Blind hearts - 9. Jubilation Porter

Alex, Frank, and Dimov eyed each other under the awning, before the comb’s teeth view of tall cypresses lining up a tight fence. Alex made haste to introduce to Dimov, his man-at-arms, his stupido compadre, his fellow idiot since fifth grade. But his fidgety haste to bond the two men fell into the doldrums, as Dimov shook Frank’s hands with a languid diffidence. Frank, a small vein quivering on his temple, dimmed under the trapezoidal wall of Dimov’s chest that seemed to dwarf his own small head. Frank switched between Dimov’s tight grin and Alex’s crimsoned face, and said something about good beer and good poker inside, even tugged on Alex’s waist like they were an old couple, “I can’t wait for lamb chops.” Frank’s splashy gait disappeared behind the artistic bronze door, then Dimov glared at Alex with a tenacity that made Alex snort a little laugh.

“Yeah, don’t worry about Frank, he’s straight as a doornail.”

Dimov nodded. “But crooked enough to collect little taxes.”

Alex narrowed himself into a more careful spirit of inquiry. “Tax day can’t come soon enough. I’m drowning in his detailed statistics on the hot bust to hip ratio.”

“Effort, Alex, effort. You just need to compile for him your detailed statistics on the optimum length to girth ratio, and tax day would be at hand.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Dimov’s eyes were unyielding. Alex persevered nonchalance, ventured to play with the outlines of Dimov’s breast pocket.

“You’re really cute, you know that?” Alex murmured.

Dimov held off the errant hand. “Not cute enough to keep you good.”

“This is your lucky day. I’ve decided to start dating seriously, and you, sir, are number one in line.”

“You have a strange definition of luck.”

Alex saw Dimov straighten and his face sharpen, and he chuckled with the wellspring of ridiculous feeling tickling inside of him. Dimov was the same, he thought, the same stony fellow who endured these faces blank, hard, dark, tottering a big and secure impression. However, he could feel behind the points in his eyes, the quavering, the agitation, the bottomless unease, and the combination thrilled in him such beautiful erotic feelings.

The wind soughed in with the murmurs from the ocean, and Dimov was mucking ahead to the door in a dull ruminative gait. Alex stepped back to allow him to open the door, and his large hand gestured towards the cavern of jeers and cigar smoke. Appreciating his shy chivalry, Alex proffered a smile, but Dimov looked unmoved.

“After you dump number four in line, call me whenever you want me to fuck you. You’re good for at least that much.” Dimov’s tone was brisk and yet placid.

Alex glowered at him with undisguised hatred but recovered with a blasé flick of the head and said, “Yeah, dating’s a bother. But fucking you would be a great dessert after steak and salad.” He strode inside and left Dimov alone to laugh incredulously at the inanity of it all.

The house was a coliseum of light. The patio commanded a wall view of the blue Pacific. The host, Richard, looked thick and menacing enough to have been the dastardly god who could have wrestled the beast of the sun inside the high walls and two storeys and splattered the drop ceilings and rose granite surfaces with trinkets of light.

Alex felt ill at ease amongst the guests who were mostly male and balding and given to dilations on portfolios that dwarfed the GDP’s of banana republics. He sidled around the penumbras of their stodgy straight blustering. Every five minutes to Alex’s dismay as well as delight, Frank bumped his temple into Alex’s, pressed his lips close to his ear to give a special report of Samuel Hoyt being an idiot at the poker table. “He’s a calling station. Fucking dumbass. Why she’s going out with him?”

Alex was miffed in a quandary. Play up the darling boyfriend? Play up the dispassionate buddy? For now, he giggled along with the trophy girlfriends, he smiled stupidly at Richard’s rack of homemade wine, he tittered about his modest poker hobby, especially made sure to stay clear of the front heavy Paul Cohn who kept spitting about the miracles of lasers and clean surgical cuts.

Still undecided and now listless, he retreated to oceanic patio, and leaning back against the balcony, he could see through the glass doors two Dachshunds, white and black, kicking up a storm of smiles. They lopped over the side tables, humped against hairy shins, scattered over the lamb bone thrown out to the patio deck. Jesus and Satan the dogs were called. Jesus kicked up his forelimbs against Alex’s legs, prompting him to grin and squat and stroke the pendent black ears. He would like to keep a dog, but Susan objected to their needy, jaunty, jumpy theatrics wrapped in off smells.

“They’re a handful,” Richard said, standing sentry over the beer cooler.

“Dogs are great.” Alex glanced over its onyx eyes and caught a glimpse of Frank inside insisting his black eye was the result of an unfortunate bar duel, in which his beautiful boyfriend saved the day. Alex’s spirits were unexpectedly ushered to a lovely lakefront of repose. He said to Richard, “Sure, they fuck around a lot. They hump everything in sight, but they know who their one master is. They’ll stay faithful to that one person only.”

“Faithful to the one who gives the bone…”

Alex did not like Richard’s boorish tone, annoyed him really. He refused to believe Jesus eager and giddy could be just as selfish, cynical and utterly ignorant of loyalty as humans could be. Rather cynical and selfish just as he, now dissipating under a focused light from a strange source, was wont to be.

Just as Jesus skittered away to the meat-scented hands of a man wearing boat shoes, Frank shouldered into the patio, pricking Alex back into a tall stoic stance. Alex found himself hardening at the muscular fullness of Frank’s lime-green torso. He turned away painfully from the sight and fell upon the railing and breathed in deep the salt air and the obviating blueness of the sea.

But a needy presence bumped in by his side again, and Alex quivered a brave face for his dear friend. Frank gave another intimate report, “Dumbass raised and raised on unsuited three, five till the very end. I don’t get it. She hates idiots.”

Frank’s lips was sheened red and moist, and Alex was slipping under a concupiscent boulder trundling and crashing all reserve. He retorted, “I’d fuck a big dumbass over a short whiner.”

“Fuck you too, darling. You sure as hell aren’t getting any tonight,” Frank muttered too loudly.

A sudden in fall of light to their side drew them to the rapid movement under the left eye of Richard, within an earshot, looking quite unamused. Frank’s smile was losing its fresh tautness by the second, and Alex, grinning victoriously, left him alone to explain his inner nature to the friend of the family.

And there was Dimov, a beautiful boulder on a high-backed chair, watching hawkishly over the poker table. Finally someone he could lust after without reservation, without an overtone of romance. Alex grabbed a beer and sat by him.

“Did you want a beer?” Alex asked. Dimov did not stir. “Yes, I remember you don’t drink—You never said who you knew here?”

Dimov’s silence all the more loosened a frisson of sexual feeling in Alex as he continued blithely, “I have fucked big guys before, you know. They always beg me for more.”

“Go bug them then,” Dimov said, his face still hard and unmoved over the table.

“Is it fun being a hard ass?” Alex twisted jauntily the cap off the beer. “I think we can call our sitting together here and now a date… don’t you?”

Dimov looked capable, military amid the competing jeers and Alex jostled into the hard log of him gently. He did not budge, and Alex blathered with abandon, “Can you believe the name of this beer Jubilation Porter? I swear the makers get boners from these names…Victorious Bastard, Commander Hops, Brown Blondie—”

“You sure your slightly crooked friend won’t prefer your company?” Dimov’s gaze was directed to Frank looking small beside a buxom platinum blonde.

“He doesn’t mind sharing.”

“I do.”

“And you need to relax,” Alex said with a brittle, bright tone.

Dimov still had not looked at him, and Alex felt a little grateful for that. He swallowed the simmering silences and belched with a resolve to enjoy the chocolaty, bitter brew. It was still nice to bask fragrantly under Dimov’s queer masculine glow curiously scented with camphor—Good to be honestly baffled with the jitter in his heart and be pleasantly naïve as to its source.

The dogs yipping and yapping overshadowed the requests for more beer and more peach cobbler. Janet was playing now, despite Samuel’s indecorous pinches to her side as he tried to make her to reconsider. And there was Frank, standing back at the patio doors and gazing in the direction of Janet’s stylish allure. Alex could feel Frank slipping away from him, sort of like a man plodding farther into the grave of the ocean, the riotous waves clambering up his waist, his chest, and burying the black mass of his head forever more.

Alex lurched into a cocoon of insecurity and was stifled with the links of thoughts. He was supposed to be an act of God, the guy who had things under control. And now he was moping dreadfully over a straight guy doing what straight guys do: mentally undressing a woman and dreaming of rubbing his face in her tits. Fuck he was a sad sack.

The implacable insistence of the dogs shook Alex, wagging their tails, shining their faces up to his, in want of beer. Then he drew to his side, Dimov, who evidently had been looking at him unnoticed. Finally he was getting his attention, Alex thought and laughed a little and raised his beer to him.

“Our date could use a little more…. You really should try the Jubilation Porter. Live a little, be a jubilant Russian—Ukrainian.” Alex was red and smiling and squishy with affect.

Dimov’s eyes were dull. “You give him serious, I get cocky buffoon.” He shook his head, turned back to faint sound of chips clinking at the poker table.

Alex shrugged. And for a few moments Dimov’s words were indistinct amid the compliments to the chef and demands for Janet to stop folding and be a sport, and then with an unpleasant abruptness, Alex understood ‘him’ to mean Frank. He guzzled the rest of the beer and a burping resolve to strike Dimov from his telephone contacts.

“And I need more beer.” Alex held up the bottle in the light. Through its amber, convex view, he could see the crumbling cliffs of poker chips, and the room breathing at a nauseous pace, and Frank’s grinning face was looming larger and closer.

“You need to introduce me to Tony. I gotta to know more about sneaking into the Emmy.” Frank said, now, standing over him, looking bleached by the sun.

“I dunno…”

Frank before him, Dimov beside him, Alex squinted at the fluted edges of the bottle rim. Suddenly Alex’s mind elongated with the image of Tony growing tall and erotic over him, his face reddening and brightening, and his heat glowing fervidly as he gave gasconades on his not-too-dangerous escapades amongst Hollywood types. Alex had always thought Tony would say anything for a rim job. Lies, though obtrusive for deep bonds, did not spoil their private arrangement. However now in proximity to Frank’s jocular intimacy, Alex alarmed at the idea of Tony intuiting things, spoiling things, just like Dimov.

Alex said carelessly, “Yeah I dunno. He might get the wrong idea.”

“Tell him I don’t mind sharing.”

Alex drifted over Frank’s honest eyes and peeked to his right: Dimov was still Ukrainian Buddha. Alex slapped his shoulder and said valiantly, “Stole the pot from my man here in Vegas. You two should talk. I’m going to get a beer.”

Frank neighed an affirming snort, and Alex bounded for the patio and its liberating light.

Alex decided on the All-American great tasting lager and loitered around the patio doors to enjoy its urine-tinged greatness. The voices of people raising and calling, the trash talk, Janet’s own raspy-colored mezzo sedated him. All seemed pleasant and bright again. A lull had wafted in with a gust of sea air and Paul’s somnolent sounds about the forty percent growth in the medical laser business. Then the game came down to Janet and Paul.

Paul asked Janet, “You have that ace, don’t you?”

“Why yes, I do,” she said.

Paul leered at her breasts free and liquid underneath the sheer black. “You’re such a pretty liar, you know that?”

“Thanks … No good being an ugly liar.”

“I’ve seen better, bigger tits.”

Janet ruffled her hair as if to let in more air. “There’s always someone smarter than you, richer than you, more beautiful than you. Unless you are—”

“God,” Samuel said, on her left, “Hehe, God has the biggest tits.”

“Comes with the territory. He’s the greatest possible being we can think of.” Janet looked at her stack of chips as if there were her babies in need of a bath. “He’s got the biggest tits and the biggest cock—”

“You must be an absolute bore in and out of bed,” Paul said.

“I can’t help it. There’s only so much material I can work with.”

Paul hissed and pushed all his chips. “All in.”

Janet stared serenely at Paul’s heavy jowls for the next several moments.

“You should bow out, you don’t want to lose your shoe money,” he said

“Usually I say you should invest in these things, but…” Janet probed Paul’s face for flaws, for something tangible in the deep wrinkles and sharp nose. “I fold. I have to hold onto shoe money.”

Paul sniggered. “Good girl, I like you now. Even better if you can fold yourself like a pretzel.”

Samuel, however, was nudging her elbow and demanding harshly why she did match his bet, and reiterating how he knew she would wimp out in the end. Janet replied softly, “I’m in this to win money, not to measure my nonexistent dick.” She flipped over her cards and revealed pocket tens. And Paul boasted his pocket kings, which did not seem to console Samuel any.

“You’ve to go after this like a bull. Ok, you lose a little, so what?” Samuel said. “You just don’t back down.”

Paul interjected, “It’s ok, Sammy boy.” The couple regarded him with the narrow look of those who would not be interrupted, but Paul, thick brows squiggling, whisked two hundred dollar notes from his wallet. “Here, Janet, money for the shoe and titty fund.”

“Ooh, thanks.” Janet, glee smearing her face, pressed the notes like it was a precious chiffon dress for the prom. “Jeez what am I going to do with money? Probably going to waste it on mascara.”

Richard laughed. Alex sighed. Frank’s fists were clenched hard to his sides. Samuel looked as if he wanted the money instead. Alas, Janet was frittering with the joy of benjamins, as she pressed the notes flat and folded them breadthwise, then with a raspy chuckle, proceeded to tear up the notes into the tiniest pieces. She collected the pieces onto a nearby saucer and pronounced, “I’m too dumb to keep money.”

“You stupid bitch,” Paul barked.

Alex did not like the sharp lines etching Frank’s face, and hoping to take the edge of him, called out sanguinely, “How much do you need, Paul? A grand? Two grand? What do you need so that you can get yourself a bigger dick and shut the fuck up?”

“Oh, shut it princess.” Paul muttered, glowering at the saucer of shreds.

“Princess? That’s the best you can do, you senile fuck?” Frank said with a mock lisp.

“Boys, please, please, I get it, testosterone, primal need to assert dominance … now can we just get back to poker?” Janet said pleadingly.

Paul fixed onto Janet a face trembling with rage. And there, Frank burst into laughter. His ebullient sounds shook the white walls of the mansion, and one by one, people allowed themselves to be carried along in its comfortable berth, adding their own overtone of silent praise for Janet. Dimov stepped out into the warmer dark of a corridor. Paul was demanding another round against the dumb bitch. Samuel was still moping over shredded notes. But Alex was slipping beneath the waves of Frank’s laughter and suffocating with lust over his happy mouth, the happy mask of his face. Pain echoed within the deepest part of himself. He felt another tragedy hover above Frank’s abrupt cackles, that of the last days of spring and impossible gaiety, that of graduation and the last days of these frolicking times of free food, free camaraderie and free laughter.

Pressure was building in his chest and driving up his throat. Still Frank was slipping him gentle glances in between deep laughter. The air seemed to have jellied into a sickening mass around him, and these bullets in his throat … He had to get away. Fuck me, why is this happening? And Alex flitted for the comforting dark of the corridor.

He saw Dimov about to the close away the door of the restroom, and without thinking, dashed upon the entrance and shimmied his way inside. Alex absorbed hungrily the cream tile and white enamel and the sounds of the fan gobbling the air laced with chemical rose. His eyes fell upon the Dimov’s veined forearms, rode the neat folded up sleeves and rested on the hard lips. Alex grinned thinly. It felt free again, free and loose.

“I thought our date needs a little privacy,” Alex said.

Dimov had to heating up underneath his blank exterior, Alex was sure of it. The anticipation heightened in him. It careened a wild feeling in his veins like he was strapped to the nose of a bullet train.

“Bet you a thousand bucks, I can flip you over,” Alex said easily.

“You say the dumbest things.”

“Come on, the easiest thousand bucks here…”

Dimov went on the business of urinating, washing his hands, then considered Alex’s cocky grin reflected in the mirror. He nestled himself over the sink and looked to the curious flower embroidered on the hand towel hanging from a rack.

“I think your friend’s more crooked that you think,” Dimov said.

Alex sputtered a little laugh and took the opportunity of the bumptious moment to move in closer. He smoothed his hand over Dimov’s breast pocket and felt for that little bump underneath the thin cotton.

“Now who’s saying dumb shit?” Alex played translucent buttons on Dimov’s shirt, wriggled his fingers in between the waistbands, barely containing his breath over the song of arousal wavering in him.

“You know why I don’t drink?” Dimov said cautiously. Alex carried on palming him and feeling for his zipper. “It’s because I don’t like feeling like an idiot.”

“I see that,” Alex murmured, swept his hands over the hard brick of Dimov’s abdomen.

“I got so drunk this one time in college. I woke up in the bed of my crush and his girlfriend, not having any memory of it.”

“Bummer.”

“Alex ... you’re fun and all, but I feel like an idiot around you.”

“We’re about to blow each other in the bathroom of a rich guy’s mansion …. Yeah, we’re idiots.” Alex fumbled his belt buckle, but Dimov took control of the hands.

“Help me here, help me not feel like an idiot.”

Dimov’s face was soft and pale and naked in the light. Alex gritted his teeth, not liking the savage cold sneaking inside of his trousers.

“If I wanted Sturm and Drang, I’d finish that idiotic Goethe homework that’s due in a few days,” Alex said.

“Ah…” He sounded hurt and a little hopeful. “I think I know what your problem is.”

“I know I have a bad case of needing dick whenever and from whomever.”

“Well that too....” Dimov, smiling affectionately, cradled his face. Alex did not like the warmth covering his cheeks. They seeped through the cracks of him and now longing was lunting from those cracks and conjuring Frank in front of him. Alex looked away to the spiraling vortex of the toilet bowl. Fuck him! He reached for Dimov’s neck and kissed his lips. But Dimov would only allow him two seconds of bliss before pulling him off and holding Alex’s chin so as to maintain eye contact.

“You can’t stand weakness,” Dimov said lightly.

Alex rolled his eyes, pouted. “My idea of a date is more jubilant.”

“You just can’t—Must be exhausting keeping up with you. Everyone has to put up an act, or you drop them in a second.”

“Friends like me enough.” Alex slipped his hand over Dimov’s fly again. “I’m just the idiot who can’t stop thinking of dick.”

“I see that, but I also see something else. If you let up a little, your friend might be more open with you. He looks at you often like he’s afraid of something—”

“You’re talking out of your ass.”

“Correct me. Enlighten me.”

Alex recoiled, growled at the reflection of his blushing distress on the mirror, gritted his teeth. He was angry, horny, restless, and the damn day was going nowhere.

“You like him?” came Dimov’s still small voice.

“Of course I like him. He has been my buddy since fifth grade. Fuck—”Alex wiped down his face, and still the mirror showed him distress and disorder. “What’s all this about? You fucking jealous of my VERY straight friend?”

“I’m jealous of the way he looks at you, and it’s frustrating how you keep ignoring it by playing the clown.”

“Yeah, I’m going to get me some more of that peach cobbler.”

“Wait, you feel me up and you're just going to leave?"

There was the rakish glint of a smile on Alex’s face. “Now I'll bet you a thousand bucks if you can get Frank to do something about that.”

Alex swaggered out the door. Dimov looked over the burden in his trousers and thought distinctly about the games he would never win, the chances he could not take. “Shit,” he whispered, “shit.” And he thought of his crumbling pit and Charley’s responsibility in all of it.