‘Fuck,’ the boy whispers as he struggles, ‘Fuck, just stop, for one second. Listen to me.’
Everything is shards, slanting, harmful. The boy’s voice is underwater, reaching Jewel as if after miles, years. Over that distance, the boy comes to see that the farther he goes, the more Jewel reaches out. So he knows what he must do, what he must keep doing.
‘It’s not that simple,’ Jewel says.
The boy is frightened into stillness, as much by Jewel’s scorn as the words.
‘Nothing were ever that blood simple.’
WINTER
18.
When Jewel walks into the room, the boy is perched on the arm of the couch like a monkey. He pounces and Jewel play falls and then fall falls. The rug below them is thin enough to feel the floorboards underneath. The boy’s hand reaches around, grabs his cock, and Jewel feels it like a glove, the last jigsaw piece. He’s hard in seconds but the boy won’t let him have his way with him. Instead he plays Jewel for a song.
Jewel sings,
This could go on forever . . . would that it would . . . would that it would . . .
The boy is late blooming, holding him so close that Jewel is singing into his skin. He holds Jewel’s face so their eyelashes touch. They make love like this, face to face so they can kiss. Jewel knows his taste like it’s his own, except, joyously, not.
Each thrust and the boy comes closer and closer and closer. As he comes, tears come into his eyes, they leave.
Jewel keeps singing,
This could stop right now . . . would that it would . . . would that it would . . .
19.
Jewel is sitting, the boy on his lap facing him, naked, wearing only a headlamp. The last light is blown, the only other light from the bathroom. Jewel is rolling a joint between them, the goods spread out on a plate beside them. He’s using the rolling papers the boy got him.
‘Who’d have thought?’ he says, licking, rolling, laughing.
‘Thought what?’ the boy says looking up, the light sharping into Jewel’s face.
Jewel squints, his irises shifting proportion, pigment. ‘That you’d be lighting my way.’
The boy laughs and switches off the headlamp. He kisses him and Jewel puts the tray aside, kisses him back hard and hungry.
‘I must go,’ the boy says getting up, switching the headlamp back on, picking up his clothes.
‘Must you?’ says Jewel in mimicry.
‘Godknows, I were so crying late,’ the boy shoots back just as quick a mime.
Jewel smiles, his irises modulating again. ‘Leave the light, yeah?’
The boy hesitates as he buttons his jeans.
‘Or don’t,’ Jewel says in amusement, ‘I’ll finish in the bathroom.’
The boy throws his light at him and Jewel catches it like he knew it was coming all along. He knows to make up for the sass, so he doesn’t start licking and rolling just yet. He watches the boy pull on his t-shirt, arms first, knowing he’ll feel him watching. He watches him pocket his keys, open the door. And then just as he’s closing the door, Jewel calls out his love.
20.
The boy cuts into a peach with Jewel’s Swiss Army knife. Each new moon reveals a rust core, its skin curling loverly. He eats the peach standing over the sink, dripping, his hands cupped in prayer.
Jewel watches him from the doorway. He knows it’s a gift, what he has. He wants to take the knife and cut them both, stop the picture of now, in this moment. Instead every second takes them farther, into the coming gloaming, the inconceivable morning. What he will remember of now will be some pale decay. Better to leave history unremembered, undamaged.
He walks over and with one hand, takes the knife, wipes it clean, switches it closed. With the same hand, his knife hand, he touches his knuckle to the boy’s cheek. The silence following will hold this moment, will carry it to its grave, so no one else has to.
PERSON 1
P
lunging recklessly, it was deeper than last time. Exciting and scary at the same time . . . it was the best time to look, while she was busy mixing a drink for me. I didn’t want her to know what effect it had on me. Dangling precariously above her delicious swell, brushing it occasionally, was a golden charm. As she leaned over to hand me the highball glass, the charm rocked back and forth till it nestled into the alcove fashioned by breasts jostling against biceps. Warmth surged up me, a growing consternation – had she figured out that necklines have an effect on me? I was quite sure that I hadn’t betrayed any emotion the last time – she had worn a red shirt and left one too many unbuttoned. Now, a décolletage framed by a deep and gauzy black ‘V’ – an escalation, a progression on her part. I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid. Maybe I had stared too long or maybe this was the second time I was focusing on her breasts. But, had she bent down too deep? Did she linger longer than she should have? Anything was possible. My fingers felt wet and sticky all of a sudden as I groped for a response to her, calling me back to earth.
I wiped off the condensation from my fingers. My other hand was damp from sweat. Was she as painfully aware of my own awkward movements as I was? This was the second time we were meeting after the drunken make-out at the drag party. I had no clue what she liked – the alcohol had left our initial encounters hazy. Couldn’t even say whether she liked to take the initiative or preferred to sit back. What if she was one of those people who took umbrage at being read the wrong way? We were obviously meeting for sex, dammit; I had been hasty in saying yes to this date. Though the very sight of her sent quivers coursing through me – towering height, thundering hair and the lightning-sharp nose.
Tonight, she was storming my bastions, and I wasn’t ready. What if cardinal mistakes were made and I left her dissatisfied? I began considering opening gambits. Maybe I could offer to help with the drinks in the cheek-by-jowl kitchen and skim a fingertip along her pronounced shoulder blades. Or would I look like the cheap guy in the theatre who snakes an arm around his date? I could sit next to her, clothes grazing and the gradual linger that would see flesh meeting flesh. Would that be too slow? We weren’t out for a romantic dinner after all.
A few nervous gulps later, my glass was empty. She had started mixing the next round of drinks, ice rattling furiously as her hands went snap, jerk, up and down with the shaker. This would be a good time to approach her – that coiled, controlled power in her arms had given me a head rush. I could imagine that strength being used on me, arms encircling me or the firm pressure of her palms on my body. The L-shaped platform in the kitchen jutted out unkindly, trying something sexy would be awkward. Logistically, I wasn’t clear on how or what could happen. I didn’t want to fall flat on my face. The drink fizzed loudly as she topped it up with soda.
PERSON 2
I decide to sit down next to my date. Dipping neck-lines had worked for me in the past, but with her, not even a compliment. In fact, I wonder whether she had noticed at all, she was verging on the platonic tonight. Our initial meetings had seen us both drunk and tongue-loose in more ways than one. I was taken by a surprising attraction when I first saw her at the party. Plaid shorts, white shirt and suspenders and a Gatsby jauntily perched on her head. Her sexiness was casual and indifferent, like last night’s clothes thrown over a chair. Just when I thought that my flirting had gone in vain, she asked me to join her for a smoke. I was led to a narrow, dark utility passage with criss-crossing ventilators and dropping wires, where she backed me into a corner and kissed me without preamble. As her tongue entered my mouth, I felt her thumbs press into the sides of my throat. As we leaned into each other, my overwhelming wetness pushed back against me.
We blew smoke out of a tiny cubby-hole of a window after we were done. The second time we met was at a grungy bar for drinks and dancing. Taking frequent turns to buy rounds of beer on a humid night, we ended up having a quickie in the women’s bathroom. The metal latches clanged, basins ran water, flushes gurgled, and people borrowed make-up as we unzipped each other’s pants. Four legs akimbo, thirsty kisses, furious fingers and groans silenced at the top of the throat. To top it all, the pleasure of sex amidst people who lived in homo-oblivion. Despite my drunkenness, thoughts of those kajal-rimmed eyes, black and white ceramic rings and the smell of her perfume found their way into my bed the night after our bar-bathroom sex. The gentle flicks of her thumb along my clit and the pendulous folds of her clit made me want unabashedly naked sex with her. To taste and see what I’d been touching.
Today, she didn’t evince any sexual interest in me, despite my attempts at dress-up. The way she sprawled on my sofa, nonchalant and somewhat distant, made me so hot for her. In the privacy of my typically-Bombay one-room studio, I envisioned a finger running along the ‘V’ of my neckline. Or her leaning over the kitchen counter to give me a kiss. I pulled out my best bartender shake and hoped she would drink me in with those arresting eyes, but she was lost in her own thoughts. Her ample view of my breasts had only resulted in a blank look, forget the grasp, grope, squeeze and pull I was craving for. Her moist lips were barely responding to my conversation, forget sexual overtures. But my need for her body, her touch, our sex was fuelling a pushy and overt seduction as I lay a hand on her thigh soon after I sat down next to her. There was an immediate stiffening in her body followed by an uncomfortable silence in the air.
PERSON 1
I was having difficulty breathing and felt my chest was perceptibly heaving. Her hand sitting there solidly had made my hamstring tense up and it would be very embarrassing to get a cramp now. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself, should I move? Stay still? I was probably supposed to do something. Her gaze was unflinching as her index finger traced the seam of my jeans. I couldn’t bear to look down at those well-shaped fingers nor did I have the guts to look up at her face. Snatches of sensation came my way, nails digging into my shoulder as she stifled a moan, her hand sliding smoothly past my briefs – it felt really good. Tonight, those confident fingers and their assured touch were giving me the shivers right down to the soles of my feet.
I felt like resting my hand on top of hers so I could feel those pronounced knuckles sloping up into me. A kickboxing fan, she had balled her hands up and thrown a few fists at her punching bag and I had loved the resounding thwack of her knuckles on canvas. I wondered how those long legs would look as they snapped out in a kick. I could lace my fingers into hers and press into her thighs. Were her fingers apart far enough? Should I push them apart? Would she think that my hand in hers was a romantic gesture? I didn’t want to kill the mood. It was too awkward to place my hand atop hers.
She was close enough for me to reach out and give her a light kiss on the lips. Feeling brave, I hunched forward slightly. She stayed where she was, not moving away nor near. Her hand stayed on my thigh. And, I froze. Now I was stuck, I should have just done it quick instead of building anticipation. It had become one of those awkward moments. After that pause, I couldn’t kiss her briefly and pull back quickly. I knew it would lead to more – kissing, touching, feeling, stoking and stroking.
But I wasn’t ready, it was much too soon, I couldn’t imagine responding to her right now. When I said I needed more ice, she paused wordlessly and got up from the sofa. Watching the vast stride of those long legs – my tall woman fantasy was being fulfilled. Watching as she cracked the ice-tray into my drink – appreciating her from a distance was so much easier than dealing with her brimming sexuality.
PERSON 2
I thought that I had her there, that moment when she bent towards me. But, there was nothing – all she did was ask for more ice. We were in the midst of a typical Bombay October – a hellishly humid vestige of the monsoon gone by. It was fucking hot, especially with her lounging around in my house, playing very hard to get or just plain disinterested. It was hard to believe that she wasn’t attracted to me all of a sudden – the recent vociferous sex and palpable chemistry could attest to that. Well, two can play that game. As I handed back her glass packed with ice, I said ‘Need to get into something more comfortable, it’s extremely hot and muggy. I’ll be right back.’ My one and only sexy tank-top, err, camisole, was going to come into play. Silky-soft grey, delicate spaghetti straps, sedate lace along the chest and a cut that left nothing to the imagination. My breasts practically brimmed over the neckline. I left my jeans on, the thought of her unbuckling my belt, popping the button, easing my hips out and undressing me really turned me on.
I walked out towards her with my best poker face and waited for a reaction. A long, indolent stare was thrown my way and then she was back to sipping her drink. Not a word, smile or any indication in her body language. I started to mix another round as her glass was nearing the end. It was too bad, I yearned for her – but it didn’t seem like there would be any action tonight. The feeling of sexiness in my own skin, evoked by recent memories, ruminative fantasies and her tangible presence, was waning rapidly. My need, my wetness and my horniness remained unaffected.
Sitting down opposite her, stiff drink in hand, I had decided that after multiple rebuffs, I should let the night take its course. Our conversation verged on the mind-numbingly mundane – from different factions in the Bombay queer scene to talking about the best shacks in Goa. I was getting a pleasant buzz despite the setbacks in the sex department. I couldn’t complain about the view either – the glorious mass of hair cut spunky short, the way that cigarettes dangled in those hands with the severely-cut nails, the outline of her nipples through that snug collared t-shirt, those dykey outdoor laced-up boots. And how could I forget the way that husky drawl prowled around my ears. So, I kept the alcohol flowing.
We were sinking our teeth into a discussion on the best place to get food after 3 a.m. in Bombay – be it egg-bhurji outside Cooper Hospital or pav-bhaji in Dadar, when she stood up abruptly. Before I could fully grasp what was happening, her knees were on my chair and sandwiched my legs tight. Her lips fell on mine as her body tilted into mine. Lips teased each other into submission as mouths made way for tongues that felt like waves lapping up against each other. Soon however, it became a roiling jumble of teeth, lips and tongue. Her knees were like pincers holding my waist in, as my thighs were spread apart.