Drew Smith - Arcade

You heard that a lot from the non-apologizers. You like that? Usually they were asking because they could tell you did like it, whatever it was. That hairy ass. Those incredible pectorals. The way they kissed or blew you or wore a pair of cowboy boots.

Other Apologizing Men were guys with small dicks. There is such insane variety within the world of male genitalia, I hardly remember, looking back, which belonged to who. Most of them were perfectly terrific, frankly, smallest to largest. Given the choice, I’d rather date a guy with a small dick than a very large one. Though of course I’d rather have a very large one myself.

Men are never ashamed about the things they should be ashamed of. If any man asking forgiveness for his little dick or potbelly had extended the invitation, I probably could have prepared a lengthy list of things he should have worried about instead.

Bad breath, for instance, was not merely an occasional problem. At the booths, where one was more apt to notice, it was an epidemic that thwarted many a fun sexual encounter. Escapades I thought were done deals fell apart as soon as I got close enough to smell or taste the foulness of another man’s mouth. One wondered how they failed to taste it themselves and feel tortured by it.

I was astonished at how often it was a problem, at how often it was the problem that prevented things from moving forward. It made me so compulsively self-conscious about my own breath I could only wonder why everyone else in the place didn’t adopt a similar stance, why breath spray and mints weren’t sold at the counter next to the condoms and lube.

It happened once at the arcade that before I realized my partner was thusly afflicted, he began going down on me. The smell rose to my nostrils as the spit accumulated, forming not just a lubricant, but a multi-layered stench on my privates. I broke from him in a state of dizzy repulsion and left the booth as quickly as I could put myself away. I wandered the halls for a minute or two, unsure what to do next, though I knew I couldn’t remove myself from my pants in the presence of anyone else. Finally, I pushed through the heavy exit door and into the night. I sped home and ran to the shower, stripping and standing beneath the spray without even waiting for it to warm up.

MALCOLM’S TIME IN BOSTON, WHICH HAD BEGUN AS Athree-month stint, kept getting extended. I think he was bored talking about the cop and the kid after all those weeks and months. Or maybe it was because I had told him about the arcade and the Cyclops that he took me into his confidence.

“I’ve been fucking one of the bellboys,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” A little spurt of jealousy entered my bloodstream.

“Yeah. For a few weeks now.”

“You’ve been keeping secrets.”

“Well, he’s young. Which I know is a trigger for you.”

“Don’t be silly.” My face was hot. “Of course he’s young. Bellboys are young, right? That’s why they’re boys. He’s not twelve or something, is he?”

“He’s twenty-two.”

“Oh, nice. Just under half your age.

“We’re not in love or anything like that. It’s just…he’s got this accent. This Boston accent, like Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting.”

“I guess I can see how that would be appealing.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, but it really is.”

“Are you supposed to be doing that? I mean, are you allowed to have sex with your employees?”

“No, Sam, I’m not.”

“So it’s a secret. Like you can’t get caught, right?

“Right.”

“Those are the best.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. He sneaks into your room at night, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You touch him surreptitiously when the two of you pass in the hallway.”

“We’ve done that maybe once.”

“When you’re alone together and someone walks in, you act like everything is normal and pretend like you’re in the middle of an innocent conversation.”

“That’s never happened.”

“But it’s the spirit of the thing, Malcolm. When it’s a secret, it’s like this little egg that the two of you protect together.”

“Maybe. I don’t think that’s why it’s fun though. Or if it is, that’s just a small part of it.”

“So what’s fun about it then?”

“I don’t know. Just being attracted to one another. Having fun sex. Making out with someone new. The whole thing.”

“Does Ron know?”

“No. Although I assume he’s fooling around with people while I’m gone. Which is fine.”

“Are you in love with Ron?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you like having sex with the kid more than you like having sex with Ron?”

“Let’s not start calling him ‘the kid,’ okay?”

“The bellboy then.”

“That’s better, but he has a name. It’s Ethan.”

“I think I’d rather just call him the bellboy.”

“Having sex with Ronald is completely different than having sex with Ethan. And I wouldn’t say that one is substantially better than the other. Just that they’re different.”

“So you wouldn’t give one an eight and the other a nine? Like on a scale of ten?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“He’s a bottom? The kid? The bellboy?”

“I’d say he’s versatile.”

“You fuck him and he fucks you.”

“That’s pretty much how it works, yeah.”

“What’s his dick like?”

“It’s really huge actually. Too big for it to be comfortable. He likes to top more, but I just can’t do that all the time.”

“Of course he has a giant dick. And let me guess, he’s straight.”

Malcolm laughed. “Goes home to his girlfriend every night.”

“All you guys are the same.”

“You mean all us guys, right, Mr. Arcade? Anyway, don’t be jealous. You know I’m going to be home visiting in a couple of weeks. We could meet for a beer or something.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t stack up after your experiences with the bellboy.”

“Well, he’s a lot less jaded than you, but I still think you’re handsomer.”

“You’ve never even seen my face.”

“Yeah, but I have a feeling about you.”

“So corny.”

“You’re never going to meet me, are you?”

“I might.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I should probably let you go. You’re probably expecting the bellboy any minute.”

“Ethan is going to a movie with his parents and his girlfriend tonight.”

“Gag.”

“I know. But it’s kind of adorable, right?”

A BIG BULL OF A MAN APPEARED AT THE ARCADE. HE LOOKEDlike a teenager’s stepdad, the kind who would never be ripped off by a mechanic or intimidated by pretty much anything or anyone. He strutted up and down the aisles wearing khaki pants with an XL polo stretched over his chest. In the store, he picked up DVD covers and considered them. He looked like a straight guy killing time while his lawnmower blades were being sharpened. But eventually he went to the counter and bought a handful of tokens.

It wasn’t long before he caught on with the other men at the arcade. He wasn’t good-looking — or not in the Cary Grant sense, which is what I always think people mean when they ask me if someone’s good-looking. I think of Cary Grant. Or George Clooney. If the person I’m describing doesn’t resemble one of those people, when someone asks me “Is he good-looking?” I always say no. So he wasn’t good-looking like that, but he was good-looking to me. I was among a small group of men stalking him while trying to play it cool. He wouldn’t acknowledge any of us. No one could draw more than a momentary glance from him. He went into a booth and locked the door. Everyone tried it one after the other, thinking that like The Sword in the Stone, the Chosen One might be able to do that which had been impossible before. Then the bull came out of the booth and walked around again. None of us could rest as long as he was out there.