles at Simon, takes the towel off and rubs it vigorously over his hair. ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee?’

‘Um,’ says Simon. ‘That’s okay.’ He stares as Ian walks to the closet and pulls on a pair of black underwear, then thin black socks. ‘Where do you work?’

‘Martel and McRae.’ Ian buttons an expensive-looking white shirt and reaches for a tie.

‘What’s that?’

‘Financial advising.’ Ian frowns into a mirror. ‘You really don’t know much of anything, do you?’

‘Hey. I told you I was new here.’

‘Relax.’ Ian has a suspiciously handsome smile, as might belong to a personal injury lawyer.

‘The people at your work,’ says Simon. ‘Do they know you like guys?’

‘Hell no.’ Ian laughs shortly. ‘And I’d like to keep it that way.’

He strides out of the closet, and Simon steps away from the doorway.

‘Listen, I gotta run. But make yourself at home, okay? Just be sure the door shuts behind you when you leave. It should lock automatically.’ Ian grabs a jacket from the hall closet and pauses at the door. ‘It’s been fun.’

Alone, Simon stands very still. Klara doesn’t know where he is. Worse, Gertie must be hysterical. It’s eight in the morning, which means it’s nearly eleven in New York – six days since he left. What kind of person is he, to do this to his mother? He finds a phone on the kitchen counter. While it rings, he pictures the one at home, a cream-colored push button. He imagines Gertie walking over to it – his mother, his dear; he must make her understand – and grasping the receiver in her strong right hand.