hand. “Open one of those for me?”
“Last one.” He passes him the bottle. George chugs halfway to the bottom.
“Didn’t go well with the Prince of Denmark?”
George shakes his head, shutting his eyes for a moment, as if clearing his vision. “Turns out all he wanted was a quickie.”
“Wham, bam, thank you ma’am?”
“More like, wham, bam, thank you, Sambo.”
Robin chuckles, but the look on George’s face is grim. His body is tightly coiled.
“I get to his hotel room, he gets on his knees before we even get past the small talk. He starts going down on me, saying stuff like, ‘ Oh, your byoo-tee-full black pee-niss, your smood black skeen. ’ And then he’s like coming, and it’s over.”
“He didn’t get you off?”
“I couldn’t even stay hard. I vould like to see your black pee-niss orgasm. ”
“Did you tell him we say ‘African American’ now?”
George doesn’t smile. “So I’ve been racially fetishized and blue-balled all at once. He probably gave me gonorrhea on top of it.” George stands and walks to the bathroom, taking the beer with him. He leaves the door open.
Robin follows, as George starts the water for the shower. He’s already pulled off his shirt and is kicking off his shoes. The troubled expression on George’s face is somehow unfamiliar, and it takes a moment for Robin to realize what it is: A mixture of anger and sadness that comes from being insulted. His feelings are hurt. This is not the usual even-keeled, easily amused George.
“He’s a fool,” Robin says.
“He’s a fucking colonialist motherfucker.”
Robin feels like he’s on thin ice, but he wants to try again. “I mean, he’s a fool not to take his time with you. You’re looking foxy.”
“Please,” George mutters. “Don’t you start, too.”
George steps into the shower, closing himself in behind the opaque curtain. Robin gets his second glimpse today of George’s naked back and ass. It seems especially perilous this time, in the midst of this discussion, and he glances away, his eyes trying to rest on something neutral: a stain on the linoleum, a burn mark from one of his cigarettes.
“The thing is,” George is saying through the hiss of the water, “I knew this guy was blunt, but that seemed normal enough. I didn’t expect to fall in love. I thought I’d get a little something more than ‘ your skeen is so smood und shiny, Gay-org. ’”
“You can’t expect anything from men,” Robin says. “Men suck.” He waits for a response, and when he doesn’t get one, he steps out of the bathroom. He hates seeing George like this, and he hates that his own reaction is all mixed up with some buzz of desire. This buzz can’t be about George. It’s the four beers he drank. It’s Calvin’s dirty screenplay. It’s the still lingering effect of Peter’s blue tennis shorts tenting up in the car, Peter tempting him before cutting him loose.
Later, George joins him on the couch for the network news, which is saturated with coverage of a hijacked TWA flight that’s been diverted to Beirut. A passenger has been killed, his body dumped on the tarmac. Then the story shifts to local news, the ongoing investigation into the Philadelphia police department over the bombing of MOVE. There’s a quote from Ramona Africa, the only woman who survived the conflagration, saying the police fired on her as she ran out of the flames: “No one was supposed to survive.”
George says, “I’m gonna grow out my dreads and call myself George Africa, and then I’m gonna live among my people and fight the Man.”
“What about me?” Robin says. “You’re all I got, George Africa.”
“Except you’re going to London, so fuck you, Blanco.”
There’s something distinctly not-jokey in George’s voice, but Robin doesn’t know what to do with it. His mind begins to zoom forward to a day when George no longer wants to be his friend, no longer wants anything to do with him.
Impulsively, he
“Last one.” He passes him the bottle. George chugs halfway to the bottom.
“Didn’t go well with the Prince of Denmark?”
George shakes his head, shutting his eyes for a moment, as if clearing his vision. “Turns out all he wanted was a quickie.”
“Wham, bam, thank you ma’am?”
“More like, wham, bam, thank you, Sambo.”
Robin chuckles, but the look on George’s face is grim. His body is tightly coiled.
“I get to his hotel room, he gets on his knees before we even get past the small talk. He starts going down on me, saying stuff like, ‘ Oh, your byoo-tee-full black pee-niss, your smood black skeen. ’ And then he’s like coming, and it’s over.”
“He didn’t get you off?”
“I couldn’t even stay hard. I vould like to see your black pee-niss orgasm. ”
“Did you tell him we say ‘African American’ now?”
George doesn’t smile. “So I’ve been racially fetishized and blue-balled all at once. He probably gave me gonorrhea on top of it.” George stands and walks to the bathroom, taking the beer with him. He leaves the door open.
Robin follows, as George starts the water for the shower. He’s already pulled off his shirt and is kicking off his shoes. The troubled expression on George’s face is somehow unfamiliar, and it takes a moment for Robin to realize what it is: A mixture of anger and sadness that comes from being insulted. His feelings are hurt. This is not the usual even-keeled, easily amused George.
“He’s a fool,” Robin says.
“He’s a fucking colonialist motherfucker.”
Robin feels like he’s on thin ice, but he wants to try again. “I mean, he’s a fool not to take his time with you. You’re looking foxy.”
“Please,” George mutters. “Don’t you start, too.”
George steps into the shower, closing himself in behind the opaque curtain. Robin gets his second glimpse today of George’s naked back and ass. It seems especially perilous this time, in the midst of this discussion, and he glances away, his eyes trying to rest on something neutral: a stain on the linoleum, a burn mark from one of his cigarettes.
“The thing is,” George is saying through the hiss of the water, “I knew this guy was blunt, but that seemed normal enough. I didn’t expect to fall in love. I thought I’d get a little something more than ‘ your skeen is so smood und shiny, Gay-org. ’”
“You can’t expect anything from men,” Robin says. “Men suck.” He waits for a response, and when he doesn’t get one, he steps out of the bathroom. He hates seeing George like this, and he hates that his own reaction is all mixed up with some buzz of desire. This buzz can’t be about George. It’s the four beers he drank. It’s Calvin’s dirty screenplay. It’s the still lingering effect of Peter’s blue tennis shorts tenting up in the car, Peter tempting him before cutting him loose.
Later, George joins him on the couch for the network news, which is saturated with coverage of a hijacked TWA flight that’s been diverted to Beirut. A passenger has been killed, his body dumped on the tarmac. Then the story shifts to local news, the ongoing investigation into the Philadelphia police department over the bombing of MOVE. There’s a quote from Ramona Africa, the only woman who survived the conflagration, saying the police fired on her as she ran out of the flames: “No one was supposed to survive.”
George says, “I’m gonna grow out my dreads and call myself George Africa, and then I’m gonna live among my people and fight the Man.”
“What about me?” Robin says. “You’re all I got, George Africa.”
“Except you’re going to London, so fuck you, Blanco.”
There’s something distinctly not-jokey in George’s voice, but Robin doesn’t know what to do with it. His mind begins to zoom forward to a day when George no longer wants to be his friend, no longer wants anything to do with him.
Impulsively, he
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