Mirrors of Narcissus (17 page)

“Guy, wake up. You’re in the wrong bed.”

Still, I thought: Either he really thinks I’ve come here by mistake, or he thinks he has to play along with my game. So far so good. How could he fail to realize what I really wanted, what I ached for from the very roots of my being?

He shook my shoulder again and I turned over. In the process, I “accidentally” kicked off the cover, exposing my lower half.

For a long moment nothing happened. And then I felt him cover me up again. He went to the closet and pulled out a spare blanket, then went over to my bed. The fool was going to let me sleep in his bed. A true gentleman. Or had he chickened out?

I spent a sleepless night tossing and turning, and he probably did, too.

Early in the morning, about 5:30, I stumbled out of bed, rubbing my eyes, scratching my head.

“Jesus, what a hangover. What am I doing in your bed?”

He stirred awake. “You must have mistaken it for your own. You were pretty drunk last night.”

“Was I? God, I’m sorry. You mean you slept on my bed? You should have kicked me out of yours. I would have.”

“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Damn!”

“Guy, is something bothering you? I’ve never seen you that drunk before.”

I was touched by his concern, but at the same time chagrined that he hadn’t seen through my clumsy ruse. “I dropped chemistry class, and had a few words with the professor. A real asshole.”

“You should have come to me. I would have helped you get over it. Gotten drunk with you, anyway.”

“Oh, and it was Kruk’s birthday yesterday. We finished off a bottle of brandy together.”

He whistled. “Kruk, drinking? That must have been a sight worth seeing. I wish I was there with you.”

“Yeah? Well, so do I, Scott. So do I.”

6

The recreation building was located at the far western end of the campus, and was one of those places which students long ago must have frequented, but which was little used today. An ancient three-story building, it had a rundown, seedy appearance. There was a paperback library and lounge on the first floor, billiards and ping-pong tables on the second, and a long-disused dance floor on the third. The place had obviously seen better days; springs stuck out of the sofa cushions in the lounge, and the green felt of the pool tables was so worn down in spots that it was difficult to shoot a straight ball. On weekday nights you could see a few students there, but during the weekend it was virtually empty. On this Saturday evening, the rec building looked like the last refuge of the bored and lonely.

The type of student who used the place was the straight, rather studious type who—I could tell—had never been popular in high school. These were the kind of people who’d come to this college out of a sort of revenge; a degree from here would ensure them of high-paying jobs which their more popular former classmates could never hope for. To me they all—girls as well as boys—looked rather unattractive, and drably unsexy. Certainly not the type I would have sought for a sex partner.

I went to the paperback library and got a science fiction book, sat down in an armchair and tried to read. But it was impossible for me to lose myself in it. I couldn’t get out of my mind the conversation I’d had with Christine a little earlier in the day. I’d told her about the proposition Golden had made to me. To my surprise, she’d been intrigued by it.

“How did you reply?” she’d asked.

“I turned him down, of course.”

“You should feel flattered, actually.”

“Really?”

“Of course. It’s a compliment to your attractiveness. And by reflection, it’s also a compliment to my own good taste in men—because gay men have such exquisite tastes in everything.”

I laughed, then felt a sudden moment’s rashness. “What would you think,” I said slyly, “if I’d accepted?”

She smiled. “You like girls too much, Guy.” And then she seemed to be musing about something else. “You know, somehow, the thought is very erotic. The picture of two men together is a stimulating one—for me. If I were a man, I wonder if I would do it? Maybe I would…just to see what it was like. Just for the experience. I mean, I would never know unless I tried it.”

“You can, you know.”

“What?”

“Have the same kind of experience. Just sleep with another woman. It’s the same thing. Have you ever thought of trying it?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. I think all women have at one time or another wondered what it would be like with another woman.”

I peered closely at her. “If you were going to sleep with a woman, who would it be with?”

“I don’t know….”

“Your old roommate? Have you ever thought of her in that way?”

“Not really.”

“How about that cute Hispanic girl you told me about in your physical education class?” She flushed. No doubt she, too, remembered the time she’d described to me the beauty of a classmate she’d seen in the showers in terms which had been quite explicitly erotic. In spite of the discomfort I sensed in her, I went on: “Well, if you ever feel like trying it, you should. You know you would have my permission. For experience’s sake, of course. I know you would view it as a psychological experiment or something.”

She laughed, but seemed abstracted.

I felt impelled to add: “Why don’t you try it once and see if you like it? For all you know, you might have had such tendencies all along.”

She looked at me a little strangely. “Does the idea of my sleeping with a woman excite you so much?”

“Well, yeah. I guess all men have this fantasy of watching two beautiful women making love. And you’ve always been one for expanding your horizons. An experience like that could only add to your sexual maturity.”

She looked at me challengingly. “Okay, how about this, then? I sleep with a girl…if you sleep with another boy first. How’s that?”

I laughed, hoping my agitation didn’t show. “That’s a good one, Christine. Do you really think I could go through with it?”

“Sure. As horny as you are, there’s probably nothing you’re incapable of, sexually.”

“Why, thank you.”

Now it was she who pressed on: “Guy, if you were going to sleep with another boy, who would it be?”

“Come on….”

“No, seriously. If you had to do it. Or, let’s say you were offered a million dollars to do it or something.”

“I don’t know. I never thought of it.”

“Would you do it with Scott?”

“Scott?” My voice sounded weak.

“Mm-hmm.”

“But he’s my best friend. I couldn’t.”

“Why not? He’s attractive…intelligent…sensitive…. Nice body, too.”

I felt as if I were being interrogated, under threat of torture. Yet her smiling face held no hint of insinuation, nor cruelty. I knew she was only probing me out of idle curiosity, perhaps sensing an untouched area of erotic fantasy.

“I can’t. Remember, he’s a virgin. If I slept with him, it would be his first sexual experience, and that might mess him up for life. No, it would be better for him to have his first experience with a girl, so that his life won’t be made miserable.”

“Would it?”

“Of course. No homosexual can be happy.”

“How would you know, silly? Maybe they’re completely fulfilled.”

Impatiently, I changed the subject. “If anyone pops his cherry, it should be you, Chrissie. He would prefer you infinitely more than me. Believe me.”

I put my book down. I was beginning to wonder if Christine suspected my true feelings. And yet she wasn’t the type to insinuate or hint about something she suspected: she would come right out and ask me. Still, she must have surely been aware that the three-way scene I’d suggested had all the trappings of a homosexual fantasy. And if Scott had told her about my pitiful attempt last night….

Restlessly, I got up from the armchair and put the book away. I hadn’t come here tonight to brood; Scott and Christine were at the movies together, and I had the evening all to myself.

I decided to look around a bit before making my move. On the second floor, a boy and girl were playing ping-pong, and another boy was shooting some pool by himself. Others, mostly groups of friends, were playing board games.

There were flights of stairs at each end of the building, with a restroom on each landing, alternately women’s and men’s rooms. My interest in the rec building tonight was centered upon the men’s room at the far end between the second and third floors, the least frequented because of its location. I imagined it must have been used by boys attending the dances once held in the now-deserted ballroom. But my investigations had discovered to me that it was one of the more frequented spots for anonymous homosexual encounters.

However, it was still too early to make my move. Each time I felt the need to urinate, I used the nearer restroom, the one between the first and second floors. It was cleaner, more spacious, and better lit than I remembered the other one to be.

By ten-thirty, the rec building was almost empty. I knew it closed at eleven o’clock. Feeling nervous as the time approached for me to make my move, I went up to the second floor to shoot some pool. The girl at the checkout counter kept looking at the clock on the wall behind her. The only people besides me were a pair of girls noisily playing eight-ball.

Finally, at about a quarter to eleven, I returned the balls and put the cue stick back in the rack. I headed up to the restroom as casually as I could. Despite my eagerness to explore it, I was scared. After all, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that anti-gay jocks were lying in wait to beat me up if I entered.

The back flight was darker than the other. Some lights had burned out and not been replaced, giving the stairs a forbidding aspect. Still, no one seemed to be around at this hour. And the green-painted door to the men’s room looked innocuous enough.

Upon pushing my way in, I immediately sensed something in the air. Some antenna within me made my skin prickle with warning signals. However, the place seemed to be empty. It was just as I remembered it from my explorations. There were two sinks, one of which had had its drainpipe kicked off the wall by a vandal.

As soon as I stepped farther in, however, I realized there was someone in the far stall. In the space between stall partition and floor I could see that he was wearing tennis shoes a little the worse for wear. His frayed jeans cuffs were bunched down around his heels.

My heart began to hammer and prickles spread over my skin. I tried to tell myself I had all the reason in the world to be here, that there was nothing suspicious in my actions. For all I knew, he was a straight guy just taking a crap.

Then I heard the bump of a door. He had opened the stall door just a crack, leaving about two inches of dark space between door and jamb. And in the darkness behind that crack floated the glow of an eye like an animal’s, peering with an unblinking predatory stare.

A weighty feeling of excitement gripped my stomach. He could see me clearly, I knew. My impulse was to leave the restroom as quickly as possible, but, mastering my fear, I ran some water into the sink, washed my hands, then dried them. I tried to pay no attention to the eye.

I wanted so badly for something to happen, yet didn’t want to give the impression that I’d come here seeking it. Everything should happen as if it were a fortuitous, unpremeditated accident.

To cover up my awkwardness, I moved toward the unoccupied stall. As I neared it, the crack slowly opened wider and wider, like a maw, threatening to swallow me. He was the spider in his trap and I the fly inching toward the sticky, sticky web. I felt drawn toward him, sucked in as toward a vortex, against my will, all volition gone.

At the last moment, it seemed, I slipped into the unoccupied stall, closing the door behind me with a bang. My heart pounding, my knees almost buckling under me, I sat shakily down on the toilet lid.

To my left, the toilet paper rack had been torn off the partition between us in what I thought at first was a wanton act of vandalism, leaving a small hole about six inches in diameter where it had been. Before I could think what to do, a hand suddenly thrust through, the fingers gripping the partition and beginning to drum in a rhythmic, meaningful manner, as if tapping out a message, insistent, demanding. What did he want? Frozen with fear I just sat there. Presently the drumming fingers stopped, and I thought I heard a soft curse, a petulant tisk, and the other’s toilet door banged and he was gone. What was that all about? I sat on my toilet seat trying to figure it out.

I looked at the graffiti all around me. Most of it was new, and some previous entries had been crossed out, including the one I’d seen before:
Want to meet a good-looking white guy? Come Friday nite, 11:30. Knock three times.
Anti-gay graffiti was in more evidence—
Kill Fags!
and
I Hate Queers!
Perhaps my earlier hesitation about coming here had been right.

The smell of damp cigarette butts was very strong. A leaking pipe somewhere had left a pool of water on the floor and a whole soggy roll of toilet paper was jammed down into it, moist as a soaked sponge. A dripping sound came from a steam pipe running along the back wall, giving the place a humid, tropical jungle atmosphere.

This was my first foray into this kind of adventure. Hitherto, I’d always avoided this scene; it was much too open for my purposes. Yet I was becoming a little jaded with Nightworld and wanted something a little different from its furtive encounters in the dark. Plus I was beginning to notice the same guys there all the time. It seemed there were about twelve who were regulars (and I even had private nicknames for them,) while most of the others were occasional or even one-time visitors whom I never saw again. This would be something new to add to my secret researches.

For back in my room, in the locked drawer of my desk was a notebook containing the List of my encounters in Nightworld. From the start of my explorations there, some instinct had made me wish to preserve a record of all my encounters, with entries cryptically describing the men I met:
12+mid. Bleachers. Athlete type with short hair, glasses, jeans, plaid shirt. Sweaty, p: 8, 9 in., big b.

The number of entries was slowly, secretly growing, for ever since my first time, I’d found myself going back repeatedly. Again and again, my feet took me there as if of their own accord. In fact, I probably couldn’t keep away from Nightworld anymore; I was hooked. The guys in the dorm grew used to seeing me depart at all hours of the evening, and they probably thought I was off to see Christine.

I began to understand the meaning of addiction. The things I did in Nightworld were hateful to me, yet I couldn’t fight what drove me to them. Knowing these anonymous, faceless encounters were unwholesome, I still needed them. It was their very anonymity which protected me from my shame at being queer. In the darkest places of the night, virtually feeling my way by touch, I could indulge in my most powerful lusts. And because I couldn’t see my partners and they couldn’t see me, I could pretend that my desires were still deep within me, secret and unfulfilled.