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Mechanical Bull |
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Maps and Legends Index |
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I
dream in comics, once in awhile. I've heard of people dreaming in black
and white, or even cartoons, but I think I might be the only person in
the world who dreams in comic stills. Except for Mikey, maybe. I started having them when we were working on the first Rage issue, and they've been coming sporadically ever since. It happened a lot when me and Brian were apart. I'd see frames of Rage and JT in my sleep- flying, dancing, fucking, keeping the world safe for queers everywhere- and I'd wake up smiling, sometimes even coming, and be able to tell myself that it was about the art, not about missing him. Ethan would ask me what I'd been dreaming about, what had gotten me so very excited. And I'd say, "You, of course. What else would I be dreaming about?" What a fucking joke. The night we left Chicago, I dreamt about Rage and the bar bomber. An entire issue, and it was pretty fucking good. I wanted to call Michael about it as soon as I woke up, but I knew that Brian would get annoyed if I asked for the phone. He got annoyed every time I wanted to call home, and usually managed to find some excuse, some distraction to keep me from doing it. Normally I would've asked anyway, and tried to get him to tell me why he was being such a big freak about the whole thing, but after the day we'd had I really didn't wanna start a fight with him. After the aquarium, and the picnic, and the fact that he'd actually listened when I suggested we check out of the eighty-four thousand dollar hotel room earlier than he'd planned, the last thing I wanted to do was antagonize him. I just wanted to enjoy him. And I was sure he didn't wanna hear any more about the goddamn bar bomber. He didn't understand why it upset me so much, and I sure as fuck didn't want to explain it to him. Didn't want to let him know that sometimes I wonder what I'll do when he's dead- that I know he'll die before me, before he's supposed to, if he keeps living the way he does, and it terrifies me more than anything in the world. If I hadn't left the bar when I did, if he hadn't followed me...if, if, if. I stay awake at night worrying about that kind of stuff. "Did I miss a nuclear war?" I asked, stretching in my seat and taking in our surroundings. I'd fallen asleep before we'd even gotten out of the city, when it was still light out, and now it was dark, deserted, and eerily quiet. Brian had the top down, and the stars were brighter than I could remember ever seeing them. Probably because there were no fucking streetlights on this insane road he'd chosen for us. "No," he said. "We were in a terrible car wreck and died. We're in hell now." "Huh. I expected a lot more fire." "Well, it could be Iowa. I didn't wanna scare you." "Are we anywhere near Buttfuck? I've been looking forward to that." He laughed and put his hand on my knee, and I leaned back in my seat and looked up at the sky some more. We drove on for a while, listening to music and soaking in the nothingness around us, and it was actually a lot cooler than I expected Iowa to be. It was one of those times where you think; this should be in a movie. It's all pretty and moody and cool, and somebody oughtta make a movie. I felt almost ridiculously happy just to be there, just to be with Brian at all, and I wanted to tell him that, but it seemed like a dumb thing to say. I could tell he was feeling it too, though. Just by the way he was touching my leg. Then, as we were passing through something vaguely resembling a town, his hand was suddenly back on the wheel, and we were doing a 70 mile an hour U-turn in the middle of the street. "No fucking way! Did you see that?" he asked me. I looked around, startled and confused, and didn't see anything remotely interesting at all. "Um...no?" "Streetcar Named Desire," he said, pointing to a dilapidated old theatre marquee. "At eight-thirty. It just started." He swerved into a parking space, nearly sideswiping a rusty pick up truck with a gun rack in the process, and threw open his door. I hadn't seen him this excited since the Cocks in Socks party at Babylon, so I shrugged and followed him in. "You ever seen it?" he asked as we were buying our tickets. I shook my head. He kissed my hair, told me I was gonna love it, and practically carried me to my seat. I don't really know what to say about the movie. Everyone in it was completely psychotic, which was entertaining I guess, and the theatre was pretty cool and old fashioned and pleasantly empty, but honestly I was paying more attention to Brian than anything else. He was so completely engrossed, smiling and mouthing some of the words, and every so often he'd poke me and look at me with this hopeful little smile- like he wanted to make sure I was enjoying it as much as he was. It was so totally dorky and sweet. I was seeing his hidden, inner geek, and it felt like he was sharing some big important secret with me. I loved it. When it was over we sat there until the lights came up, and he asked me what I thought. I told him it was the best movie I'd seen in years, and that Marlon Brando was like an older, slightly less good looking version of Brian Kinney. He kissed me for like, a half an hour. He's so fucking easy. When we got back to the car we looked at the map and realized we were only an hour or so outside of Des Moines (the closest thing to a city that exists in Iowa), so we decided to keep going. I don't know how we wound up at the Rainbow Cattle Company. I didn't expect to find any gay bars in Iowa at all, and I certainly never expected to see a gay bar like this one. Anywhere. Ever. But somehow there it was and there we were and, you know, rainbow flag in the middle of god-fearing, tobacco-chewing, queer-hating Middle America...any port in a storm I guess. So, okay, imagine the seediest, scariest roadhouse dive bar you've ever seen. We're talking straw on the floor, Merle Haggard on the jukebox, dirty glasses, dirty tables, a pool table with only one cue and seven balls, a freaking mechanical bull in the center of the room where a dance floor oughtta be. Now imagine it full of overweight queers in cowboy hats with bad moustaches. That's the Rainbow Cattle Company. "I've never seen so many ugly homos in my life," Brian said, upon entering this lovely establishment, and I had to agree. For some reason I'd figured that if there were, in fact, any gay men in Iowa, that they'd be the corn fed, boy next-door types. Wholesome smiles and healthy tans and nicely muscled arms from working all day on their farm equipment or whatever. Well, what can I say...I was wrong. We decided we'd need to drink heavily if we were going to spend any time in the good ol' Rainbow Cattle Company, so I grabbed us a corner table by the jukebox, and Brian moseyed off to the bar and got us an entire bottle of Jim Beam. That fucking Beam was the beginning of the end for me. See, I'm not a functioning alcoholic like Brian. Just a lush really, and when I get drunk I get *stupid*. I do things that would really be better left undone. Like, say, riding mechanical bulls. Or making lame and sappy proclamations to Brian and then projectile vomiting, for instance. Let's start with the bull. They were having a contest that night. Five hundred bucks for the longest ride. Now when we first got there, the whole thing seemed pretty retarded to me, but the longer we sat there drinking, smoking, listening to country music, watching other guys- flabby, out of shape guys- riding Bessie, the bull...did I mention the drinking? Anyway, at some point I decided it was a fucking awesome idea, and an easy way to score five hundred bucks. "I'm gonna do it!" I announced when they made the last call for contestants. "Shut the fuck up, you're not getting on that thing," Brian said, laughing. "I am! I'm gonna win! Five hundred dollars!" I stood up, drink in hand, and started wobbling towards the bar to sign up. He grabbed onto my forearm and yanked me back. "You are NOT," he said. "Now sit down or I'm taking your bottle away." "Oh, come on. How hard can it be? I'm an expert at riding things!" He didn't even crack a smile at that, which, had I been sober, would've been enough to tell me that he was genuinely worried and that this was not a good plan at all, but...not sober. "Have you ever even been on a *horse* before?" he asked me. "Yeah! Of course!" Okay, so it was a donkey, and I was twelve, and I think it was in a pen or something, but still. "Get the camera ready," I told him, then leaned down to kiss him goodbye. "Don't FUCKING kill yourself," he snarled against my mouth. I giggled stupidly, and sloshed off to my near-death. No, I'm being melodramatic now. It wasn't that bad. But seriously, I would not recommend mechanical bull riding to anyone, under any circumstances. I really didn't expect it to be that painful. It felt like all my bones were snapping out of place, getting shaken around inside my body and grinding against each other. I thought my whole jaw might come flying out, followed by several gallons of vomit, and I don't even wanna talk about my ass. I was dimly aware that people were cheering, and music was playing, and somewhere Brian was watching and I hoped he thought it was hot, but mostly what I was focusing on was holding onto that fucker for all I was worth. I have no idea how long I was up there. It felt like a fucking hour, but was probably something like 45 seconds. Anyway, at some point I became convinced that if I held on any longer, my hands would be torn from my body, so I let go and went flying head first over the front of the bull. Fortunately I managed to flip around in the air somehow, and wound up landing on my back on one of the numerous safety mats they had placed around the area. I slowly scraped myself off the ground and looked around woozily. Brian was on his feet near our table, poised to rush to my side and cart me to the emergency room if the need arose. I gave him a smile and a reassuring wave, which seemed to relax him a little, but he didn't sit down again until I'd staggered my way back to the table. "Well, that was fun," I said, flopping into my chair and trying not to wince at the pain in my tailbone. "D'you think I won? How long was I on for?" "Dunno," he shrugged. "Wasn't really paying attention." "Well, did you take pictures? Was it sexy?" He handed me the digital camera with a slight scowl, and I looked at the one shot he'd gotten. It was horribly out of focus, and my head was completely cut off. It made me kind of nauseous to look at. But it was so sweet, I couldn't resist commenting. "Aw, you were too worried about me to take a good picture. That's so cute," I said, like a giant, drunk retard. "Fuck off," he snarled, and grabbed the camera back. I laughed, and drank more, and watched Bessie toss around some other contestants. "Iowa's weird," I announced at some point. "That's the understatement of the century," Brian said. "Hey, what's the weirdest place you've ever done it?" I asked him. "Weird obscure or weird...inappropriate?" "Let's go with obscure. They're all inappropriate." He rubbed his chin and pondered for a few minutes, and I took the opportunity to pour myself another drink. 'Cause, ya know, I hadn't had enough or anything. "Gonna have to go with the Rock," he said eventually. "The what? What rock? You fucked The Rock?" "Not the wrestler, the prison. Alcatraz." "What? You did not!" I started laughing the laugh of the truly inebriated- the kind that goes on for far too long, over something that's not even very funny- and he told me the whole stupid story, which I've mostly forgotten. Something about a college trip, and a marketing class, and a blond guy with a giant cock whose name he spent about twenty minutes trying to recall. I still don't really know what the fuck they were doing at Alcatraz, but the important thing was that I decided I'd find a weirder place somehow, someday, and get him to fuck me there. I guess telling the story made him horny, because when he was done he reached under the table to squeeze my thigh and started rubbing his thumb in slow circles against my crotch. I smiled at him, glassy eyed and grateful for the touch, and he stared back intently. "Are you having a good time?" he asked me, pressing a little harder. "Mmm," I nodded, and my eyes slipped shut. I saw spinning colored lights behind my lids, which is never a good sign. They made me dizzy. "Hey, look at me," he said, and I did, and the bad dizzy went away and got replaced by a good dizzy. The kind of dizzy I get just looking in his eyes sometimes, even when I'm sober. That feeling washed over me again, like it had in the car earlier, but even stronger. The relief, and the peace, and the sweet ache in the pit of my stomach that comes just from being near him, and then he kissed me and it was so tender and hot, I thought I might come from it. Even without his fingers on my dick, it probably would've been enough if it had gone on long enough. He's given me orgasms with those kind of kisses before. "I can't wait to fuck you," he whispered against my lips, and it was just too much. I had to say something. Fucking whiskey. "Can I tell you something and will you promise not to call me a dyke?" I slurred into his ear, and reluctantly pried his hand away from my crotch so I could concentrate. So I could figure out how to word this in the least embarrassing way possible. Our fingers tangled together on my thigh and he nuzzled his stubbly cheek against my face. "Now why would I do something like that?" he asked with faux innocence, and I tossed back another drink with my free hand. "Mmmyou're gonna make fun of me. I can tell." "Would I be me if I didn't?" he asked, and kissed the tip of my nose. He had a very good point, and I started to change my mind about the whole thing, but it was kind of too late by then. If I didn't tell him, he'd wind up thinking it was something even dumber than what it actually was. "I just...was thinking today, when I woke up, how I...well, sometimes I wake up, and I..." Oh yeah, this was going well. He was giving me that raised-eyebrow smirk already, and I was stammering idiotically and saying nothing at all. I stopped myself and took another big swig of whiskey, then tried again. "Sometimes I wake up, and I forget you took me back," I managed to get out. He stared blankly at me, and I took that as the most encouragement I could hope for. "I forget that we're together, and I feel this-this panic, like waking from a nightmare, and then-then I open my eyes, and you're always there, and it's such a relief." He pulled back a little at that and glanced around nervously, like he was afraid someone might be listening, but he didn't laugh or make any rude comments, so I kept going. "I'm just really glad that we...that you...I just missed you so fucking much. When I was...when I was with him, I-I wanted it to be you. Every time. All the time." I don't exactly know where that came from. It wasn't what I'd been planning to tell him, but fuck, it was so true, and saying it out loud really brought those feelings back in a sort of horrible way. I still remembered what it was like- getting fucked by Ethan and wishing he'd be just a little bit rougher, a little bit more passionate, a little bit more like...But I'd always clamp down on my thoughts before they went there, before I let myself imagine. Sometimes it just happened, though. Sometimes he'd sneak in, like a song you can't get out of your head, and I'd come just a little bit harder, just a little bit longer, and want to cry when it was done. Brian was staring at me now- not blank anymore, but I couldn't really read his expression. It made me uncomfortable, whatever it was, and I decided it was time to cut this off before it got even lamer. I could've gone on for hours, honestly, but I hadn't completely abandoned my sense of pride. "Anyway," I sighed. "I know it couldn't have been easy to take me back after that, so...thank you, I guess, is what I'm trying to say." He continued to give me that inscrutable silent stare for a long time, but he was still holding my hand, and I felt his fingers slowly coming to life- wriggling and squeezing possessively. Then, finally, he smiled. "Thank you," he said, and reached around with his other hand to ruffle my hair and pull my head to his shoulder. I let out a breath of relief against his neck. "We're goin' to Vegas," he told me. "I just decided." "Isn't that kind of out of our way?" I asked. "Fuck it. We've got all summer." I shrugged and snuggled deeper into his neck, not really caring where the fuck we went, as long as I could do this. I think I almost passed out, leaning against him there for god knows how long, but eventually he was shaking me and they were announcing the winners of the ride-off, and somehow I actually managed to win third place. Unfortunately the prize was not cash. It was a bottle of whiskey. "Ummmare you okay to drive?" I asked, staggering back to the car after collecting my reward. "Better than you are," he said, but that wasn't particularly reassuring. I think a blind octogenarian would've been better to drive than I was at that point. I climbed into the passenger seat, though, and dug through the rapidly growing pile of crap on the floor for the bag of Doritos I'd started yesterday. "I can't believe I won more whiskey," I said. "Life is funny." He laughed and started driving, and I started eating the stupid Doritos and working on the second bottle of whiskey and, not surprisingly, after about five minutes I was ready to hurl. "Ughhdon't feel well," I groaned. "Jesus Christ," he grumbled, and pulled off to the side of the road. "Open the door." I ran as far from the car as I could manage, and then opened my mouth and watched the contents of my stomach flying out in every direction, like seltzer out of a clown's spray bottle. It was sick. Vomit splattered against the trees and the grass, and I clutched my knees and tried not to keel over. I heard Brian calling my name and running after me, and then he was there behind me- rubbing my back and giving me water and making things slightly less awful. "Such a lightweight," he teased quietly, as I gargled and spit. "Fuck off. I drank, like, an entire bottle of whiskey. And rode a fucking mechanical bull. And was subjected to your driving. Ugh." I drank some more water and sagged back against him. He wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed my ear. I started to feel a little more sober. Almost hung over. "You're a dumbass," he whispered. "But you had fun, huh?" "It was a honky-tonk." "You wanna go find a hotel bed to pass out in?" he asked. That was probably a good idea, but I was starting to get my second wind, standing there, and noticing how beautiful a night it was. How quiet and dark and breezy and not-fucking-Pittsburgh. I really didn't want to go anywhere, and I wasn't ready for the night to be over. "Did you bring any E?" I asked him. "Oh, man," he laughed. "You are a little trooper." "Well, I just always thought it would be cool to do it in a big open field, out where you can see the stars and stuff. And here we are..." I gestured to our left where there was, in fact, a big open field. There are a lot of those in Iowa. He led me back to the car and dug through his suitcase for a while, and eventually emerged with a Ziploc bag full of pills. "You sure you can handle this, now?" he asked. "Absolutely." He shrugged and took one himself, then said, "Open wide," and popped one into my mouth. I sucked on his fingers, and he made a really hot little grunting sound and pressed me against the side of the car. He kissed me, soft and sweet, and I wondered if I had puke breath, but if I did he didn't seem to care. We took a blanket and a flashlight and the bag of Doritos and made our way to the middle of the field. It was a little bit creepy now- the quiet and the dark and the thought of homophobic Farmer Joe lying in wait with a shotgun somewhere- but also really cool, in that way that things are cool when you've taken a vaguely hallucinogenic drug. Everything was sort of shimmery and somehow simultaneously more and less real. Surreal, I guess. By the time we'd gotten ourselves situated, lying on our backs on the blanket and staring up at the sky, I was starting to feel the effects in full. "What a strange night," I said; though it certainly wasn't the strangest I'd had with Brian. It was probably close, though. "Strange fucking month," he said. "Strange fucking year." I guess it really had been for him. Sometimes I forget what his life was like before, how much things have changed for him in such a short period of time. I thought about that, and wondered what it felt like. I wondered what I felt like, to him, and if he was glad for the change or not. If he even thought about it in those terms. I wished I could crawl completely inside him somehow and experience everything the way he does- just for a couple of hours. Just for a night. But we would've needed stronger drugs for that. "I have no fucking job," he said, and laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. "No money. God, I'm so fucked." "You'll find something when we get back," I told him, hoping- fucking *praying*- that it was true. If we went back to the night pacing and the emaciated kitties after all this, we'd both go completely insane. "Yeah, and I'll be low, old man on the totem pole, at some fucking pathetic two-bit shop..." He sighed, and pulled my head to his chest, ran his fingers through my hair over and over. "Fuck it," he said. "S'not important now." "You could start your own agency," I suggested. Dunno where that one came from either, but once I'd said it, it felt totally logical. Totally right. "Yeah," he snorted. "Cause that's the simplest thing in the world." "What? You totally could. You've got the experience, and the talent, and the drive, and..." "No. Money." "So, you could get loans. You'd be amazing!" The more I tried to convince him, the better the idea started to sound, until I became utterly certain that it was the best plan in the universe, and the only possible option for him. E has that kind of effect on me sometimes. "Do you have any idea how long it took Vanguard to really get off the ground?" he asked me. "Nope." "Twenty fucking years." "That's it?" It didn't seem that long to me. If Brian got that successful in twenty years he'd be able to retire in his fifties. Of course I wasn't gonna say anything about that. He'd probably start to weep at the thought of being fifty. "Twenty years is a long fucking time," he said. "And they didn't even start to really boom till I got there." "Exactly! You're the reason they started to boom! They're gonna totally flop without you, and you should be there to reap the rewards and blow them out of the water!" He looked down at me with a weird little smile, and just stared for a few minutes, and I started to wonder if he was seriously considering it, but then he laughed and shook his head. "How did you get to be so goddamn optimistic?" he asked. "I know it can't be from hanging out with me." "Fuck optimism. I'm just hoping you can give me a job." His smile broadened, and he pulled me completely on top of him and kissed me hungrily. "You are just evil enough to be in advertising," he said, and bit my ear. He was hard already- probably from all the compliments- and I pushed myself down against him. "It would be awesome," I told him. "We could be like, the gay crusading ad agency. Take on progressive clients, battle corporate greed..." "Okay, you need to start your own agency, Sunshine. Mine's gonna be all about the greed." We both laughed at that, and then at lots of other stupid things that I can't remember, and eventually we wound up fucking out there. Fucking and talking and talking and fucking. Making plans we both knew would probably never come to fruition, but it was fun to pretend. I fell asleep that night on a blanket in a field in the middle of nowhere, with Brian still inside me, and I dreamt in real life- not comics. |
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