The Tell - 4. Chapter 4

As I idly scroll through the remaining profiles, a new face pops up. I instantly recognize it as Ian.

The doorbell rings. My eyes zip from phone to door in rapid succession.

There he is. And why am I so surprised? It’s not like I hadn’t suspected it. I had. Strongly. So why is my heart racing? Why am I crestfallen? Is it because any chance of it being impossible had been destroyed? Or was it my residual, paradoxical homophobia, still present in my nascent coming out?

Ring, ring.

There is no time to think it through any further; no time to be stunned, to take action; no time for anything. Ian is gay. Big deal.

My approach to the door is hesitant, my steps echo with anxiety. I cannot even bring to mind the last time I had done this. It feels unnatural.

The profile picture had been accurate, and I breathe a sigh of relief. My fear that he’ll be physically capable of overwhelming me is also allayed. He stands a head shorter than me, grey jeans rolled up once at the bottom, simple white t-shirt under a navy bomber, and his eyes scream sex.

“Hey, Mike?”

“Yeah. Well – actually, it’s Mohamed. That’s just a nickname.”

I sense hesitance and unease as he says it. And as I do, I feel my confidence coming back, overriding the nagging regret of resorting to the online meat market, and the shock of seeing Ian on it.

“Do you want a drink?”

“No thanks, I don’t drink.”

“Water? Juice?”

“Not thirsty, thanks.”

He says it, but his mouth sounds dry. He trembles slightly as he reaches to put his coat up on the hook.

“What did that mean? On – on your profile?”

“You mean my bio?”

“Yeah.”

The question catches me by surprise. Maybe it wasn’t desperation I sensed in him.

“It’s just a quote I read somewhere – or heard somewhere. I can’t remember where.”

“Oh. It’s kind of ominous, though. What do you mean by it?”

There’s an unpleasant lilt to his voice, like listening to him in any situation outside of this for longer than necessary would drive me away.

“I didn’t think it was ominous.”

“Oh, well –”

My mind wanders for a minute. Has the clock always been that loud?

“You wanna do it or what?”

There is no point in drawing it out any further. The longer I sit idle, the longer I’ll have time to think, and the longer I have time to think, the more likely my thoughts were to turn to Stan. This is a purge. A detox. What cannot be cannot be. Time now to face reality. And this is reality from now on. This flesh in front of me. The connection I have with Stan seems a million miles away. It cannot be replicated under these conditions, under any conditions.

I deny him the kiss he leans in for. No. No feelings. Just sex. Plan B, the zip is down. There is no grace here, no subtlety or tact. And why should there be? Those are childish things. Fantasies. Things that cannot be. Like…like –

The feeling is not how I remember it. I have never been this disconnected; at least, that’s what I think. What I feel. This is a transaction. The process has its steps, and they are being taken in due order. Now his shirt comes off, now mine. Now my trousers in one wholesale tug, now his. I cannot match his excitement, and he notices. He holds me limp in his hand, trying to coax life into me. My body responds clinically, only reacting, not acting. It’s enough for him.

He rubs and rubs, and I do the same to him. It disconcerts me that I can’t gauge his experience. How many had he had before me? Ever? This month? This week? Today? He smells of fragranced body wash. My mind begins, slowly, to respond to what he does to my body. But I can’t hold off my thoughts. Maybe if my lips were locked with his, I’d be able to. But I can’t bring myself to. Inevitably, the specter of my obsession creeps in.

Stan. Stan. Stan.

What would this be like with him? Transcendental. Monumental. Profound. No – how can I describe in words something that can only be felt? I feel myself begin to go limp.

“Top or bottom?” He breathes heavy.

“Bottom.”

More rubbing. His part has turned into work. It’s not his fault, but he doesn’t know that.

“I need to – you know –” I gesture to the bathroom, and he releases me.

Behind a closed bathroom door, I hold the red bulb in my hand. A memory comes back to me, and the painful stupidity of it causes me to exclaim out loud. The thought of having once used this in the hope – the hope of something happening – how naïve. How hopelessly childish. To waste a whole evening with him in the hopes of – of what? Turning him? Convincing him? Success would have been deceit. And what signals had I been giving off, when he was on my sofa, in my kitchen, when he held the controller in his hand, when I pushed him playfully after a loss, when I squeezed by him to get to the fridge, and lingered?

I pull the flush handle. Tonight’s enterprise is foolish. What incited action in me, what promised to suppress my feelings, no longer has any power. But somehow, I have to persist. I have to give it a chance. Days cannot be spent living a proxy life. Fantasy must remain just that.

But what reality is this?

“Ready?”

I nod.

*

The shower runs cool quicker than usual, I think, until I look at my watch and realize that forty minutes have passed, and I have only just begun to feel clean. The living room curtains have been closed since it began. I did not want to open them again.

My attempt at a solution had been drastic, and only now does that begin to sink in, along with the shame. Shame is so needless, I think. Not when it feels like you’re cheating. But I’d do anything to try. Including this. And to shove aside my opinions on the platform, the sinister nature of those endless tiles of flesh and skin and the iniquity of the quick fix, was a testament to my desperate need to get the thought of him out of my head.

An urge burns inside me, once I begin to be able to think of something other than what had just transpired, to find Ian again. My phone’s white glow floods my face as I hold it with both hands. Tiles and tiles, and yet he is nowhere to be found. I refresh manically. Nothing. Changing the filters doesn’t work either. He’s gone.

**

The rain did it.

The sky is a blanket of grey. Outside my window, a young woman runs across the street with only a newspaper to cover her head. Another day in, another day alone. No more. I don’t know how much longer he would’ve blanked me if I’d left it alone, and I no longer wanted to put it to the test. When my phone buzzed a reply, I don’t know if what I felt was relief or excitement. Perhaps it was neither. Perhaps I just needed something to snap me out of inactivity. I wasn’t a fireman who hears an alarm after days of idleness. I was the person sitting across the road, hearing it go off, and peeking outside briefly until the commotion died down.

We both act like nothing had happened. When do you want to have another session? I ask. When’s good for you? he replies. Today? I can’t, I’m busy. I should leave it at that, but more than anything else, sheer boredom compels me forward. With what? And then, I’m hanging out with Ian. My grip on the phone turns cold. He doesn’t hide it, but why should he? The new me doesn’t need to know when it began, or what they’re doing. The new me doesn’t question any further. The new me shines over me like a veneer, but the workmanship is shoddy, and the cracks are showing.

*

Two days pass and feel like a lifetime. I’d learnt not to talk about what I couldn’t have. About what I shouldn’t crave. There is a shamefulness in it, that one-way street. Learn to let go, they say, and if you can’t, the fault is in you. It was in those days that followed that getting everything off my chest was what I wanted but what I stopped myself from doing. I meet Maria, and she talks, and on my turn, I offer no news. Isabelle hears about my jaunt with Mike, but not of the tears that followed, or of the texts afterwards. At the bottom of my wardrobe, the gift pile grows. Why I feel it appropriate to continue to buy him more, I can’t explain.

There isn’t a silence between us. What’s your shoe size? I ask. Forty-four. I’d guessed forty-three. Why? I have this pair of new shoes lying around that I need to give away. They’re not forty-four, though. A three-minute gap between texts. I count it. Thanks but I don’t need any new stuff. I’m having a clear-out.

My hand trembles lightly as it hover over the mouse. I have half a mind to close the browser in front of me, but to do so would be to admit that he’s thinking about this more than I am. There can be nothing more to what he meant than what he said. Not an overt rejection – a fact, stated simply, without second thought.

Three minutes.

I continue to basket anyway. It’s not a flirtation, he’s not playing any game. A gift will give nothing away, because there’s nothing to give. In two clicks, I’ll have everything. His gift will be complete.

Click, click.

My heart sends a rush of warmth through my body. I smile.

*

Training alone is a shock to the system, even though it’s only been month. I am stranded on an island with no voice. I can’t even listen to music because putting in earphones feels like shutting out the world. Now I do a plank, and I don’t time it. Without motivation to impress, I just drop to the floor panting when I feel the slightest tremble begin, when before I’d be rock-steady, Stan’s eyes on me, motivation pumping through my veins. Everything is less effective.

Uninspired, I go upstairs to do some idle cardio. It’s full, but seems strangely quieter than usual, like a collective ease has settled in the air. As soon as I put a foot on a treadmill, I hear a voice call out to me. It’s Stan. I absorb the mild shock before I say hi back.

“What are you doing here?” What I mean to say is, what are you doing here alone? But then something else catches my eye. From the opposite end of the floor, on the gymnastics bars, Ian is waving to me. I turn my head to him, then back to Stan, looking at him quizzically.

“Oh – Ian’s showing me some calisthenics. Isn’t that cool?” He holds his hips, looking proud of himself, and I can’t muster any words. On the one hand, he clearly holds no ill will towards me, which shouldn’t be surprising, but is a relief considering how amplified our tiff was in my mind, but on the other, he’s abandoned me for someone else. The first, inevitable thought comes to my mind: was I not good enough?

“I thought we were training?”

His face drops.

“What do you mean? We are!”

And then, the realization that I’m close to a tell hits me, so I force myself to be positive again, but I still stutter slightly.

“Oh – OK. Are you guys, like, serious?” He looks at me incredulously and I rush to correct myself. “I mean, do you do this often?”

“Second time. He’s really showing me some new stuff. Like, stuff you’d never think of.”

“I don’t know if I’d say never…”

“I mean, gymnastic stuff. Calisthenics.”

“Did you know that some of the stuff I show you is technically calisthenics?” He looks at me for a couple of seconds and then laughs. “No, really – and by the way you need a good foundation to do calisthenics. You can’t really rush into it.”

“We’re doing core stuff, floor stuff too.”

“So are we.” Another pause and stare.

“I can do 6 pull-ups, did you know that? No, because you never tried to find out.” It was an accusation, but dished out lightly enough to not hurt me, like he’d stripped it of malice before saying it. “Hey, look,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder, “we’re still training. Let’s do Thursday, OK?”

Bittersweet energy pulses from his hand into my soul. When he removes it, it leaves an imprint of warmth. I want to put my hand there. After a couple of seconds I nod, smile and wave him off as he jogs back to Ian. I don’t stare, because Ian has been looking, and if he caught the glint in my eye he would know. If he was anything like me, which by now has proven true at least to a degree, then that trailing gaze would be a tell. Instead, I force myself not to care.

My heartrate reads a hundred on the treadmill before I even get going, and I don’t even notice that the news is playing on the screen in front of me for five whole minutes before I turn it off. Sounds begin to crescendo from the calisthenics club start. Light-hearted cheers, jeers and motivations. I venture a peek over my shoulder and there’s Ian, standing over Stan, who’s crouched over, sweat matting the golden strands of his chestnut hair on his forehead. Although he’s on the periphery, he’s a clear outlier – he can’t match the effortless sharpness of the guys to his left, but his aura elevates him above that. At least to me. On Ian’s command, he performs 5 burpees, and it knocks him out, but Ian leans over and puts an encouraging hand on his back. I want to slap it away.

The pledge I made to myself not to interfere feels like ancient history now. I press the red button and make my way over to the bars. Ian looks up at me and smiles. This smile is somehow different, I feel. In it lies a hint of shrewdness.

“Hey.”

“Hey there,” says Ian. Stan looks up, panting. “The legend himself.”

“Legend?”

“Yeah, legend mate,” he laughs, “Stan’s always bringing you up. Are you a qualified PT too?”

“No, just an enthusiast.”

“Well, so am I at this point. Still can’t officially take money off of anyone. Didn’t mean to steal your business, by the way – I’m not charging Stan here, just doing a favor.”

I force a smile. The other club boys are in their own planet.

“No sweat.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. He’s bloody drenched! Aren’t ya, Stan?”

Stan, still gasping with his hands on his hips, pulls the neck of his tshirt over his mouth.

“Hey look, I was just going to say – I don’t know if he’s ready for burpees yet.”

Stan says my name sharply, eyes wide.

“Why not mate? Looks fine to me.” Ian has a way of diffusing a situation; a natural born diplomacy. Neither his words nor his actions can be construed as confrontational.

“He just doesn’t have the core strength yet. He needs to build it up. Planks, crunches, et cetera.”

Stan retorts again. His anger starts to bubble. I’d never seen this side of him. In a way it intrigued me. Like a child throwing fuel into a fire, I wanted to see it burn brighter, but was scared at the same time.

“I’m doing fine. Just – please – can you leave it?”

My heart comes up to my throat. I feel like I’m about to well up. I’ve never been dismissed by him before.

“Fine, get injured. Your choice.”

“Calm down, mate, it’s just a slightly more intensive workout, he can handle it.”

“I am calm!” I shout. A few people look our way. I begin to panic. “I’m – I’m calm. Just, will you not run before you can walk, please? I build up slowly so you can progress the right way.”

“It’s nothing to worry about, mate. Look, Stan, do what you like, OK? It’s your choice. No need to push hard.”

“I said, I’m fine,” says Stan. His words start to pierce. He looks me in the eyes. “I’ll see you on Thursday. We can do core then.” He’s angry, but avoiding making a scene. I can’t control myself. I don’t smile as I say okay and leave them. I attempt to get back on the treadmill, but find I can’t bring myself to do anymore, and so I leave discreetly.

*

A chill wind freezes the sweat on my neck as I struggle to turn the key with my numb fingers. I close the apartment door and quiver. Silence rings through the atrium. What have I done? No, what have I been forced to do? Nothing was wrong until outside forces interfered. It was just me, him, and the gym equipment. Everybody around us felt like an extra, playing their role passively outside our golden bubble. But that had just been my imagination all along. To think that I could make myself his sole focus was not only unrealistic, but arrogant and obsessive. It took Ian’s arrival to make me realize that, which is both a blessing and a curse – though it feels much more like a curse at the moment, and made all the worse by the fact that he is gay.

He’s gay – that’s when it hits me: I’d left my profile unattended. In a panic, I scramble to the kitchen and retrieve my phone. The tiles automatically refresh, and Ian is still there, though not online. What are the chances he hasn’t seen me? Close to zero, surely. Instantly I change my profile picture to a random skyline I find in my camera roll. Then, I scroll down and click to edit my bio. The words are highlighted under my thumb: “I’ve gone so far out I’m not sure I can ever come back”. I press erase, and, head down and heart beating rapidly, I lean against the kitchen counter with both arms.