Lives of the Circus Animals (17 page)

H
e climbed deep into her kiss. He pressed her pillows of breast against his chest. His hands were under her sweatshirt, stroking a bare back where a bra should be, fingering the soft sawtooth of spine. He inhaled shampoo and hair. She felt wonderfully small in his arms, sweetly portable, as if he could hold her and keep her always.

His body was thinking: Sex, good dumb animal sex. But his mind was thinking: Love, Jessie, the future. His mind and body had been fighting ever since he arrived here. His body had won, but his mind now found itself hoping that the body could win love if the sex were good enough.

“Let's move this up to the bed,” she whispered.

“There enough room up there?”

He sat up. She slipped out of his arms. He watched her scurry into the bedroom and up the ladder. A pair of frayed panties peeked out from under her sweatshirt as she popped into the loft bed.

He stood up so quickly that he felt dizzy. He shook off his coat and began to unbutton his shirt.

“What're you doing?” she called out.

“Getting comfortable.”

It didn't look like there was much maneuver room up there. The poster for
Venus in Furs
faced him on the wall down here; he disliked undressing in front of it.

His boxer shorts and T-shirt looked grubby—he saved his good underwear for weekends—so he shucked them before he started up the ladder. The rungs bit his bare soles.

“Oooh,” she moaned as his nudity climbed into view. “
I
wanted to strip you.”

“I'll make it up to you.”

He drew her against him. And there was pure pleasure, the mindless joy of being in bed with a woman, any woman. Then the woman became Jessie again, and it was even better.

Her sweatshirt disappeared, then her panties. He sat back on his heels to take her in with his eyes. There was more room up here than he expected. The window peering over the top of the platform bed provided enough light for him to see her: she lay on her back, a beautiful shape wearing only a haircut, a smile, a cross-eyed pair of teacup breasts, a triangular ginger beard.

“Uh-huh,” she purred. “So you do like older women?”

“No. I like you.” He wished she wouldn't play that game; she was only two years older. He lay down again, hoping to persuade her that his like was love.

It was better than the first time, but more complicated, less innocent. He felt more strongly about her. When he nuzzled and suckled a breast, he wanted to think it was her heart that his lips felt in the thickness behind the nipple. When she took him in her mouth, he was not only physically excited, but also emotionally touched. She held him in one hand, used her other hand to hold her hair off her forehead, and cut her eyes at him, as if to say: See how much I like you? But it was confusing to watch the woman he loved take a dick in her mouth, even if it was his dick. He regretted that she did it so well. He could not help thinking of all the gay men in her life. Did they give her tips? Did she hope to hold her own with them? He gently lifted her up and kissed her forehead and eyelids. Then he laid her on her back and bowed down to her sex.

Oh yes, this was what he wanted. Her beard lightly scrubbed his chin and lips. He opened her with his thumb, he found her with his tongue. He was in charge now. He could be obscenely intimate with her private fingerprint of salts and hormones, kissing and twirling her. He could taste her in the back of his throat, a pleasantly bitter flavor as if an aspirin were lodged there.

Her breathing deepened, her stomach rose and fell. A finger joined his tongue and he felt the little ridges like the ribbed roof of a dog's mouth. He loved the architecture. Then the ridges began to rise like the ribs supporting the roof of a cathedral. Her breathing sharpened
and grew louder as the cathedral opened inside her. She lifted herself against his mouth, she gripped his shoulders. And Frank was in heaven. She was taking his love, loving his love. She threw her head back and opened her throat, pressed her heels against his ribs and rode his mouth to glory.

When she was done, when she lay flat on the bed, catching her breath, she looked flaccid and boneless, like he'd removed every bone from her body. He gently wiped his mouth off on her thigh. He crawled up beside her. Her face was pink, her eyes blissfully shut. She drew deep breaths through an open smile.

“And you said you don't like sex.”

“Hmm?” Her eyes remained closed. “I never said that.”

“You act like it. Sometimes.”

“Maybe. I can be stupid sometimes.” She groped around until she found him. “You now. Put on a condom. While I'm still—warm.”

“Not yet. I don't want to finish yet.”

“We have work tomorrow.” Her hand pumped him. “Both of us.”

He held her hand and stopped her. “You should rest,” he said. “You just had quite a workout.”

“Hmmm.”

He could come in her hand or even her smile, he was so excited right now.

“Did you bring any condoms?” she said.

“Uh-uh. I didn't think we'd end up in bed.” He wanted her to know that he didn't come here just to get laid.

“I think I got some. In my purse.”

“Why?”
he said sharply. “In case Henry needs them?”

She opened her eyes and stared at him. “Hell no.” She laughed. “Henry can carry his own rubbers.”

Why had he said that? Why had Frank brought
him
into their bed? He had no business being annoyed that Jessie carried condoms. Every straight woman should. He'd love to fuck her without one. He'd love to get inside her with nothing between them. He'd love to get her pregnant. Which was a stupid thing to think.

“I'll get your purse,” he whispered. “In a minute. I don't want to leave you yet.” He gathered her up and turned her on her side. He
pressed his front against her back and held her from behind. He burrowed his nose in her hair and lightly flicked her nipples.

“Careful. I'm very tender and ticklish,” she murmured.

“I luf you like a pig lufs mud,” he repeated. And so she wouldn't think he was only quoting Ingrid Bergman, he added, “You are so fucking beautiful.”

She made a pinched, irritable noise. Then she wiggled her bottom against his cock. She reached back to stroke his hip. “What's the dirtiest thing we can do with each other?”

“Let's not think like that.” It was as if she wanted to fight his words with sex.

“You want to fuck me in the ass?”

She said it so matter-of-factly that he tried to be equally blithe. “Hmm? Not tonight.”

“I thought all guys wanted that. Straight guys too.”

There, she said it. The thing at the back of Frank's mind was in her mind too. Gay sex was everywhere.

“What if I finger-fuck you?” she said. “Or rim you? I've never rimmed anyone before.”

He rose up on one elbow. “Why're you talking like this? Why do you want to make this dirty? I'm not a gay man. And neither are you. What do you want to prove?”

She turned around and blinked at him. “I want to make you feel good.”

“No. It's something else. You want to prove this is just a good, dirty fuck. You don't want to admit that I'm in love with you.”

Her mouth hung open. She looked down at his cock, as if that could explain him. “Here,” she said. “You think too much.”

“No.” He pulled her hand away. “Listen. Can't we talk?”

“Now? Jesus. I feel so good right now, Frank. This is great. This is fun. Why do you want to mess it up?”

“Because it's not just fun for me. I love you.”

She looked at him, but said nothing, not “I love you too” or even a safe, polite version like “I love
being
with you.”

“Is that so awful?” he demanded. “That a straight man can love you? Or are you so hung up on your gay brother and gay boss that being with a man who can love you is paralyzing!”

She stared at him. She slowly sat up, gathering her legs to her chest. “Fuck you,” she finally said. “Go ahead. Call them fags. That's what you're thinking.”

“No! I don't care about them. I care about you. I don't want to fuck you in the ass or any of that—stuff.” He almost said “faggot stuff” but caught himself. “I want to be with you and have you with me, without any of this other shit in your head.”

“It's in your head, Frank, not mine!”

He sat up too, hiding behind his knees. If they were in a normal bed, an earthbound bed, one of them would have left by now. But they were trapped up here on this platform, naked and angry.

“I'm not in love with Henry!” she declared. “And I'm not in love with Caleb. He's my brother, dammit. I know him too well.”

“I didn't say you were in love.”

“Just because I don't love you the way you want to be loved, you think I must have a sick incest thing for my fag brother?”

“You call him a fag. I never did. And I never said you were in love with him
or
Henry. I didn't mean—” But had she just said what he thought she said? “You do love me? In
some
way?”

She lowered her face behind her knees. “I don't know what I feel. I
wanted
to love you. Maybe. But I sure the hell can't now. Not after hearing what you think of me.”

He was tempted to backtrack, tell her he was sorry, plead with her. But no, he refused to be tricked into taking the blame.

“Bullshit. You're not ready to love me. You're not ready to love anyone. Or let yourself
be
loved. Because you're too in love with success—Caleb's success, Henry Lewse's success—to make your own life. And you know why you need success? Because you don't like yourself enough. Well, I like you. I love you. And if you had any brains at all, you'd understand that that was success enough.”

She looked stunned, confused.

Frank was amazed at how articulate anger had made him.

Jessie looked down at the mattress, eyebrows and mouth pinched tight. Finally, she found what she wanted: her sweatshirt. She pulled it over her head and yanked it over her nudity. “Okay,” she said. “You win. I'm a self-hating piece of shit. Now get the hell out of my bed before I push you off.”

“Jessie, I didn't—”

“Fuck off. You made your point. Just get the fuck out.”

He scuttled over to the ladder but stopped at the edge.

“I go to bed with a guy I like,” she muttered at the mattress, “and he dumps his righteous shit on me. He stuck his tongue up my twat, so he thinks he has a right to lecture me on what a mess I've made of my life.” She looked at him. “You're the mess, Frank. You can't succeed at what you love, which is theater. So you walk away from it. And you expect me to walk with you. No way. I won't be your fucking consolation prize because you failed as an actor.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” cried Frank. “This has nothing to do with that! I love you for you.”

“Yeah? So why aren't you in love with someone who doesn't know shit about theater? Who has no ties, no knowledge, nothing?”

His mind was blank with anger, white with rage. He did not know how to answer. He started down the ladder before he threw something at her. “Fuck you,” he said and tripped on the last rung.

He did not fall far but slammed against the wall. He stumbled out to the living room. He began to pick up his clothes off the floor and pull them on.
Venus in Furs
leered from the wall.

“I know three Obie winners!” Jessie called out. “I work for someone who's sure to win a Tony! But what have
I
done? Not a damn thing. It must make you feel
real
good. To love somebody who's an even bigger loser than you are.”

“I am not a loser and neither are you. You are so full of shit.”

“If I'm full of shit, why're you in love with me?”

“Because I didn't know there was so much shit that I'd never be able to save you from it.”

“My hero,” she sneered. “My savior.” Their words sounded even more vicious when they couldn't see each other's face.

His sneakers were cold and wet. Frank pulled them on without the socks. He wanted to throw his sopping socks at Jessie or stuff them into her broccoli, but he left them on the floor.

“All right. I'm leaving,” he announced.

“Good. I have nothing more to say.”

“Neither do I.”

He stood under the loft bed. All he could see was a bare foot at the edge of the futon, big toe angrily snapping against the index toe.

“I'm just glad,” she said, “that I learned tonight what you really think of me. Before I cared enough about you for it to hurt.”

“Fuck you,” he told her foot and slammed the door behind him.

 

It was still raining outside, only a light drizzle, but Varick Street could not have looked more desolate. Everything was closed for the night, so it was all black or gray, with occasional sparks in the puddles where rain struck. Frank kept opening and closing the five-dollar umbrella he'd bought on his way downtown, but the spokes were broken and the thing made no sense anymore. He tossed it in the trash, then clutched his coat around his throat and walked more quickly, heading north to Christopher Street to catch the PATH train.

It was not even nine, but he'd already made a full night of it. Bad sex
and
a vicious argument. Which was better than most people do over a weekend.

Fuck her, he thought. He didn't need her. What did he see in her anyway? She was a basket case. So what if she were funny and smart and pretty? He loved her—
had
loved her—
despite
her theater thing, not because of it, and not because he hoped to break her of it. That was bullshit. Wasn't it?

It was definitely bullshit when she called him a fag hater. He had nothing against gay men. He liked them, he envied them, especially now. They could get laid whenever they wanted, with no complications or heartache. But Frank hadn't even gotten his rocks off tonight.