Table of Contents

Jake in the Lake

A Stranger in Triva

Interviewed

Father’s Day

Ropes

Bombay Cupboards

SFO

How good is your French?

The Librarian

My Five Reasons

Alaska

Jake in the Lake

—You are such a snob, Trevor said when I told him about Ellie Bruckmeier. She is just doing her job, had to rush off somewhere. And you make all Americans sound like imbeciles anyway. You are such a European!

As if ‘European’ were an insult here.

—It has got nothing to do with being European! It’s about… education, or the lack thereof. And television. Americans watch so much television, half the…

—Not just Americans, people everywhere. Don’t…

—…population can’t tell the difference between reality and TV. There was a protest against vampires in that town… did you read that? People with placards protesting against some guy who moved in and they were convinced he was a vampire! And in that other place they planted… seriously, they planted garlic in the middle of the road to keep out the vampires. How deluded...

—Aaaanyway. What should we do this weekend? Trevor was no longer willing to stand my tirades against the idiocies of modern life. But he hadn’t quite left the subject. Before I could suggest plans, he said,

—You only moved here to complain about them. That’s what you British like to do. Bitch all day. Where better to bitch than here in suburban America, where everything is beneath your dignity? That’s why you didn’t move to Manhattan! Too many other foreigners whining about middle-class America. Too many people like you! That’s why you like it here! Makes you feel superior, doesn’t it? And you do like feeling superior.

He grinned slightly. As always, he saw right through me, and I shut up.

We drove up north, to our lakeside cabin, and called Jake. That’s what we always do when we get bored, or have a fight, and we have fought, for twenty years, for one reason only: me being too thick, not seeing the signs. My general obtuseness and lack of consideration, going on about things that don’t interest him, or us, that are, in fact, of no import to our lives, insignificant things that couples on television fight over; pointless fights about cliches only, not about substance. Trevor only argues about substance. About the substantial things, yes, but then it’s not arguing, is it? The important things need discussion, not argument. Things that warrant arguing are too idiotic to worry about. So there you have it, in the car, two men, having spent their lives together not arguing. Aren’t we a pair!

And so I miss the turnoff, again. Trevor doesn’t say ‘you missed the turnoff’ nor ‘fuckin’ell you idiot, we have been here like a million times and you still miss the turnoff.’ That is not his style, although I suspect he wants to say it, sometimes. Neither is it his style to say ‘honey, you should have turned right here.’ Instead, in his inscrutable Chineseness, he just turns his head slightly in my direction without saying anything. I expect him to say something, but nothing is forthcoming, so I start thinking, ‘fuck what did I do wrong again,’ and then I realize, I didn’t turn right, and then I don’t talk. I don’t say, ‘oh, not again I always miss that turnoff.’ Instead I exhale in exasperation over my own stupidity. After we have turned, once U-wards, then left, and are on the small forest path, for it is barely a road, to our cabin, he smiles, laughs almost,

—Ah dear. Mr. A is near!

I do not have Alzheimer’s. It’s just that Upstate New York is not what it used to be, traffic sign-wise. It’s a bit like a developing country, where you have to guess the directions and can’t rely on signage anymore. They let it all go to pieces, all over rural America. States bankrupt, roads full of potholes. America only invests in its… ‘Stop it. Not this weekend! Stop complaining,’ I can hear him say, but he says nothing. Instead, he pulls out his tablet computer, and starts a game. There is no voice clearer than that action. You are getting on my nerves and I am not interested. Yadda yadda yadda. We have reached the point where we can have a great weekend, a fantastic weekend, by ignoring each other, and relying instead on Jake.

When we arrive, the water is surprisingly warm.

—Why do you think that is? Trevor asks, swimming beside me in our lake.

—The other lake, the big one, what’s it called, is so much colder even in summer.

—Maybe someone’s continuously pissing into this one. Maybe there is a school somewhere upstream.

—Or a chemical plant.

We laugh.

—We should take the boat and explore later.

—Let’s wait for Jake. He can do the rowing. I am starving.

We are in the rustic kitchen, cooking pasta and broccoli salad, when Jake arrives on his motorcycle. We pay him two thousand for a weekend, no tips for extra virility, but food and lodging included.

—Hello boys, he stomps into the room, finally removing the red helmet, holding it in his hand, and shaking his head briefly. His hair is growing too long though. Need to talk to him about that.

Trevor drops the knife, and runs over to him; kisses him long and passionately.

—I am so glad you are here. Honey’s in a bitchy mood. Let’s fuck!

And they do, on the enormous bed upstairs. Just like that. I can hear Jake’s belt and cargo pants dropping to the floor, and his yelps and cries of ‘slow down’ as Trevor attacks his nipples. Then the sound of sucking, the intermittent moaning of Jake, followed by Trevor tearing out a drawer looking for condoms.

—They are in the suitcase! I offer kindly, then hear the locks snap open.

I am still washing the broccoli when I hear Trevor groan as Jake’s cock enters him. There are no divisions in the cabin; it’s just one big room, with a kitchen and living area downstairs, and a half-mezzanine above with a ladder reaching up to it. That’s where we sleep, all three of us, two aging men and a young god, for five, six weekends a year. More often lately.

—To remind us of the frailty of human existence, I say.

—To get some cock, you pretentious git, Trevor says.

—To pay tuition, Jake says, finishing a glass of water, standing next to me, and getting hard again.

—Anyone for piss? I’ll give you a shower in the yard!

Trevor shudders at the thought and screams from upstairs,

—You two can do that! Not for me!

—Oh, that’s right, Jake says playfully, just to rub it in. I keep confusing you with my other, kinky, clients, who pay me a lot more.

I grab him and tickle his ribs, then get a hold of his ass as he escapes and tries to scamper up the stairs.

—Gotcha! Now take it like a man!

Sometimes I think we fight just to have a reason to call Jake. But that would be… well.

After lunch we row, or rather, are being rowed. Trevor and I cuddle on one end of the boat, Jake, shirtless in the cold air, is working hard, his muscles flexing and glistening.

—That’s what you pay for, gentlemen!

I hate it when he calls us gentlemen, rowing north on the widening lake. There are cabins on both sides, some visible, others, like ours, well hidden behind a row of trees. I let my eyes wander, while Trevor’s are fixed on Jake’s stomach. The bulges of his tanned eight-pack shift up and down with every stroke of the oars. It looks like a machine at work, gears moving, plates grinding. He is in magnificent shape; and he knows it. Sometimes I catch him admiring a part of his own body, in silent rapture, oblivious to his surroundings.

Along the shore are canoes, turned over to keep them dry inside. A young man, bare-chested and hairy, waves to us as he sands the bottom of a boat. I see him, but Trevor is facing away. He watches me wave back.

—Is he cute?

—How do you know it is a he?

—Would you wave to a woman?

Jake grins.

—I very well would. If a woman were waving at me.

—So, is he cute?

—Yes.

—Let’s ask him for dinner.

Ten years ago, I would have laughed, and we would have rowed on, too shy to do anything. Now we are old, and daring. Jake changes direction and brings us closer to shore.

—Hi there, the hairy hunk shouts.

—Hi! Jake bawls back.

—Isn’t it a bit too cold?

I am about to answer ‘no, and would you like to come for dinner and fuck me,’ when a woman appears behind him, holding a child on one hand and a baby cradled in her other arm.

—Yes, very cold.

—Ah, maybe I… I got to… but his voice trails off, as he waves an apology and follows the woman back into the cabin.

—Breeder? Trevor asks, seeing the look on my face.

—With a litter, yes.

Jake looks annoyed.

—Sorry. Forgot. Jake doesn’t like us calling them ‘breeders.’ He is one of them, remember. And it reeks of gay chauvinism.

—Yes, Trevor shudders laughing. A cock-sucking breeder. Haha!

—Sweetie you are being very unfair.

Jake smiles politely, not to lose his paycheck, but he is annoyed. He hates it when we are too camp, too gay, too sarcastic. In Britain, sarcasm is a sign of wit. Here it is a sign of arrogance. Trevor looks sheepishly at me, realizing his mistake. He adores men with families and children; normal men with normal lives. His foot presses against Jake’s groin.

—And you ought to keep our boy happy and horny, not annoy him with your queer talk!

Trevor has closed his eyes. The sun is shining down strongly now. There is birdsong, the sound of hammering, and the oars steeping in and out of the dark water, propelled by such powerful arms.

This is Upstate New York on a languid afternoon in the late summer. This is us, and our little piece of luxury ass, flown in especially from Las Vegas.

I close my eyes and dream briefly of my youth: the wasted opportunities, the men I could have stayed with and didn’t. I see an image of myself in a farmhouse near Manchester: hairy chest, cowboy hat, jeans, and the neighbor’s son. We never did anything but talk about girls and car races, and running away to America. Where did that cowboy hat come from? And was I really wearing jeans back then?

When I next look up, Trevor has fallen completely asleep in my arms, and Jake too has stretched out on the floor of the boat, his magnificent body glistening with sweat in the afternoon sun. We are drifting quietly over the lake, aimlessly. The man I have loved for so long is softly snoring. The man who will fuck him again later is so handsome and young, he doesn’t belong here. He could be my son, if it weren’t for his much better genes. I look at his large nipples, at his washboard abs. There is a mole, tiny and cheerful, right next to his navel. I want to kiss it badly, but moving would rock the boat and wake my lover.

Again I dream, of the Alps, and my teenage years in Switzerland; of goats and church spires, and red train carriages. I once had sex with a boy on a train; but I cannot remember his name, or the name of the station where I came all over his blond hair.

When I wake again, we almost topple over. A motorboat has passed us, and its bow wave was too much for our little dinghy. Jake jumps up and grabs the oars to reposition the boat so that the following waves do not hit us broadside. Trevor is coming to, looking afraid.

—Wow, I thought it was an earthquake for a second, like in Taiwan.

He has always been afraid of earthquakes. We met after the last major one, over a decade ago, and for the first week of constant aftershocks he clung to me sexlessly like an innocent child. Maybe that’s why we are still together.

Then he stares at Jake, his prompt action of saving the boat by bringing it around, his quick thinking: it’s these things Trevor adores in a man. What they call straight-acting, but what is really common sense, readiness to take action, instead of passively being overcome by events, the waves, the wind. It’s that image of the male Trevor has fallen in love with. The doer, the maker, the man of action and willpower; and Jake is all that, in a cowboy hat. Virility, hard work, his guns glistening as he moves the oars, hair on the chest; the epitome of rural America in an urbanized Asian mind. That’s what the muscles on a man’s body should tell: a story of works and deeds, of adventure and experience. But we have turned it into a farce. Muscles molded in gyms are fake; they do not speak of manly endeavors in the wild, nor of action and decisiveness. They speak of urbanization, of laziness, of a soft and treacherous underbelly.

What a man Jake is, how rugged, how confident and in the saddle. He is from Utah, grew up with horses, he is no fake, no, Jake is the real thing. And yet: if he were the real thing, would he be paddling on a New York lake with two fags from out of town? And those muscles, they aren’t all from the Mormon farm. Or was it Wyoming? I think it was Wyoming. And surely he goes to a gym when he’s not tricking, several times a week probably. Must do. So what’s left of our rugged outdoor fantasy?

—Are you from Utah or Wyoming? I ask the hunk, holding us steady against the approaching waves.

—Wyoming. Why?

The first wave rolls under us and shakes the boat wildly, then a second, a third, then we are calm again in the black water. Little eddies have formed all around us.

—Why ask suddenly?

Trevor looks at me knowingly. I was thinking the same thing. Then his eyes wander back over Jake’s blond hair on a strong, mightily rowing chest.

—Take us back, Jake, honey. It’s getting chilly.

That night, after steak and potatoes, we lie on the cowhide in front of the fire, all three in our underwear: a defined Asian, a flabby Caucasian, and a god from Wyoming, who doesn’t belong here, but speaks to us softly and sweetly through his TV-white teeth and his full red lips,

—You know, you guys I enjoy the most, honestly.

Trevor looks at his toy-boy.

—Because we are so nice?

I was never the image Trevor wanted, never the rugged man he dreamed of. Jake is. The two are in love, in a way. A strange and imagined sort of love which makes me immensely jealous and happy at the same time. I can’t be the man he dreams of, but we make our dreams come true nonetheless.

—Yeah. You are, really. No pressure. No orders all the time, no… You don’t make me feel like…what I am.

—What are you? I ask, fully aware of the vexatiousness of my question.

Silence, but for the crackling fire.

—I don’t know. What I will be, I know that. I will graduate, and get a job, and…

—Marry and have children and… Trevor interrupts.

—Maybe, yes, very likely.

—You want children?

—Oh yes.

—And a wife, Trevor says. It’s not a question.

—Yes. But…

—And a farm. And cows and horses?

—No, not necessarily.

—You are in love with the image of yourself, says Trevor, suddenly very serious. The farmer or cowboy, the handsome man on a horse. Man and nature…

Jake doesn’t answer. I don’t think he understands what Trevor means, but I tend to always underestimate him.

—Yes, but, Jake objects, without objecting.

—But you also like what you are doing now?

—Exactly, with you guys. But what am I doing?

—I can tell you like it. You are always hard.

Trevor’s hand grabs the big bulge in Jake’s briefs.

—If you are really straight, why do you get so hard with us? And stay hard so long?

Jake shrugs and blushes. I am long past labels, but Trevor still believes in them. He delights in making straight boys do gay things.

—Why do you do it, Jake? Why do you, forgive me, sell yourself to strangers for a weekend? It’s not just the money, is it?

Jake pretends to think, but he has the answer ready.

—No.

Trevor has pulled out the long, slender cock through the slit. He’s done talking for today. But I want to know.

—Why, then? We know you aren’t gay. And even if you…

—It’s very hard to express this, but… it’s about being wanted, adored. Girls…they never worship men. Straight sex is so…normal. Girls, they take everything for granted. You are always giving, always… and they are always taking. With you guys it’s different. With girls…

He has trouble concentrating, as his cock burrows deep into Trevor’s throat. He is good at that, my darling: deep-throating young bucks.

—…you are always the man. It’s always the same old role, fucking the woman, being the man… It’s artificial, contrived. I haven’t found a girl who can give me what you guys give me.

—What do we give you?

Trevor spits on the cock and jerks it with his hand. It has grown to full size and glistens with pre-cum.

—The best blowjob in the world?

Jake chuckles, and Trevor turns to me.

—Is it so hard to guess? Adoration! We worship him. He gets money and he is treated like a god. He’s got two men at his feet, telling—showing him that he is the most beautiful thing in all America.

Jake nods.

—Yes. That. And…

—And what? I ask. There is more. Out with it, now!

Trevor sucks the hard cock again.

—There is something very erotic about being ‘used’ and ‘wanted’ and…doing something you wouldn’t normally do. It’s like…

Trevor jacks harder. He wants the talk to cease and the fucking to begin. He has slipped down his own briefs and is playing with his hole. Itching for Jake’s cowboy cock to plow him again. Itching badly.

—Like what?

Trevor throws me an angry look. I will shut up, I promise. One more answer.

—It’s like stepping out of your own life, and becoming someone else for a few hours.

—Or a whole weekend. I understand. We all play our roles. It’s nice to step out of character. And now, will you please fuck my husband? Look at him fingering himself. He needs it so badly!

Jake gets up and puts a condom on, lubes up, and takes Trevor from behind—a position he has always hated with me, but loves with Jake. Why? Perhaps because of the pictures I take. I reach for the camera and take one more. Jake riding his bronco. I catch him sometimes, at home, my Trevor, looking through these pictures. Better than any porn: the memories of your own experiences. If you look hard enough, you can feel the cock inside you. Jake, tall and handsome, muscular chest and perfect abs, his cock buried deep in the Asian mathematician.

When Trevor won the Cole prize for number theory, he wore a tuxedo and was nervous throughout the ceremony. Then he called Jake, and asked him to fuck him until dawn. At breakfast he said,

—It doesn’t matter what you do with your brain. We are all caught in our bodies.

—Yes? I answered, carefully cutting my poached egg.

Trevor shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his butt sore from the pounding. Jake listened intently, nibbling on dry toast. That’s why he is so lean.

—Nothing beats a good fuck. No experience in life is more personal, more intense, and more rewarding than getting fucked.

—Not even a Nobel prize in mathematics? asked Jake.

—Fuck mathematics, said Trevor, pulling him closer and kissing him.

I put the camera away and watch the action for a while. Jake is such an expert. He was born to please others, and himself. His cock inside my lover, he still has time to look and smile at me, take my hand, and bring it to his nipples. I play with them when my cock slips out and drops into Jake’s face. His mouth opens, and he sucks it. I know he doesn’t like sucking dick, he’s told me so. It’s the one thing he can’t get used to. Getting fucked is no problem, but the taste of a cock in his mouth is revolting to him. Yet he sucks me with skill and enthusiasm. You couldn’t tell from the way he does it that he finds it disgusting. It doesn’t take much to set me off, that’s why Jake is the better fucker: he can drill Trevor for an hour if he wants to. I on the other hand usually cum within minutes. Like now. I say so, want to pull out, but Jake grabs my bum, my hairy bum, and pulls it closer. I shoot down his throat: one big giant week-old load of middle-aged cum down the hunk’s gullet. When he comes up for air, still fucking Trevor, his face is all flushed. I want to ask him why he did it, but he speaks first.

—I’ve always wanted to try that. I can’t with other strangers, you know why… but you guys I trust.

He is right, he knows he can trust us. We only play safe. And only with him for the last few years.

—And, how was it? I collapse on the chair.

—Much better than I thought.

—Have you never tasted cum, really?

He shakes his head. Suddenly Trevor shudders and shoots over the cowhide. Jake hurries, pulls out, rips off the condom, and his load explodes over Trevor’s back. Trevor, drenched in sweat, covered in jism, gives me a furious look.

—Do you have to distract him and talk and talk, talk, talk, while he fucks me?

He is not really angry. We shower together, and take pleasure in soaping up Jake’s beautiful body.

Two hours later I awake upstairs in bed, Jake’s strong leg resting on my stomach, his arm slung around me, breathing softly, still asleep. The oak wood stairs squeak as Trevor ascends; the smell of coffee precedes him and wakes the sleeping beauty.

—There is a man here to see you.

—A what? I mean … what?

—There is a man here to see you.

I drink a cup of black coffee and stroke Jake’s chest hair, kiss him on the lips and nose; then Trevor spanks me as I rush down the steps and open the door. It’s the breeder from the other shore, the one with wife and kids on arm and hand. Handsome man. Enough hair on his chest to make Trevor wince. Not enough to turn me off. His face is much younger close up. He looks past me into the room, no doubt searching for the corn-fed blond hunk he has spotted on the boat. He knows there are three of us, if he saw the boat.

—Hi, he says gingerly, his arm stretched out. I am your neighbor!

Americans always do that, and I find it droll. Introducing yourself as a neighbor, when you live three blocks down or twelve miles around the bend. In Europe, neighbors only introduce themselves when the building is on fire.

We exchange names. I ask him what he wants, and he is put off by the question, almost retreats. I can sense his reluctance. Then I see it in his eyes, abruptly and clearly: he is not just a neighbor, he’s here for us. No friendly introduction: he’s run away from the wife and children. He wants male company. He is one of us. All that in half a second and one longing look.

—Why don’t you come in?

—No thanks. I just… I just wanted to say hello.

Chicken. He stretches out his hand again. I take it and hold it. It’s warm and a little sweaty.

—That’s not the only thing you came for, is it?

—It is… I mean I… Sorry if I…

I put my arm on his shoulder and lead him outside.

—Listen, I am gay. Trevor, the Asian who opened the door, is my lover, husband, whatever you want to call it. I think you figured that out already. You are welcome here, any time.

—I am not…

—You are welcome to talk, any time. If you feel the need.

His eyes sparkle. His hands are trembling.

—If you...need to get away. If you feel you have made the wrong decision with that wife of yours… If you hate yourself for having those thoughts, if you… anything, at all. Stop by. Don’t do anything stupid. You are welcome here, really.

He is quiet. I look into his eyes, and see mountains of fear. We walk back to his car, and he pulls out a key. I decide to take him one step further. I have this talent: I know too often what others feel and think. And the fact that he’s not beating me up right now shows I am right.

—Are you religious?

He shakes his head. Good. Most Americans say they are, and their childish superstitions complicate things.

—You must stay away from church people, I warn him.

He nods.

—They mess with your head and keep you away from yourself. You understand?

He nods again. then looks at me with soft, wet eyes, like a puppy. I suspect he grew up very religiously. He is showing all the signs: self-doubt, insecurity, forced into circumstances against his will…

—You know what, you’re already here. Why don’t you stay for a while? Come with me. To the lake. Come.

Almost by accident, I take his hand. The hand of a perfect stranger, who’s come to my door seeking himself. His whole face is that: a big cry for help. So we walk to the shore, and lean against the upturned boat. He lights a cigarette, his hands still shaking, and then, it all pours out of him, a waterfall of pain. All the wrong choices. All the misunderstandings. All the missteps, the indoctrination, the coercion. And all the longing. At the end, he admits why he is here. He’s seen us in the dinghy, and put two and two together. Two and one, I joke, and he laughs shyly. The worst is over, and he can breathe again.

We are not the only gays around here. His immediate neighbors are two men. He knows what they do, he can hear them, but he wants to know more. So bashful; his eyes shimmering. He speaks slowly, deliberately, in short sentences that cost him much effort; with long pauses, during which he gazes out over the lake, as if we were on a distant planet, and the first humans to behold the serene spectacle. Over there roam the hrossa, a voice in my head says, and I wonder how to spell the word.

Behind us we hear moaning, and I am as startled by the sound as he is. Jake is awake, I think, and Trevor is riding him. The rest of the neighbor’s confession is punctuated by the sound of very vocal sex from our block house. Trevor begs to be fed the big cock. Trevor begs to be taken. Trevor shouting,

—Fuck me, Jake!

As the neighbor speaks of his problems with the congregation, the rims of his ears turn so red, I wonder if they might fall off. Trevor and Jake act out a porn scene—Jake probably because his clients ask him to; Trevor because he loves it. The dialog is contrived, unnatural, but the two get off on that.

—Fuck my hole, fuck me dude, god, yes, fuck my hole!

—Shit, oh yeah!

—Oh fuck that’s good!

—Fuck my hole!

—What?

—Fuck me, Jake!

—Say it again!

—Fuck me, Jake!

I can see them looking into each other’s eyes, wild with lust. The neighbor shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. To make his lot easier, I tell him about Jake. He listens and calms down.

—Jake is a hustler. We rent him every two months or so. He’s really straight, he says, but what is the point of labeling someone straight when he has gay sex? Honestly, only a country like America could have come up with such oddly dichotomous concepts as gay and straight. You are what you shag, as we say in Manchester.

He looks puzzled, and I apologize. I realize I must use simpler words and avoid politics.

—We met him in Las Vegas, at the fascist fashion store—fascist not for its political views, but the imagery of corn-fed Midwestern boys, too beautiful to be true, like Jake. He’s our very own smiling poster-boy in flip-flops.

The neighbor smiles, as Americans often do when the tension settles and a familiar product is mentioned. When after an hour of Idomeneo, someone mentions Starbucks.

—Fuck me, Jake!

—Gawddam your ass…so tight!

—Fuck me dude!

Another word Trevor has picked up recently: dude. He relishes the authenticity it gives his speech.

—Dammit! Say it again!

—What?

—Say ‘fuck me.’ Beg me!

In my mind, I see Trevor’s eyes roll and his lips curl up. His face is glowing when he pleads. His eyes are watery. He says it very shyly at first, especially when you look deep into his eyes.

—Fuck me please, Jake.

—Feel good?

—Ah!

—Feel good?

—Aw yes, fuck me!

—You love it, don’t you?

—I love it.

—Dick in your ass?

—Yeah, stick it in there. Fuck me, Jake.

That weekend, we had a bad experience with a guy from L.A., and couldn’t find anyone interesting through the usual channels: not on the Internet, not via a service we use. Yet what is Las Vegas without sex, especially if you don’t gamble, or at least, don’t enjoy gambling, sit there at the machines and at the tables, see right through the game, the odds, and pity all the stupid souls believing in their luck, and the gods of chance.

—And another thing, don’t go to Las Vegas with a serious mathematician.

—Trevor is a mathematician?

—Yes. Famous too. High citation index.

—What’s that?

—No idea. Ask him later. He’s the scientist!

Just as I say that, Trevor screams from the house,

—Oh yeah! Harder! Fuck me, Jake! Fuck me!

We both chuckle. Some scientist.

—So, I said, you know, I don’t care anymore, I am too old to pick up the young guys I want, so I need to pay. Next time we see a gorgeous one, I will just ask. And ask I did, when we went to the store, and he stood there, shirtless, the paradox of modern marketing: selling not the clothes, but the bodies in them, for in the clothes they produce, anyone looks dumb and infantile, so the only thing left is to strip them off and show the immaculate David instead.

—You think that too? the neighbor interrupts.

—Think what?

—That grown-up Americans dress like children?

—What do you mean, grown-up? Americans don’t grow up, ever!

—No, I guess we don’t.

We laugh, and I feel I have found a soulmate. This thing has always amazed me about them: how even in the face of criticism, they are a ‘we.’ Most other nationalities switch to ‘they’ when the going gets tough.

He puts a hand on my thigh while the laughter fizzles. Probably the first man he has touched in this way. In the end he’ll want Jake though, not me, I am sure. How could it be otherwise?

—Then I approached him, asked if he was earning enough standing there two—four, he corrected me—hours a day, just abs and pecs and smiles, without a face or soul. But face he had: angelic, beautiful, yet manly, although it has grown manlier over time. So I offered him a hundred dollars just if he showed up at our hotel room, another hundred if he took his clothes off for us, he said ‘haven’t you seen enough, I mean look at me, I am practically naked!’ Well practically, yes, but again, two-hundred just for that, and there is more…

—You just walked up to a storefront model and asked him to sleep with you?

—Yes.

—Wow!

—You are too young to understand. How old are you?

—Twenty-one.

Twenty-one years old and two children and a wife! It’s preposterous. Nobody should be burdened with so much responsibility at that age.

—You’ll understand when you are older, and stop giving a shit.

Our conversation is interrupted again.

—Aw yes, fuck me, Jake! Oh yeah. Oh yeah!

—You love it don’t you?

—I love it.

—Dick in your ass?

—Yeah, stick it in there. Fuck me Jake.

—You wannit.

Trevor and Jake are close. The neighbor pauses far too long to listen still innocently. He touches his own thigh, and I can see the outline of his hard cock.

—You wannit, don’t you?

—I wannit Jake. Fuck me!

—You love it, don’t you?

—I love you, Jake.

Ouch.

—A shit about what?

—What? Oh…anything. That it doesn’t matter what other people think. That only you can make yourself happy, nothing else. No wife and children. No mathematics prize. Certainly no god-concept. That families are overrated, and really don’t matter in the end. Family is where you find it, not the blood-related freak show you are born into. All that wisdom which takes so long to break through, and nine out of ten people never get it.

—I think I know what you mean.

—I think you do.

—Americans are obsessed with family.

—No, no, America is already on the right path. It’s the Chinese you have to worry about, I say and point to the house. They are really obsessive about breeding.

For a second I fear I have offended him, but he seems lost in thought. From the house we hear spanking and then a cry of pleasure. Jake is coming. Trevor pants loudly. There is one Chinese not obsessed with breeding, I am thinking.

—It’s the mass media, you know… They keep peddling this dream of man and wife and 2.1 children and a swing in the yard…and it’s in everything. It’s completely preposterous that our society should be organized in families. We should live in groups and communes, and alone if we want to, not in core families: they are hotbeds of abuse and stupidity. Inside families we learn how to shut up and be good taxpayers, not to question the system and wash up after breakfast. Outside the family, we learn everything that is really important.

I stare at him for a moment, shocked at the revelation. He’s not the man I imagined him to be, dumb, timid, lost, hopelessly caught up in the middle-class lies most Americans have long succumbed to. He doesn’t watch TV shows about teen werewolves and buy a shotgun. He actually thinks for himself, and there is no sterile cope of lead over his being, stifling the senses. But this is too early to pay him a compliment, and I do want to touch him first where it tickles.

—Anyway, back to Las Vegas, there was more… and I tell him all about our straight boy.

Jake stayed the night, all night and all morning, and went back to his job at 11am, over a thousand dollars richer, and Trevor and I exhausted, spent, ready to leave this most boring of cities on American soil, full of unimaginative men and women, believing in things that don’t exist, doing things that make no sense, losing fortunes, dignities, and gaining nothing, not even a good night out. We at least had made a friend, for that’s what he turned out to become, our Jake, despite the oil on the wheels. The next time we came to America, he called us, he added us to his private web profile, he wrote monthly emails and emptied his heart to us, and he offered himself free of charge the first night we returned. He became, over five years, the student we helped out with pocket money, the son we watched grow up, the young man in need of guidance and a bit of help in life. It was Trevor who got him into university, and we who bought him an apartment, small and cozy, in the Village, where he didn’t want to live at first. We tolerated the mess and the girls, the parties and the booze, if only once in a while, every few months, he became ours again, our lover, our stallion, our bringer and protector of youth.

—But he’s moved back to Vegas since. He doesn’t like New York. So now we fly him in for the weekends, and we still pay him.

—You must be rich, says the neighbor.

—We are well off, yes.

I always find it embarrassing to admit: the things we can afford, no, choose to afford. We aren’t rich. But instead of trips to the Bahamas, or filling our home with crap from Walmart, we spend it on weekends with Jake. The choices you make. The people you cherish. That’s all life is.

—You wannit, don’t you?

—I wannit Jake. Fuck me, Jake.

—Shit, I’m coming.

—Come for me, Jake. Shoot all over me.

—Aaaaaargh.

The neighbor and I look away, out over the water, while the orgasms last. I am not quite sure how to proceed. Jake will know what to do.

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