Authors: Hurt
Her eyes were on on the sun-glazed asphalt and cars, but to the side she noticed as he turned toward her. When she glanced over, Khalid smiled as he usually did, without baring his teeth.
"What do you mean by that? Tell you what about me and Galen?"
"You're lovers?"
"Why do you ask me? Why not talk to Galen about this?"
He sounded amused.
"I did. He said that he gave me his story, and I should get yours from you."
Khalid laughed softly. He'd never done that before, in front of her.
"Did he explain to you that he isn't gay?"
"He said you're the only man he's ever fucked."
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"Yes. Well, if he ever fucks another, he'll have to work very hard to restore his heterosexual self-image, I suppose."
"I sort of gathered you were both bi."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"Because we've both fucked you, and fucked each other?"
"Yes."
"I suppose we are. But mind you don't say such things to Galen."
"Why?"
"Mmmmm," he hummed, routing around for his answer, "Galen is an open-minded person, you know. In many ways. But his—framework?—there's straight, and there's gay. And bi is gay. And he's not gay."
She laughed.
"OK. So how do you fit in, then?"
"Not very well."
His voice had gone sad.
"We met in Paris. Did you know?"
"Mmmhmmm."
"It was for his movie. That's why he was there. Unusual, I think, how long they stayed to shoot that film. More than one year."
For some reason it surprised her, how wistfully he was telling his story.
"Henry Miller said that Paris is an obstetrical instrument that tears living embryos from wombs and puts them in incubators. He was speaking of conflict, of human drama.
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Sometimes I think that if I had met Galen anywhere else, nothing would have happened between us."
Khalid smiled, and Vanka suspected he was laughing at himself. Then, forgetting about Miller and conflict and forceps, he started again.
"Have you been to Paris?"
"No."
"All over Paris there are cafés, and on the sidewalk outside the cafés are tables and chairs. Paris culture is to sit outside, at these little tables, drinking coffee or beer or wine, having one's food, with friends, or reading."
"Just like in the movies," she said playfully, making an inside joke to which Khalid couldn't know she was privy.
"Depending on the movie, yes."
He grinned and took his eyes off the road for a moment to show her he'd guessed what Galen had been saying about him behind his back.
"It was at one of these sidewalk cafés that Galen and I met. I was having a glass of wine—it's unusual for me, but I was in a romantic mood that afternoon, and indulged—and reading Gide's The Counterfeiters, and I heard to my left some revolting French—terrible grammar, worse pronunciation, much worse than mine—"
"Worse than yours? You're not French?"
He looked at her like she was insane.
"I'm Algerian. Didn't you know?"
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She felt really dumb all of a sudden. All she could do was raise her eyebrows and confess her guilt. He waited for his astonishment to dissipate, then went on with his story.
"I looked over, and there was Galen." Khalid smiled, and then he was laughing, but she could only tell because his eyes were so shimmery.
"I'll tell you something. If you promise you'll never tell Galen."
"I promise."
"I knew who he was, right away. Galen Ross. The American movie star. But to let him know that would have been to give him an advantage. So I pretended not to know."
"So cruel, Khalid. He thinks you've never seen a single one of his films."
"Yes, well. We all have to do our part to keep the man's ego in manageable proportions."
She was beginning to detect a note of bitterness in Khalid's voice. But then he resumed his story with an air of tender reminiscence.
I watched this famous American actor struggle through a simple order, mangling his request for a beer and a cheese sandwich. But he was quite charming. Even the waiter thought so, I think. And then I saw that he had on his thigh a copy of that same book of Andre Gide's that I was reading. I thought, how nice to be wrong. Here is an American, an actor, even, and he not only reads, but reads something other than some detective novel, something other than Stephen King or Michael Crichton. And of course it was the perfect opening.
"I looked at him, very obvious, until he had no choice, and had to turn and look at me. I smiled then, just looking. I knew what he was thinking. That he'd been recognized.
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That even in a foreign country he could not escape his fame, that I would begin to ask him about his movies, his life, ask him for his autograph.
"I stared until I saw from his face that he was becoming angry, because I still had not said to him why I was staring. And then I held up my book. He was . . . taken by surprise. His mind had already decided why I was staring, so at first the book didn't mean anything to him. So I pointed to the author's name, Gide, and pointed to Galen's lap. Finally he looked down at the book he was holding there. He blushed. Really blushed. Very cute."
In that moment Vanka got it. How deeply in love Khalid had been with Galen at some point. Maybe he still was.
"It was later he told me he was reading that book because the film he was making was that story. Changed, but from that story. He doesn't read much. But that book was enough. We started to talk. The afternoon became evening, and we went to a little bar I knew, not far from there. We talked and laughed for a long time. In the end we went back to my place. To me, it was simple. We were going to fuck. But you know, I kissed him, and he became a statue. I kissed him a second time, and he pushed me away so hard, I almost fell down.
"I saw then, that he had not been with men before. He wanted me. I knew he did.
But it was impossible for him, to let himself fuck a man. So I took him. We fought, and I took him. And that's how it's always been with us."
"You . . . took him. You mean . . . does he . . . come?"
Khalid laughed. "Oh yes. He comes."
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He smiled quietly for a moment, apparently lost in some pleasant memories. But then he looked over at her, and went on in a voice that seemed a little bitter.
"Of course, he could never just give himself over. But he plays at retaliation. Or, when I've got him pinned, when I've won the struggle, sometimes I suck him off before I fuck him. Or stroke him off as I take him. But it's never just a fuck. It's always a battle."
She parked alongside the curb in front of the charming dark-timbered craftsman to which Khalid had guided her. He turned and gave her one of his serene smiles, his gold eyes luminous and sad. She'd hug him good-bye, and then she'd let him go up that neat path of flagstones, up to the generous porch, through that heavy, carved door with the leaded window. Strange how things had turned out, that Khalid, not Galen, would be the one to close the door on this part of her life, this largest joy in the middle of her worst pain.
“Will you come in for a bit?” He asked her.
His invitation pulled her back from the edge of the awful fear and loneliness she'd been dreading all morning.
Inside, Khalid's home was as simple as Galen's was slick. The hardwood floors, the heavy beams of the ceilings, the mantel, the handcrafted furniture were all warm browns, polished smooth but richly textured. She felt a strange urge to go around and run her hand over every vertical and horizontal surface, over every carved, wooden joint.
"Always?"
“Sorry?”
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“You said it's always a battle. With Galen,” she reminded Khalid where he'd left his story.
"There, in Paris for that year. And here."
She laughed. He gave her an inquiring look.
"I know I'm going to sound like an idiot, but . . . If it happened that way between you once, how could it have happened again? I don't understand."
"You don't? Really?" Khalid asked with a knowing smile that made her blush.
"That first time, I was sure. His eyes, his body, everything told me that he wanted me. And even after he'd hit me, started to fight me, his cock was rock hard in his pants.
But even so, even though he trembled and moaned and came as I fucked him, after I worried that I had been wrong. That maybe I had actually raped a man. When we'd finished he looked terrible. Now I know. He was afraid of himself. But then, he was so pale, his hands shook as he pulled up his pants. He fled, He didn't say anything to me.
He wouldn't even look at me. A day went by, then two, and I started to feel afraid every time my phone rang, every time someone rang my doorbell. I even got scared opening the mail, because I started to think I would get a summons from the police. That I'd be charged with assault or some worse crime. When more time went by, I thought I hadn't heard from the police only because this American actor was afraid of the publicity.
"But then, about three weeks after that first night, I came home from work, and only a minute later someone knocked on my door. It was Galen. He'd been waiting outside my building, to make sure I was alone when I came home. When I opened the door, he stood for a long time in the hall, without saying anything. Then he came through the door, and when I shut it, we started again. Almost the same as the first time.
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I tried to kiss him, and he hit me. Very hard, really. It was his test. He wanted to know if I would tell him to fuck off. That I didn't want to play those games. I let him hit me a few more times. Then I took him down. He's big, and strong, but he's not a fighter. It was easy, always, for me to get the advantage.
"The next time he came, though, I didn't want to fight that way. I wanted to save my strength. I wanted to take my time. This time, he had only made me wait four days, and I was ready for him. He knocked. He came inside. I shut the door. Locked it. I didn't try to kiss him. Instead I went to the little table by my door, and took out a gun I had hidden there. I had been very careful, removed all the bullets. I understood by now that he only needed some excuse to believe it was not him choosing to fuck me. That I was forcing him.
"So, I pointed the gun at him. I told him to get on his knees."
Khalid sighed, and Vanka thought maybe she saw him shudder.
"You know, Vanka. I was scared. I don't like guns. For me, guns have bad memories and bad feelings. But pointing that gun at Galen, knowing he would obey me, it was the most erotic moment I had ever experienced. He did what I told him. Got on his knees. I walked up to him and told him to undo my belt and my pants. When he pulled my briefs down, just the feel of his fingers on my skin, I was so hard, I felt such a rush of need, violent need, and that gun in my hand, for that moment before he started, I felt like a man who could do real violence to have him. It was a big feeling. It frightened me. But it thrilled me, too.
"When he took my cock in his mouth, I could tell he had never done it before. He did it at first as if it was disgusting to him. He tried hard not to take too much of me into 172
his mouth. But soon I could tell he was getting excited, and he sucked me the way men who have not much experience with other men do, sucking the way they have always wanted to be sucked. He was so eager. He was grabbing my ass with both hands, holding me still so he could suck me hard enough, fast enough.
"I told him to stop. He let my dick out of his mouth and just knelt there, looking down. Too embarrassed to look at me, even with the gun. I told him, then, to take out his cock. Of course he was hard, and ashamed of it. I said to him, 'Look how fucking hard you are. You like sucking cock, don't you?' Then I made him stroke himself while he sucked me, saying things to him like, "Swallow that cock, Galen, while you jerk it. I know you want to taste my come, so you can get off.'"
"I swear to you Vanka, he didn't need even a minute. The moment he started stroking himself, and my dick was in his mouth again, he was groaning like he was going to come. The sounds he was making, muffled with my dick stuck in his mouth, did it to me. When I came, forgetting the gun and just pulling his head to me, right away I felt him shudder, heard him groan, and I knew he was coming, too.
"From that time, I always used the gun when I wanted to do something like that, without having to fight him and hold him down. And I tied him up a lot. When he was tied up, I could give him head.
"For a long time, it was just like that. Just sex. Fighting and guns and rope. But then, one day he showed up at my apartment, but when I opened the door, he wouldn't come inside. I came out with him, and we went to a café. We had wine and talked. Then he went his way, and I went mine. And after that day, that's how it was. If he came in, we fought and fucked. If not, we went somewhere, like friends, and had drinks and 173
talked. But never about the things we did in my apartment. It was like two worlds, inside the apartment, and outside it. And we were two different sets of people.
"For a long time, I didn't mind. The fucking was hot. And at the café, I enjoyed his company. His friendship. But after a few months I thought I was a little bit in love with him. I started to understand that it wasn't smart, letting myself feel so much for a man who couldn't let himself . . . god, not even make love, but even to fuck without hitting and being hit, or without a gun in his face or ropes at his wrist. He was no Nazi, of course, he didn't advocate the suppression of homosexuality with lead pipes. But there was something in him that hated the idea of being less than one hundred percent straight. So, to me, it was like a part of him hated what I was, too.
"And, as you say, I don't fuck men who hate me."
Even after all Khalid had just revealed, she blushed at the thought of him overhearing what had happened between her and Galen that night.
"The next time Galen waited for me in the hallway, we went and had our drinks, and at the end of the evening, I told him not to come back to my apartment. He just looked at me for a few seconds, said 'all right,' and went off in the direction of his hotel. I didn't think I would ever see him again, and the way that thought hurt me, I knew I wasn't just a little in love with him.