February 13, 2012
"Everything okay?"
"Mhm." Michael lied, fixing this game obstinately on a car outside the window. He inched himself closer to the door of the cab, so jittery that his hands shook and his knees clenched together. He was beginning to utterly regret his decision to go home with Ray, and his mind was simultaneously concocting and rejecting one pathetic excuse after another to try and get out of it.
"Really? You look like you're either about to hurl, or fling yourself out at the nearest stop signal." Ray's voice was dry. "I once knew a guy that did both."
"I'm okay," Michael choked. He wasn't. The fear wasn't that Ray might be a serial killer, rapist or give him gonorrhea, but that he was perfect - handsome, witty and accomplished. In comparison, Michael had so little to give. Surely Ray's night would end in disappointment, and Michael's in regret and heartbreak.
Ray sighed. He stretched out his arms and slipped out of his blazer, for a moment drowning the cab in the heady aroma of his aftershave. Smoothly, he slid across the seat, covering the remaining space between himself and Michael, and draped an arm over his shoulder. Michael felt the warmth of the long, lean torso against his side and heat crept into his cheeks; he told himself to take long deep breaths. He turned his head, neck stiff now from stubbornly facing the window, and found Ray looking down at him. His face seemed even paler against the backdrop of the cab's dark upholstery, hair almost black in the evening's shadows.
"Are you nervous?"
Michael's hands were still tightly clasped together; Ray gently pried them apart and interlaced their fingers.
"Wh-what-nervous-me-no-" Michael spluttered. His whole body was burning now, and he was only too aware that his face must be red as a tomato. Why did I think I was ready for this, I'm not, I'm not -
"Have you had sex before?" Ray leaned in toward him, pressing Michael up against the door. Michael was too hypnotized to speak, so he slowly shook his head no.
Ray leaned in further and stopped, his lips two inches from Michael's. A police siren screamed past them, lighting up their surroundings with red light for half a second - Ray's hair gleamed like fire, his eyes glowing amber to match.
"I can still drop you home. We don't have to do anything you're not ready to do," he murmured, so close that Michael could smell his whisky-cigarette-wood-smoke-peppermint breath. It gave him an instant erection. As if the heart thudding loudly up in his throat wasn't embarrassing enough.
"No," Michael breathed. "I'm ready to go all the way."
Getting hit by a speeding vehicle would've been preferable to this mortification. Cursing himself, cursing gin, cursing his hormones, he tried to stutter something, anything to restore his dignity, but Ray was smiling.
"It's okay," he said softly, letting go of Michael's fingers to tuck a lock of soft yellow hair behind his ear. "We'll take it slow, and I'll make sure it's a night you'll never forget."
He slipped his arm down from Michael's shoulder to his back and pulled him closer, before bending to kiss his neck just beneath the earlobe, where a pulse throbbed madly. Michael shut his eyes, and a sudden current buzzed through his previously rigid body; his hands moved like lightning, he grabbed Ray's shirt collar and yanked his body tightly to his own.
"Calm down," Ray chuckled, his lips still pressed against Michael's skin.
"I can't."
Later, when Michael looked back on that first ride to Ray's place, he found he couldn't remember much - save for Ray's face buried against his neck and his own hands groping wildly, while a boner raged under his pants. He alighted from the cab in a daze, trotting behind Ray like a devotee after his deity, the young man practically luminescent to Michael's besotted eyes. They could've been at a junkyard for all he cared, but before he knew it Ray was unlocking his front door, laughing and fumbling at the keyhole with one hand while Michael clung desperately to the other.
Michael did pause, however, upon entering the apartment. The dark wooden wall-paneling, glass counters, expensive leather couch all screamed - "Lawyer! Lawyer! You'll never get into law school, Michael!" But Ray was already leading him inside, guiding him onto the couch, the furniture morphing into Coleridge's metaphorical swimming book - and Michael was counting down the seconds until Ray returned, complete with cannabis and paraphernalia.
"You do smoke, don't you?" Ray asked, distracted momentarily by his phone as he flopped down beside Michael on the sofa.
"Like a chimney," Michael answered, half-jealous - who could he possibly be texting when he literally had a guy over in his apartment for sex? But then his fears were assuaged; The Talking Heads' This Must Be The Place began playing from the speakers below the TV. Just when I thought you couldn't get anymore perfect, you go and play Talking Heads.
"Okay. I was just making sure." Ray reached for the adjacent bookcase and retrieved a scruffy book that lay separate from the rest of the neat stack. Michael was astounded for a second - he had been so wrapped up in Ray he hadn't even noticed books. Dozens and dozens of them, dust-free and methodically arranged in a cabinet that seemed to tower up to the ceiling.
"I don't want to force you into anything," Ray continued, emptying out some weed from a Ziploc bag onto the book cover, "considering coming back here to smoke up was entirely my idea." He glanced up at Michael sharply. "You are eighteen right? What year were you born in?"
"Ninety four," Michael said without missing a beat. "January 15th." He'd been practicing the lie every time he found himself fantasizing about this very situation over the last few weeks.
"Why the extra year?"
"My mom's a psychiatrist." That much was true, but from here on out he had to improvise. Reflexively, his hand reached out to assist Ray with crushing. "Her theory is that since she's a single parent, my spending an extra year at home with her before starting school would boost my mental and emotional development." He shrugged inwardly. She'd come up with weirder-sounding stuff over the years.
"Hmm. That's interesting." Ray was quiet for a minute. "Do you like the Talking Heads? I'm sure your age-group doesn't listen to this kind of stuff anymore."
"Oh I adore them," Michael said happily, thankful that he'd changed the subject. "And especially this song. You're probably right though, most of my peers only listen to EDM and dub-step. But as far as I'm concerned, the 60's through the 80's was the golden age of music. What I do dislike, however, is Catcher In The Rye." He wrinkled his nose at Ray's choice from the bookshelf.
Ray laughed loudly. "Oh thank God. I always thought Salinger was overrated as hell too. This is Casey's copy, she insists I keep it here for the nights she stays over. I only use it as a base for crushing weed."
Michael shook his head with distaste. "I bought a brand new copy with my allowance when I turned fourteen, then was so disappointed I sold it back at a used-book store. Jesus. Biggest let-down of my life. Got back some of the money I spent, but unfortunately the time that went into reading it has been lost for good."
"I know right? The 50's jargon has not aged well. Contemporary slang is alright if the author is actually saying something of substance, but I found absolutely nothing to take away from that book. Felt like my IQ dropped 10 points with every chapter."
"Literally nothing happens from start to finish," Michael agreed animatedly, tearing away a sheet from the roach pack and rolling it into a filter . "Franny and Zooey was nearly as ordinary. Both those books were just privileged kids having an existential crisis, with a dead sibling thrown into the mix to generate a sympathy factor."
Ray looked up and grinned. "I like you, Michael."
Michael blushed.
"Done with that filter?"
Michael dropped the roach into Ray's outstretched hand, who began sprinkling weed into a jumbo paper. Then he smirked. "I don't believe in little joints, king-size is the only way I roll."
Michael laughed and blushed even harder. He still couldn't believe he was really here, that this barefooted red-haired god in his rolled-up shirt-sleeves was actually planning to make love to him soon. Then made a mental note to never, ever let the words 'make love' slip out during the course of the night. As if 'go all the way' wasn't bad enough.
"Here, take the first drag," Ray was saying.
Michael marveled at his patience; his incessant staring during the course of all their meetings would've made anyone uncomfortable. Ray passed him a lighter and a long, stiff joint, then stretched out his arm invitingly over the sofa. Michael gladly scooted across the little remaining space between them and snuggled into his chest, momentarily burying his head in Ray's collar. He took a deep breath of his heady perfume before lighting the joint.
"Tell me about your father," Ray said, after they'd both taken a couple of drags.
"Nice try, Hannibal." A slow calm settled into Michael's body and mind, finally dissolving all his inhibitions.
Ray chortled. "I wasn't kidding." He pulled Michael closer. "Seems like it really messed you up."
"Yeah. Well, my dad is an asshole," Michael sighed. "But the only person who's ever really hurt me is my brother, Matt. Well, was my brother - I don't even know whether he thinks of me as that anymore."
"What happened?" Ray intertwined their fingers together, and with a sudden jerk, Michael found himself atop Ray's lap. His boner resurfaced, but this time he was calm - he breathed evenly and his face retained a normal hue.
"He was already married when he met my mother,"Michael explained. "And he was an asshole billionaire who's always had whatever he wanted, without having to face any of the consequences. Anyway, I don't know the specifics of their relationship - as far as I've known, they've hated each other with a vengeance - but anyway, she got knocked up. By the time she told him, she found out his wife had a kid on the way too."
"Sounds like a real sleazebag," Ray remarked. "What's his name? If he's a billionaire I've probably heard of him."
"Wynford. Sam Wynford. You know him?"
Ray's fingers clenched a little tighter around Michael's for a split second. He cleared his throat. "Not personally, no," he said coolly.
"Anyway, Mom was already pretty successful by then so her ego prevented her from taking his unofficial, presumably larger-than-life child-support checks." Michael snorted. "Can you believe her stupidity? What would you rather have, your pride intact or a house in the Hamptons?"
"Actually, I understand where she's coming from. But go on."
"A few years after I was born Sam apparently felt really guilty about how I'd grow up on a single parent's salary, while Matt would live in the lap of luxury. So he arranged for Matt and me to meet, and we got along really well. Soon we had regular playdates, spent holidays together at their various country houses, that sort of thing. Having him around made me really, really happy and I thought he felt the same way." Michael sighed.
"What happened then?" Ray lowered his head and kissed his neck softly, sending tingles through Michael's body that made his hair stand on end. "Here's the last drag." He passed Michael what was left of the joint with his free hand.
"Thanks," Michael said, taking a couple of puffs, and wiping out the stub in an ornate, clear glass ashtray. It was almost too pretty to use. "So when we are about thirteen, we took a trip to this place called Whispering Waters up in the country - they have this gorgeous house there. Matt and I had an amazing time, we even smoked up together there for the first time. Everything was fine; completely normal between us on the way back. Then my mom gets a phone call a few days later, Matt had apparently told Sam that he doesn't want to have anything to do with me anymore, that we weren't going to talk or meet ever again. Cut off, just like that." He snapped his fingers for theatrical effect. "We never met or contacted each other again."
"What a little asshole," Ray breathed. "Why are you wasting your time still feeling bad about that little shit?"
"He wasn't," Matt snapped, then caught himself, surprised - he'd never imagined himself capable of using that tone on Ray. "He was the best, really. If he never wanted to see me again, it was probably because of something I did."
He leaned his head back against the sofa, giving Ray's lips some more room to work their magic. For the first time in ages, the usual hurt that welled up whenever he thought about his brother reduced to a dull ache in the back of his mind.
"I highly doubt that," Ray murmured. He ran his hands lightly over Michael's chest, encircling his nipples with his fingertips so they stood out sharply against his thin, tight shirt. Michael gripped his hair, felt the body under his stiffening - and Ray finally kissed him. For a few seconds Michael appreciated the softness of cherry-flavored lips, before they parted and he tasted whiskey-sour and ecstasy on his tongue. He shuddered.
"Oh god," he whispered into Ray's mouth.
It was the beginning and end of his world. He stood at the precipice, like he had in his dream the other night - and looked out upon a canopy of cloud, but oh, how precariously he was balanced! He had it all, could lose it all, could be lost forever - and then he lost himself in Ray.