Gillette - 1. Gillette

Gillette

Terry looked around frantically; his stringy black hair whipped around, stinging his left cheek. He’d looked in the barn and behind the hayshed. Before that, the twelve-year-old boy had searched along the creek in the pasture where they usually looked for tiny black minnows to use for fishing. The pond in the field across the road was the only place he hadn’t looked.

Why were they doing this to him—again?

Terry swallowed back the hot sting of his tears and the hard lump of resentment. This was just like last year. After the first couple of days, they would ditch him and go off without him. Last year he’d said something to his aunt. She put things right, but it wasn’t worth it. The other boys barely concealed their contempt of him. Sure, they didn’t avoid him for the rest of the trip; however, the sense of ‘forced’ companionship held little comfort. In the end, he started simply staying away from them. It was less painful to grab a book and sit on the porch than watching the others giggle and jostle without including him.

The boy gazed across the graveled surface of the farmyard at the outbuildings one last time. His uncle’s farm was prosperous with a newer steel-encased machine shed, and a nice, tall, blue silo with a big, silver arm reaching out into the red-painted barn. The aroma of the rich, acrid manure mixed in with the sweet, harsh odor of the silage when he breathed in deeply. When he first arrived, along with his other cousin and his brother, he had noticed this tang permeated everything throughout the farmyard. Now he barely noticed it. In the past three days, he’d become accustomed to everything smelling both rotten and foul.

Terry brushed his curly raven locks behind his ears and shook his head. His sense of anxiety had vanished, and in its place he felt a curious kind of calm, like before a storm. It wasn’t exactly the kind of feeling he enjoyed. It was sort of like when he walked away from a game with other kids. He felt relief. It was like he no longer had to fight, though he also didn’t feel like he’d won anything, either.

He always felt like he was the outsider. At school, he was the one classmates would avoid. In the neighborhood, most kids would keep their distance. Without intending it, Terry felt his own family looked at him askew. He was different than others: strange. Which led to his feelings of discomfort today.

After all, it wasn’t just his cousins and his brother who were hiding away from him. It was his best friend, or at least, a guy who he thought was his best friend. He didn’t want to consider Darren’s betrayal--not now. It was a little too painful, though to be fair, it wasn’t like Terry and Darren were actually best friends. They were ‘right now’ best friends, or at least had been.

Terry understood the shifting alliances among boys. Sometimes his cousin Lonnie was the goat. Other times, the boys ganged up on his brother, Matt. However, it seemed like Terry always ended up as the odd man out. After allegiances hardened and set, he was shunned. It made his skin burn in shame.

The breeze passing over him calmed him and cooled his brow. The feelings of humiliation eased as his breathing relaxed. There was something in his baggage calling to him. Nestled inside was something he considered a friend, really his only true friend. It promised him companionship and fun. Thoughts of the others fled from his mind.

The young boy wiped his face with an open palm and headed toward the house. It wasn’t a big place, only three bedrooms, a small living room, dining room, but with a huge kitchen which opened into two porches, front and back, and a lean-to with a washer and dryer. As he ran up the sturdy wooden steps, he could hear the faint sound of something thumping.

Terry burst through the screen door into the kitchen and saw his Aunt Bridget, was kneading some kind of dough. He watched for a second as she picked up the mass, twisted it in her hands, and then slammed it down on the large, plank kitchen table. It was the kind of table where twelve people could sit around and still not touch the person next to them.

“Where’s the gang?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. She had a determined, yet happy, look on her face. Her graying black hair was tied back into a ponytail. Her wrinkled grin was warm. She continued to wrestle and smack the dough into submission as she smiled at him.

“Down by the creek,” he lied. He couldn’t really look back at her. His face stung with guilt at his falsehood. “I wanna finish my book.”

“Okay then,” she answered. Terry could feel her eyes dissecting him as he ran through the kitchen into the dining room. Along one wall were their cases with clothes for the week. His was a duffel bag, and he crouched down and dug through it. At the bottom there were three books, paperbacks, and he pulled one out at random. It was a haunted-house book he’d bought at school. He’d read it at least three times, but each time he got something more out of it.

Terry liked reading books over and over. For some reason, and he could never figure out why, he got something different each time. Sometimes a story would make him happy, hopeful. Another time, it would spook him and even make him a little sad. Each reading rendered a different set of feelings, which in turn made the story completely new again.

His brother thought he was stupid. Matt would read a book, and when he was finished that was it. He was done with the story. Of course, Matt wasn’t big on reading to begin with. He was bigger and more of an athlete. He liked running, catching balls, and throwing things. Matt liked to hit things with bats or even roughhouse with other boys. Terry’s brother could play the same game over and over and get something different out of it every time.

Terry popped up, clutching the purple-and-green book in his hand. He raced through the kitchen, ignoring his aunt, and once he was on the porch, he slowed and walked over to the old tin chair. As he sat down, it bounced under his weight. The old paint covering the chair felt chalky and comforting, like he was in a classroom. Tucking his legs underneath him, Terry opened the book and started reading. Soon, he was transported to a Florida backwater and a teenaged girl mourning her father. The prairie wind carrying the pungent smells of the barnyard disappeared. The feelings of being abandoned by the other boys dissipated as Terry fell into the pages.

***

Terry pulled the golden brown loaves from the oven. The yeasty, sweet scent filled his sinuses. He didn’t pause to savor the sensation. Instead he quickly slid the tray onto a rolling rack and opened the bottom oven. From its hot interior, he extracted another tray, this one filled with steaming muffins dotted with blueberries exploding with color.

“When you’ve finished with that, come to my office,” the chef said, waving a chef’s knife in the young man’s direction. “I have an assignment for you.”

Terry smiled at his boss and nodded. He quickly closed the convection-oven doors and stepped over to the last piece of equipment. The standing mixer was yawning at him. The large bowl was on the floor with only traces of sticky residue dotting the inside. The giant hook used to knead the dough was dusted with flour and glistening with oil. The baker lifted and twisted the hook, detaching it and allowing it to clank into the bowl. He hoisted them both in his heavily muscled arms and quickly marched them over to the dish area. He set them down and looked up at the man behind the stainless-steel table.

“Do ya’ll need them right away?”

“Naw,” Terry responded, wiping his hands on his long, white apron. “I’m almost done for the day.”

“I wish I could get out of here at two o’clock in the afternoon,” the older man said, grinning.

“Do you really wanna get here at five in the morning?” Terry asked, winking at the dishwasher.

“Hell no,” he answered. The other man grabbed the spray nozzle and turned his back on the young baker. Terry wanted to say more, but then thought better of it. Best leave things as they were.

The baker took off his apron and threw it into a clothing bag stretched onto a metal holder. Humming, he walked quickly through the kitchen prep area to the chef’s office. He knocked on the door, and the chef called for him to enter.

“Take a seat, Mr. Swanson. How do you feel your baking turn has gone?”

Terry smiled tentatively and answered, “I haven’t had many complaints, and we didn’t run out of anything.”

The chef nodded. He was a tall man, even in his rolling office chair. His face was angular with a large beak of a nose, a wide mouth and a sharp jutting chin. He had severe looks, but Terry knew he was a kind man. The chef had hired him straight out of culinary school and offered him a position as a prep cook. From there, Terry worked his way into several different positions until now he was officially the floater. While it sounded like a position that meant little, in fact it was rather highly regarded. Only cooks who were very talented could excel at the varied jobs as line cook, tableside service, and catering. His recent job as baker was simply one of many positions.

“I’m having you work with Gina as purchasing agent starting next Monday. You can have tomorrow and the entire weekend off to get back on a normal schedule.” The chef was beaming at him.

“Thank you,” Terry said, shocked. He hoped his face looked pleased and not somewhat scared. Purchasing agent was only a step down from chef de cuisine and sous chef. He’d only been working at the hotel a year now. Such an advancement was rare, especially for someone only twenty-one years old.

“Take the whole weekend and have some fun. You’ve earned it,” the chef said, leaning forward. “You can take your girlfriend out or something.”

“I appreciate it,” Terry said quickly. “Is that all?” He suddenly felt very uncomfortable. The chef seemed to have implied a question in his statement.

“Yeah, that’s all,” his boss said, sitting back in the chair. He had a puzzled look on his face for a second, then it passed. His smile returned. “Have some fun, okay?”

“I will,” Terry said, standing up quickly. “Thanks again.”

Terry disappeared quickly before he said the wrong thing.

***

Grabbing one of his favorite books, Terry curled up on his single bed in the corner and sighed. Most men his age, especially gay ones, were getting ready to go out. He knew guys in his position would be chatting with friends, making plans, and even taking a short nap to be ready for the bar scene. Terry didn’t like to do that.

First of all, he didn’t have many friends, and certainly not many gay ones. He knew the caretaker of the building and his boyfriend. Also, there were friends of Sally’s who were gay. His cooking-school friend tried to fix him up a couple of times. He simply didn’t go. After getting dressed, Terry would look at his reflection in the mirror and try silencing the voices, the whispers in his head. They told him he wasn’t good enough. His dates would look at him and see his weirdness, how he didn’t fit with others. Even imagining their stares was too much to take.

In the end, he would get out of his outfit, crawl back into gym shorts and a t-shirt, and curl up with a good book.

Like the one he had started tonight. It was Agatha Christie’s ‘The Hollow’, one of his go-to books. He loved all the undercurrents and subtle intrigues as the family attempted to save one of their own. It never failed to delight him as Christie described Henrietta’s artistic process. Terry wished he could be talented.

The young man reached over and grabbed his mug of hot tea. He took a sip and smiled. The smell of the bergamot orange was intoxicating. He started to open his paperback when a thought came bobbing up in his head.

The smell of citrus soap.

It was two weekends ago when he had found himself kneeling in the dark, humid rest room just outside the city. He was behind a closed and locked metal partitioned door, his fingers resting on the bottom of the hole. Someone had cut the stall wall, and he was there, waiting. Scared. Feverish.

The door had opened and the light came on. He heard boots on the lonely-sounding tile in the empty room. The stride was long, and the thumping sound of the heavy soles was measured. The man had stopped, perhaps at the urinal.

Terry could almost feel his heart thudding in his chest. He looked down at his hand, the one not in the gloryhole, and it was trembling. His throat felt dry and dusty. He swallowed, and the sound of his gulp was loud in the space.

The boots moved again, this time shuffling a little. The door to the stall next to his opened with a creak. Each and every movement in the room seemed like thunder in his ears. Terry closed his eyes as he felt warm flesh touch his finger, brushing over the knuckles. Swallowing again, Terry turned his hand and grasped the other man in his fist. He felt the flesh become more firm, filling his palm.

His need and desire overcame him. The man smelled of sweat, grease, and citrus soap. He couldn’t get those smells out of his head. It was the scent of a man who got what he wanted. Terry felt his own explosion after the man’s orgasm. Then he felt nothing but shame and disgust.

Remembering the wretched feelings made Terry shake his head. He was a pig. A fat, ugly, revolting weirdo playing a ridiculous game. He knew there were other men who liked the thrill of the chase, as though he was hunting, lying in wait. Terry didn’t want to be like them, though he knew that was all he’d ever have. All he would ever feel were stolen, fleeting moments of connections with other men. The young man had long since accepted the fact there would never be with someone special.

Quickly, Terry opened the book and started reading again. He willed his brain to become lost in the pages and the words. He stilled and quieted the voices who mocked him. Instead, Agatha whispered to him until he fell asleep with the book still open in his hand.

***

Terry awoke to a kink in his neck. He lifted his head from the awkward position of his shoulders pressed against the wall, and his back bent. It was dark. The glow of his clock radio was the only light. He’d closed the shades. It was black and still.

The young man sat up and reached over, turning on the lamp next to his bed. Crawling off the bed, he walked over to the window and opened it up to look out. His second-story efficiency apartment looked over a dark, tree-filled park. It was the middle of the night. One glance at the clock and he saw he’d slept a full eight hours. It was almost two in the morning.

His baker hours made him sleep through the evening and past last call.

Terry wasn’t sure why he thought about last call, except he was extremely horny. He’d dreamed about men, lots of them, and now he wanted, no craved, a man’s touch. This feeling was worse than two weeks ago when he’d climbed out of bed and wandered across town to the rest room with the hole in the stall. It was a place he found by accident months before, and it called to him that night. Actually it had summoned him many nights until he couldn’t resist any longer.

It called to him now as well. As disgusting as it was, it had relieved him. He felt a weight lift from him. His mind had calmed. His fidgeting had ceased. His manic pacing ended. The smell of sweat and citrus had filled his brain with happy feelings of contentment--for a while.

Now he was feeling all those awful urges again. It was like they’d never been calmed in the first place. In fact, they were worse since he knew the hole in the stall would make things better.

Maybe the dishwasher would come to the hole in the stall again. Then, he would tell everyone how the new cook was a filthy, dirty pig who like to kneel in the filth and service other men’s needs. Wouldn’t the chef love him then?

He didn’t think Rudy knew it was him, but could he take the chance? The dishwasher hadn’t treated him any differently, at least not that he could tell. Perhaps things had changed in Terry. He couldn’t get the larger man out of his head.

All Terry could think of was making him happy, someone like him happy. Maybe the dishwasher, Rudy, wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. Yet, he’d made the guy cry out in the emptiness of the toilets. It was a feeling that satisfied him in a strange way. This was another thing that made him feel different, odd, alone, yet needed.

Terry stripped off his shorts and pulled on his jeans. Buckling his belt, he sat on his single bed and pulled on sandals. If he hurried, he could get to the rest room, please someone, and still his thumping heart. His breathing was shallow and quick. He raced out of his room and down the stairs. As much as he didn’t want to, he had to play this game.

***

The other man was slight, short, and he glowed gray in the streetlight. His jeans clung to his thighs and the thin, sleek shirt accentuated his slim waist and full chest. Terry found another man had taken the stall with the hole. From the sounds he heard when he walked into the small building, a guy was being pleasured by the occupant. After he opened the door, the cries became hushed sounds and then silence. Terry washed his hands and left, disappointed. He almost went home, but then he saw a figure on the other side of the basketball courts. Curious, he crossed the cracked asphalt and found him leaning against the post.

“Hi,” Terry said, approaching slowly. His hunger had obviously overwhelmed his shyness.

The other man pushed away from the post. He had large, dark eyes that glowed. His face was still in shadows though. His black hair was a mess of curls. His body was posed seductively, or at least to Terry’s eager eyes, it appeared so. He was much shorter, slimmer, and looked more vulnerable until he spoke. He didn’t hesitate.

“Want some company?” His voice was lush, thick and syrupy with a hint of an accent.

“Yeah,” Terry said immediately.

“Do you have a place?”

“I do,” Terry answered in a rush. This was like a dream or a movie. It wasn’t real, nor were his reactions. “My apartment.”

“Let’s go,” the other man said. He stepped closer and leaned up to kiss Terry. Terry responded and it was a powerful kiss. It was overwhelming. It was natural. It didn’t feel dirty at all, for once.

***

Terry traced the other man’s bicep, caressing the skin still moist from his tongue. “That was amazing,” he said, looking into the other man’s dark, brown eyes. Those eyes were watching him carefully. Their need had been so great neither man could stop. They’d had wild sex, but it wasn’t just that. It had been play, as well. Terry laughed, and so had the other man.

He still didn’t know his name. As though he could hear his thoughts, the other man said, “My name is Gillette.”

“I’m Terry.”

“Nice to meet you.”

The exchange of names seemed to make things more uncomfortable. Terry stopped touching the other man. He took a deep breath.

“I really liked what we did.” He finally said it. “I’ve never, well, been so intimate.”

Gillette cocked his head and pursed his lips. “Really? This was your first time?”

“Well, my first time, um, doing more than a quickie.” Terry regretted his remark almost as soon as he’d said it.

“You were quite good for a first time. I’ve had my share of experienced men who couldn’t last as long.”

Terry shook his head. “You’re just being nice.”

“No,” the other man said quickly. “I mean it.”

Terry kissed Gillette’s arm. “What is your accent? I mean, you seem to have one.”

Gillette grinned and brushed a lock of Terry’s hair from his forehead. “I’m French Canadian.”

“Oh,” Terry said. “It sounds cool.”

Gillette appeared amused by his response. “To me, it just sounds like normal.”

“I guess.”

Gillette tugged on Terry’s arm. “Are you from here?”

“I am. I work at the Radisson Southeast over near the highway. What do you do?”

Gillette sighed. “I’m a dancer. I’m doing a show that closed tonight. I was very tired, but you know…”

“I know,” Terry agreed. “I fell asleep earlier, and when I woke up, I…”

“Yeah,” Gillette said. “I should get going, I suppose. Our bus leaves at seven.”

Terry nodded until he realized he was crying. He tried to turn away from the other man, but Gillette saw him. He cupped Terry’s face and brushed at a tear drop. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know what came over me.” Terry’s voice was husky and rough. “I don’t want it to end.”

It was a foolish thing to say. You don’t pick up strangers, have sex with them, and think it’s something more. It’s not. It’s a fling, a trick, a kind of hookup.

Gillette stopped moving though. He looked deeply into Terry’s eyes. “Where are my manners?” he finally asked. “Can I stay the night?”

“Yes,” Terry said, his voice gushing with relief. “Please.”

***

Later, after they woke up again, Terry watched as Gillette gathered his things.

“I really had a great time with you.”

Terry chewed nervously on his fingernail before he finally spoke. “I’ll never see you again, will I?”

Gillette glanced over at him and smiled, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

“I feel like last night was a dream.”

The Canadian pulled on his socks and began tying his shoes. “It wasn’t. It was two men having fun. In a way, I wish I wasn’t going either.” Terry hoped the man’s look was rueful.

“Really? Guys like you don’t date guys like me, anyway.”

Gillette looked over at him and scowled. “What are you talking about? You’re exactly the kind of guy I like. You’re handsome, strong, funny, real, and great in bed.”

“I’m not,” Terry said, incredulous. “It’s nice of you to say so, but it’s not true. I’m just plain old me.”

Gillette stood up and walked over to the other man. He placed one hand on each shoulder and leaned in. He kissed Terry gently, lips closed. He cupped Terry’s left cheek, and he was so close, his breath tickled his skin.

“You have trouble with your, how do you say, self-ess, essem. Your amour propre. Listen to me,” Gillette said seriously. “Any man would be lucky to call you his. I would. I will speak only the truth to you. My name, it is not Gillette. My name is Gilbert. I only tell people I’m Gillette so I seem like more.”

“You look like a Gillette,” Terry said, his lips trembling. “I think you are beautiful.”

The Canadian kissed him one more time. He stood up and dug in his pocket. He looked closely at a thing in his palm. He picked it up. It was a coin. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he said, “Do you see this?”

Terry nodded, confused.

“It’s a Toonie; the Canadian two-dollar coin. I want you to have it.”

At first, Terry didn’t want to take it. He just stared at Gillette with incomprehension. Finally, the Canadian placed it on the other man’s hand. Terry picked it up and looked at the silver-and-gold coin. It had a polar bear on it.

“Why?” he asked.

Gillette smiled. “Because I want you to remember me. I want you to look at that coin and say: I once spent a night with a man who didn’t want to leave, but had to. I want you to remember this happened and it mattered. At least it mattered to me.”

Terry felt his eyes burn. He rubbed them as Gillette walked out his front door. He stared at the coin, trying to memorize the surface. The taste of Gillette’s skin was still in his mouth, and he never wanted to forget it.

***

Terry fingered the pendant as he watched the delivery guys open the back of the truck. It was a lovely spring morning out on the back dock of the hotel. There were mourning doves calling, and the street noise was far enough away it sounded more like crashing waves than traffic.

As he waited for the boxes to be unloaded, he smiled and rolled the pendant in his palm. It was the Toonie that Gillette had given him. He remembered the day after the dancer left so vividly. The emotions and events were like the brightest, most vivid colors he'd ever seen. It flashed powerfully into his head.

Terry fell back asleep for another hour or so. When he awoke, he felt disoriented and somewhat lost. The evidence of Gillette's night with him was imprinted on the sheets. There was the towel the young man had used on the floor and a scent of his deodorant. Other than that, it was like Gillette had never come over and spent a night of passion with him.

He'd panicked. Getting out of bed and searching the room, he didn't even know what he would find. There was something missing in his life now, even worse than before.

After eating breakfast and getting cleaned up, Terry paced the floor, pointedly avoiding the bed. He picked up his scattered clothes and washed a few dishes, but he didn't want the last evidence of Gillette to disappear.

Finally, he remembered the coin the other man gave him. Even though it was only a few hours before, it felt like days, weeks since he held him in his arms. Terry kept fingering the coin, weighing it in his hand and then putting it back into his wallet. He'd heard it said when you lost love, it was like a hole you couldn't fill.

It didn't feel like a hole. It felt like he was starving, ravenous, and no amount of food would fill him up. He was missing something now. Gillette had managed in one short night, early morning really, to awaken a need in him.

No. He hadn't awakened the need. Gillette had fed the need, and now it wanted more. The dancer had 'primed the pump', and now flowing out of him was this desire and craving for the touch of his skin and the taste of his lips. It was excruciating.

Terry left the apartment, haunted as it was now, and wandered the streets. It was Friday afternoon, and the streets hummed with life. None of it touched him though. At least, not until he came upon the little jewelry store a few blocks from his house. He looked through the front window and saw the earrings and watches, bracelets and rings. There were also necklaces and fine chains, with pendants of all sorts. He walked into the store knowing exactly what he needed.

Every time he felt the hunger creep up on him, Terry toyed with the Toonie. It calmed him. The metal reminded him of Gillette and made him smile.

"You've been in a good mood today," he heard the chef say. Terry turned and smiled at the older man. The tall man stepped onto the loading dock from the store room. The sun was shining off his whites in a dazzling flash. It made Terry blink.

"I like my job. The purchasing agent duties are challenging, but rewarding as well."

The chef's smile grew. "I wasn't talking about your job. You are walking on clouds. I've never seen you like this. Are you in love?"

Terry's mouth fell open. He didn't know what to say at first. Then he swallowed hard and said, "I don't think so. I mean, I'm not dating anyone."

The chef sighed, patting his shoulder. "You could have fooled me. A Frenchman knows these things."

Terry had forgotten the chef was French. Something Gillette had said and bothered him popped into his head. He thought about it and decided to ask the chef the question.

"Do you know what ‘amore proper’ means?"

The chef seemed taken aback at first. He cocked his head and looked confused.

"A person I know, a guy from Canada said something about my amore proper. I don't know what he meant."

Terry watched as understanding dawned on his boss's face. "You mean, amour propre, right?

Terry grinned and answered, "That's what he said. Exactly like that."

"It simply means self-esteem in English." The chef paused and looked troubled. "Do you have self-esteem problems, Terry?"

"YES!" the voice in his head screamed.

"No, I don't," Terry's mouth said. He grabbed the pendant. The metal warmed by his chest comforted him. "At least, I don't think so."

***

As Terry hefted the cases of tomato sauce and stacked them on the shelf, the chef’s words popped back into his head.

“I've never seen you like this. Are you in love?"

What had he seen in him? Was he walking differently? Did his face betray him? What did the chef mean?

There were some jars of cherries which needed to be unboxed and counted. He suddenly felt quite lost and confused. What was he feeling? Ever since Gillette left yesterday, the world seemed so much brighter, and yet darker as well. His morning honeybun and coffee had been richer, yet less satisfying.

He wanted—no, needed--more.

“I've never seen you like this. Are you in love?"

Terry had always wondered why poets wrote about love like it was something so powerful. In art and literature, love moved mountains, shook the world like thunder and lightning, and made things change in spectacular ways. He had sex with girls a couple of times and it was fun, but it wasn’t earth shattering.

He’d done disgusting, nasty things with other men, and it felt good, better in fact. However, they had never made him feel this way before. Terry was feeling both happy and ravenous with need. He ached deeply when he thought of Gillette.

Grabbing the pendant, Terry rubbed the Toonie and sighed. Was he in love? Could you fall in love over an early morning of sex? That seemed wrong in so many ways. That’s when Gillette’s words came back to him.

“I want you to remember this happened and it mattered. At least it mattered to me.”

It mattered to Terry as well. That’s what made it special. That’s what made it feel like love.