Читать книгу The Jade Butterfly - Jeffrey Round - Страница 8

Slam Bam, Thank You, Sam

The sign read Gentlemen’s Club. None of the men making their way up the stairs looked particularly well groomed or well mannered. There wasn’t a double-breasted three-piece or tux and cummerbund in sight. Gentle wasn’t even in the picture. Most of them were heaving with age or with desire or just heaving to get to the top landing, all under the judicious eye of a brooding, muscular miscreant guarding the Gates to Paradise, or at least the down-low demi-paradise version to be found in Toronto’s gay ghetto.

Donny discarded his cigarette at the foot of the stairs with a look of disdain for the injudicious by-laws afflicting the serious smoker. But then art had its price. Overhead, a marquee promised breathtaking performances from Messrs Orlando, Skye, Tyler, Little John, and Big Bad Captain Hook. One made sacrifices from time to time.

The conversation that had begun in Donny’s condo continued. Donny was at his dismissive best as he wound himself up.

“What’s the point?”

“Of love?”

“Of looking for it! Do you know? I gave up years ago.” A fey hand on the heart promised all the world’s truth and sincerity. “I never formally retired from love, of course. People can think what they like.”

“I doubt they would believe you, even if you came out and declared it.”

“Naturally, but I repeat: relationships are dangerous. Approach at your peril. Who wants to experience a train wreck or expire of utter boredom?”

Dan looked up at the marquee. “So this is your solution?”

“This is easier. It’s soothing. It gets you through the night. It doesn’t linger around and ask you to do the laundry or expect breakfast the next morning after disappointing you the night before.”

“They can’t all have been boring. Your boyfriends, I mean.”

Donny stopped to consider.

“Maybe not. But I am now of an age — a certain age, as they say — where all the good ones are either taken or dead or desperate. Of the former category, one need not apply. Of the latter two categories there is nothing to be said.”

They proceeded up the stairs and joined the line waiting to be frisked by a security guard who was, sensibly so for the management, a devastating looker. He embodied danger: pale skin, glossy hair and dressed entirely in black leather, right down to his fingerless gloves. Christian Bale crossed with the Hell’s Angels. A gay man’s death wish made flesh. Most of the clients seemed to anticipate his touch rather than fear it. Apparently they regarded it worth the heave-ho to climb the stairs just to be within his grasp.

Dan moved forward, arms raised for the patdown. “What about Philip?”

“Who?”

“Weren’t you dating someone named Philip last year?”

Donny cast his mind back. “Describe.”

The bouncer let Dan pass after what Dan regarded as a highly unprofessional frisk. The man seemed to have been checking out his personal apparatus rather than searching for weapons of the lethal sort. He turned to Donny, who was now undergoing a similar treatment.

“Delectable, lovely, charming. A beautiful, brown prince. Indian, maybe? You brought him around once or twice. He seemed very sensible. I thought you two got on well.”

“Ah! You mean Not Philip.”

“Not Philip?”

Donny smiled, looking his sphinx-like best.

“Yes, Not Philip. He was Sri Lankan.”

The bouncer waved him through. Dan looked back over his shoulder.

“What was he checking for — cock rings and scrotum piercings? Since when did getting into a strip club become a porn audition?”

“It’s all part of the fun.”

“The joys of ghetto life?”

“Right. Anyway, he — meaning Not Philip — kept saying he had a secret. Not Philip made it sound like something terrible. An affliction of some sort. I kept expecting HIV or worse. I even checked out his medicine cabinet the first few times I stayed over. Nothing. Not even an eczema cream.”

“So what was it?”

They were lining up again, this time to pay the inflated cover charge. Donny waved at a couple of faces in the line-up ahead and blew a kiss, all without breaking stride in the conversation.

“Two things, actually. First, his real name was Prabin, not Philip. He doesn’t like to go by his birth name.”

“It’s a nice name.”

“Exactly. He didn’t live up to it.”

“Not the most terrible thing, but it says a lot about him. And the second?”

Donny held up a warning finger: Hearken — a note to the wise.

“And second, he was forty-two years old and had never had a relationship last longer than two weeks.”

“Ouch!”

“I think ours was the record at eighteen days.”

“Congratulations?”

“No. Sympathy would be more in order. He was beautiful. Flawless, in fact. And he was heavenly in bed. All testosterone and sphincter muscles. His hair was superb, his skin irreproachable. Even his breath smelled fresh in the morning, no matter where his tongue had been the night before. But Not Philip was also not relationship material. At the first hint of my growing amorousness, he bolted.”

“A fight?”

“No, more like a fright. And then no answer for days on end. From fast forward, let’s-get-together-every-day to suddenly I’m-busy-all-the-time. I stopped calling after the first week. I became pathetic by the second. By the third, I wanted to go over and scratch at his door and beg him to let me in. I was totally gaga, head over heels. He wanted none of it.”

Bills placed on the counter vanished in exchange for a stamp on the inner wrist. Dan looked down at a glowing smiley face. He assumed it was either a suggestion of the demeanour expected of each guest while on the premises or a highly optimistic prediction of how he would be feeling by evening’s end.

He turned back to Donny. “Did you ever ask him what happened?”

A baleful glance. “I know what happened. I reached my Best Before date. I was stale meat. The next time I saw him was a month later. He was out at the Eagle surrounded by friends. I picked up my broken heart, dragged it across the floor by its chain, and went over to say hi. He actually acted glad to see me. He slipped me the tongue and we practically made out in the middle of the bar for a full five minutes. The resurrection, la-ti-da. Then when I asked when I could see him, he just shrugged. ‘We’ll get together again,’ he said. Five minutes later, I saw him snogging someone else. That was it. I never heard from him again.”

“Somebody new on the scene?”

Donny shrugged. “I doubt it. He just doesn’t get attached. For long, anyway. I mean, if you haven’t had a real relationship by forty-two, what are the chances you’re ever going to have one?”

“True.”

They’d reached the club’s inner sanctum, a rostrum where barely clothed young men wandered freely amongst the “gentlemen” to display their wares, such as they were. Dan looked around curiously. Many of the dancers were truly fetching. Skin tones galore and looks of every sort — from twinks to muscle gods and back again. It was a veritable catalogue of flesh, a modern-day slave auction. Only these boys were for the browsing and borrowing, not the buying.

“Anyway, to get back to you …”

“I thought you’d forgotten.”

“… and your latest debacle.”

They sidled up to the bar where Donny slapped a twenty on the counter. They watched a waiter turn, dip, and glide, pushing two pint glasses forward. Shirtless and wearing only tight shorts, he flashed a killer smile as he handed over the change, hinting that for a small price his affections might also be available. And maybe, for just a bit more, the rest of him, too. Donny pocketed the coins and left a five.

Dan glanced over. “Big tipper tonight.”

“I’m a regular. It pays to treat the staff well.”

“Big tippers get big tips?”

“Something like that. By the way, we’re going to miss the show. Let’s head upstairs.”

They climbed the well-worn stairs, illuminated by a red light, and bordered by an intricately carved wood panel that might have come from the dungeon of the Marquis de Sade’s last stand. Arcane, polished, and reflective, it bespoke of a century or more of hidden delights. A pseudo-mirror, with a patina shiny enough to fool the drunker patrons in a dim light.

Upstairs, they found a dancer’s platform with boys lined up on either side. A glass backdrop overlooked a second stage one floor below. Double your viewing pleasure, double your fun. The MC stood, microphone in hand. His patter was quick, the music jaunty and upbeat as he offered the patrons a “Slam Bam Minute” featuring full frontal displays of the best wares the house had to offer.

Dan quaffed his beer and settled onto a couch beside Donny as the MC hustled his protégés for “a more intense encounter” behind the curtains at only twenty dollars per song. Considerably more than Ten Cents a Dance, Dan mused, but then this club had a reputation for being up-market. Who said romance was cheap?

On the dais, each dancer flashed his most prominent features. Many were attractive. All were charming. Heartbreak was the stock in trade here. Some were quite impressive — a young black man with the most differentiated set of abs Dan had ever seen, another with an elongated penis that, even slack, dangled nearly to his knee. Donny leaned over to confide that it had earned him the unofficial moniker, “Point of No Return.”

“Colourful, that,” Dan replied.

One at a time, the boys mounted the stage for the buying and selling of surreptitious looks; price no object when desire’s on the block. Because what it comes down to, they seemed to say, is what have I got and how much can you afford? Once you’re hooked, you’ll keep coming back. No matter the prize, no matter your taste. Crack cocaine, cheap gin, rough sex, good times, a roll of the dice, the turn of a card. Everything’s up for sale. Anything to blot out the despair of so long life, the pain of your miserable existence. A little magic to put the shine back in your eyes and the colour in your cheeks. Wind up the top and set it spinning on the floor once again. Your roll, friend. I’ll undo my shirt just enough to make you squirm, show you the outline of a stiff prick in my trousers or push up a sleeve to flash the bulging vein just begging for a needle. Make me feel complete and I will love you forever. Or maybe just for a day or possibly even an hour. Well, long enough for a quick wank, at least. Because love’s a sham, love’s a lark. And we all know love is immortal. Or is it just immoral? No matter. While your need is strong my love is miles wide, a magic carpet to ride on straight to the land of your dreams. Who cares if it’s only a few threads deep? But then five, ten, thirty years on and you’re still trying to kick the habit. Where, oh where, is love? What is love, after all? Better to forget it ever existed. Better never to have known that dream at all. Time to drag yourself off home alone, once again. Ah, well, there’s always tomorrow night.

The final dancer was one of the most dazzling Dan had ever seen. Sparkling blue eyes and chin-length black hair cut in a bob, he had a trailer-park body covered in tattoos, a piercing in every orifice, and a face with movie-star potential written all over it. He was anybody’s amusement-park ride.

True to his word, the MC wrapped up the event in under a minute then leapt off-stage to allow the first dancer to give his all for art.

“You never said what ended the affair with Kelvin,” Donny remarked, his attention revived now that the on-stage display was over and the music had returned to the normal tinselly state of a strip club-cum-brothel.

“His temper,” Dan said.

Donny gave him a quizzical look. “Not yours? Shocking.”

“Not mine. We’d made plans to get together on a Saturday and, as usual, he revised things at the last minute. He called half an hour before and said he was too busy to meet at four, as planned. He suggested a six o’clock rendezvous instead. I said I might be free then, but I would let him know if I was.”

“And?”

“Turned out I wasn’t. At five minutes past six, he called to ask where I was in a rather unpleasant tone. I said I was busy. He flew off the handle and called me irresponsible. I reminded him we’d agreed to meet at four and when he changed the time I said I would confirm if I was free. I wasn’t. Ergo my no-show and no call. He seemed to think I’d kept him waiting on purpose.”

“And did you?”

“No, but I purposely didn’t rearrange my schedule for him because I was annoyed how he always had to have the last word. I wasn’t going to give it to him. The next day I let him know I didn’t like how he rescheduled all our get-togethers to suit him. He blew up. I told him to think about why he was really angry and hung up. I waited for an apology, but all I got was an email demanding that I return his shitty flowers.”

Donny quaffed his beer and turned his attention to watch Point of No Return, who had just arrived onstage for a solo performance.

“He came in second in the Mr. Slam contest last month. Wait till you see his talent.”

The boy’s only attempt at dancing constituted something like jiggling back and forth from one foot to the other for a few seconds. After removing his last few pieces of clothing, he simply bent forward and tickled the head of his penis with his tongue.

“His real name is Sam,” Donny offered, in case Dan wondered or cared.

“Good to know, I guess.” Dan watched in fascination. “Is that possible?”

“Legally or physically?”

“Either. Both.”

“It shouldn’t be, but he’s doing it, regardless.”

“I’d be fascinated to know what talent the first place winner had.”

“He rode in on a unicycle.”

Dan looked over at the minuscule stage, trying to imagine it.

Donny turned to Dan. “Anyway, my summation of your latest affair is that Project Management Kelvin was trying to dominate you with all his revisions and criticisms. When he discovered he couldn’t, it pissed him off. You’re a nice guy. You’re co-operative and generous. And you are never, ever irresponsible. That’s obvious to anyone who knows you. He wanted your subservience. You didn’t give it to him — and good for you — so it was over. He was rude and he owed you an apology. You didn’t get one, you waited a reasonable time for it, and then made for the exit. I would have done the same, only sooner.”

The music died and Point of No Return stood basking in the applause, lights glittering off all his piercings. Donny downed the dregs of his beer, looked over at the Ten Cents a Dance stage.

“And that is why both of us are alone today,” he concluded with a nod at Dan’s drink. “Another?”

Dan looked down at his glass, still half full.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Donny patted him on the shoulder. “I know. That’s your problem. You need to be bad again. Just now and then, for old times’ sakes.”

“Can’t. You know the rules. I’m a reformed man.”

Donny gave him a serious look.

“You know, they did this experiment with fruit flies. They put a bowl of alcohol in two different containers: one was filled with fruit flies that had just had sex and the other with fruit flies that hadn’t had sex for a long time. Guess which ones drank the most.”

Dan shrugged. “No idea.”

“The sex-starved fruit flies. You should be lapping it up, if your current state of datelessness is to be believed.”

“Are you saying I have the sex life of a fruit fly?”

“Something like that. If you don’t want sex then at least have another drink. For old times’ sake.”

Just then Sam drifted by, smiling at Donny and four other men simultaneously.

“Speaking of old times’ sake … I’ll be back.”

Dan watched as Donny followed Sam to the private booths at the back of the bar. He knew they’d be gone for at least three songs’ worth, which meant he was going to be a) very bored for the next fifteen minutes, and b) hit on by hungry street hustlers-gone-legit with their modicum of stagecraft, such as it was. Fortunately, he knew how to hold his own here.

He looked around the bar at the faces of the perpetually frumpy clientele, saw the unsated hunger as they gazed at the dancers, at odds in a community where youth and beauty were crowns worn by princes and Cinderfellas. All others were ugly stepsisters at best.

Three songs unfurled in raunchy hypnotic beats. Dan managed to persuade two lap dancers that their affections were wasted on him. No joy in paying for something he could touch but not call his own or bring home for consolation later. He was thinking of leaving before Donny returned. Too old for this sort of thing, he’d say by way of apology the next time they spoke. He might have to endure a minor harangue for penance, but it would be worth it to escape this dismal palace of broken dreams.

Then he turned and felt a shiver go down his spine. Something about looking Fate in the eye without blinking. In this case, Fate stood alone in a dark corner, far from the light. Dan noticed him because of his stillness, his body rigid and upright, while everyone around him moved and gestured and shimmied with the beat. This man contained his own centre of gravity, holding himself apart from the rest of the room in a way that suggested superiority without making an issue of it.

Face like a statue. Sculpted cheekbones and deeply recessed eyes. An elegant brow, courtly nose, and slightly dissatisfied mouth. Not white, but exotic in any language, Dan thought. Here was exquisite beauty, the kind made for adoration, obsessive love, and suicidal urges contemplated in the aftermath of a touch. It was the legend carved in the foothills of desert towns and retold thousands of years hence. He’d seen a face like that once, a photograph of a young Serbian prince with just a hint of the gangster about him. The story went that both men and women had gone mad for him, throwing themselves off parapets and ramparts for his love.

Someone bumped his arm, spilling his beer. Dan turned as a short, pudgy boy reached a hand out in drunken apology, smiled sadly, then passed by on his search for some sort of oblivion. Dan’s attention was distracted for only a split second. He looked back hurriedly, as though afraid the vision might vanish. The other was still there. Green laser sliced the air between them, hanging like phosphorous. Neither made a move as the dancers and bartenders and patrons slowly disappeared around them. All Dan saw was the face of the man staring back at him.

If Franz Mesmer himself had been in the audience, the attraction between the two men could not have been greater. Mesmer’s postulation that an energy transfer occurred between animate and inanimate nature might have explained the rising and falling of so many priapic objects in the club’s nether regions, where the magnetic property of money somehow magically transferred its powers to the various body parts moving in accordance with some mysterious principle. On the other hand, it would have had a harder time explaining the irresistible attraction between two men finding themselves alone in a crowded room, though it could have been defined as chemistry. In fact, it was a simple equation: two men who were hot for each other had just found their immutable object. Lust could be a beautiful thing.

Donny returned with a fresh mug of ale and an even fresher smile on his face. He saw Dan gazing off, looked over and caught the exotic features.

He set his glass down and shrugged. “Go for it, Romeo. You’ll forget Project Management Kelvin in all of two seconds.”

“Who?”

“My sentiments exactly.”

They moved at the same time. Dan caught a gymnast’s sleekness in the other’s even stride.

“My name is Ren Hao,” said the vision limned in white linen.

He held out a hand. There was no ring in the usual place, but there was a tan line suggesting it had been there recently. Dan suspected he was one of those beautiful Taiwanese businessmen on loan from their domestic lives, having a night out that the wife and kids would never have to know about, so far across the waves and on vacation from conventional morality.

“I’m Dan Sharp.”

They shook hands, the desire for physical gratification only intensified by the contact.

Dan thought of his options: a long, boring conversation that might eventually lead nowhere or else taking charge of the situation, here and now. He recalled Donny’s dismissive comment regarding the long road to consummation. Besides, he told himself, this one was definitely not a wait-until-later type. If you find a diamond on the road, you pick it up and put it in your pocket. Otherwise, it won’t be there tomorrow when you return. Shiny things had a tendency to disappear quickly in the gay world.

Ren beat him to it. “My hotel is nearby,” he said.

“Sounds good to me,” Dan said, thinking it would turn out to be the Delta Chelsea or maybe the Towne Inn, both quietly functional accommodations that had hosted their share of late-night get-togethers of the vicarious sort.

Not so.