50 Reasons to Say Goodbye (13 page)

I turn; he really is
very
beautiful, and
very
drunk.

“Hi,” I reply.

“Excuse me?” His speech slurs. “Do you have a car?”

I smile at him nonplussed. I'm jingling my keys in my hand; the car is three meters away. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't deny it. “Sure,” I reply. “Why?”

He giggles. He's gripping my arm so tightly it hurts, holding himself upright. “It's just you look nice,” he says. –
“Sympa.”

I roll my eyes upwards and grin, flattered. “You need a lift home?”

He nods. “I'm so drunk … Rue de France.”

He wobbles and I hoist his arm around my shoulder and lead him towards the car.

He giggles again. He says, “Oh
bébé
!”.

I fumble with the lock with my left hand, and lower him into the passenger seat.

As I drive through the deserted four-am streets he alternates between slumping into momentary sleep – his head lolling forwards – and waking with a start, gripping my thigh.

From time to time I steal a glance at him. He's so very, very beautiful. I think,
“With looks like that, he has to be stupid, right? Because anything else would be unfair.”

I wonder whether I will take advantage of him. He's keen and drunk, it would be easy.

“Pull up here please,” he says, suddenly.

“I thought you said Rue de France,” I say stopping the car.

He opens the door and vomits onto the pavement, a
brief efficient emptying exercise. I offer him a tissue. He says, “Sorry.” He says, “Thank you.” We drive on.

When we arrive at his place, I pull up outside but don't park. He undoes his seat belt, then pauses, realising something. He frowns. “Aren't you coming in? I thought you were coming in,” he says.

I realise he's asking me, that I couldn't be blamed for accepting, but it just doesn't seem honest – he's that drunk.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I should be getting home, it's nearly five-thirty.”

He nods, reaches for the door. My hand hovers on the gear stick.

He pauses, makes a strange, strangled gasp and collapses back into the seat. Tears roll down his cheeks.

I stare at him wide-eyed. I rub my eyes, unsure how to deal with this – he's sobbing now, a deep animal wailing. It's communicating, I too am feeling sad. I touch his shoulder. “What's wrong?”

He explains through the gasps: it's his birthday, he has moved into a new flat today, his stuff is all in boxes, and he can't bear to sleep there alone tonight. “I though I'd found someone,” he says.

“It's all a bit heavy,”
I think.

But I am moved by his sadness, my own eyes are watering in sympathy, so I agree to go in,
“Just for a drink.”

The flat is tiny but newly decorated – it reeks of paint. Sure enough his things are all in boxes, piled against the wall.

On the floor lies a new mattress, still wrapped in plastic, and on an upturned box sits a bottle of whisky and a brimming ashtray.

He sits on the mattress, then sloppily rips the plastic wrapping away. He gestures towards the whisky. “Have
a drink,” he says as he lies down.

I pour a centimetre of whisky into a cup, and sip at it. He lights a cigarette and I walk through to the kitchen, empty the ashtray and return.

He has closed his eyes; the cigarette is dangling from between his fingertips. His breathing sounds heavy.

I walk to the window and look out at the view of the street; I can see my car. The sky is a deep purple, the first hint of day glimmering in the east.

I hear him snore behind me and turn. I walk over to him, stand over him watching him sleep, then remove the cigarette from his fingertips and crush it in the ashtray.

I sit beside him for a moment, smiling and running my fingers through his shampoo-commercial hair. I wonder how someone so beautiful can end up so sad; I generally think that it all comes down to looks.

He's snoring deeply, his mouth drops open. I pull a business card from my wallet, write,
“Happy Birthday. Call me if you want. Mark.”
I push it into his cigarette packet and slip from the door.

Down in the street, a transvestite, a prostitute, asks me if I want to have a good time. I smile at her but shake my head.

In a perfect English accent, she says, “Too bad baby.”

As I drive away I realise that I don't even know his name.

I wonder if he will ever call me, and mentally bet that he won't.

I am on the way to the local DIY store when a very good looking man with a little goatee beard stops me and asks me where the … DIY store is. Now I'm a spiritual kind of guy and because I know about chance meetings and destiny and all that kind of stuff, I offer to walk him to the store.

As we walk, he seems to be chatting me up, which is interesting because no one has ever cruised me in the street before (that I've noticed) and because I'm wearing the shorts and shirt I bought with my friend Sylvie yesterday.

Women seem to have some genetically transmitted knowledge about what's flattering or slimming, knowledge which we men, even gay men, somehow missed out on. Sylvie assured me that these shorts give me a, “great arse,” and that the vertical stripes on the sides of my surfer shirt are very, “slimming.”

Philippe tells me that he works in an art gallery and lives alone nearby. I muse that I should go shopping with Sylvie more often.

Philippe buys a paintbrush, I buy screws and as we leave he asks me back to his apartment to see the
splendide
view. I have a pretty good idea what the view is of, but, well, this
is
destiny after all.

At his flat the moves come thick and fast. When I lean out of the window to appreciate the admittedly impressive though completely inaccessible view, Philippe kisses my neck.

His directness makes me giggle, but when I turn around he shrugs. “I fancy you,” he says.

I fancy him too and brazenly kiss him on the lips. We unbutton the amazing slimming shirt.

“Oh,” he says stepping back. “I erh … thought you were …”

“What?” I ask, but of course, I know.

“I'm sorry, I thought, you looked … more …
defined
,” he says.

I shake my head and force a smile. “I'll go,” I say.

He protests, half-heartedly, but I leave.

I need to talk to Sylvie.

I switch on my Mac. While it starts up I make coffee. I sit with the cup watching the list of messages appear on the screen. “Ahah!” I say out loud. “Finally some replies!” I sip my coffee and click on the first one.

Dear Aladdin.

Nice text. Cute photo. I like bikers.

Here's a picture of me.

Send me a nude pic of yourself if you're interested.

As you can see, the pseudonym is not a joke.

Yours, Doublesize.

The pseudonym is not a joke.

Hello Aladdin.

I loved your ad.

I have a very developed sens of humer but don't like fats or fems.

I am ecslusivly pasif in bed.

I curently live in Paris but dont have no objections to coming to live with you in your villa because I don't have a job right now anyway. Please get in touch with me quickly.

Yours, Truelove.

Hi Aladdin.

What a beautiful ad. What a change from “Do you want to suck my dick?”

I'm currently living in Chicago so I can't offer to come and meet you, but I may be moving back next spring; If you like we could keep in touch. I used to live in Nice. I'm thirty-three. I'm a saxophone player. My real name's Steve.

You might even have seen me busking on the Cours
Saleya. We used to play there from time to time.

Anyway, right now I'm in Chicago. There's lots of work for jazz musicians here, but I still end up having to give lessons to get by. Story of my life.

I pretty much gave up trying to meet anyone when I reached thirty. I try to fill my life with my music and with friends and adventures, but there's always a little empty hole somewhere deep down. Most of the time I ignore it, but sometimes it hurts.

Sometimes it hurts enough for me to go out to a bar or to have a look at the personal ads. And here I am!

Friends are in their thirties now, they're all getting busy with kids and houses. That doesn't help either I suppose.

I've had a great time here, but I want to move back to France. I'm originally from Toulouse, but I don't know where I'll end up. I still have friends down your way, so who knows …

Anyway, I know that's all a bit vague, but here's a photo of me busking with some friends in front of the Buckingham memorial fountain. The rain came suddenly just afterwards and we got wet and had to move.

I hate motorbikes. Do you like sax? That's sax with an A by the way, not a typo!

Sorry I'm so small in the photo. I don't have anything better.

All the best.

Saxman.

I look at the photo on the screen. I lean in until I can see the individual pixels making it up. Four guys, one girl; all wearing oversize suits, all grinning maniacally. The sax player is balding – he looks like he has dark eyes but it's difficult to tell.

The sax hides his chin. He looks vaguely familiar and I wonder if I ever did see him around.

And then I think, “
Great!
Chicago!
Brilliant! That's
really gonna help!
”

The reply can wait until tomorrow.

He's following me around the bar. I don't like him. I don't like his pot belly or his crooked teeth. I'm flying to Sydney tomorrow morning anyway, off halfway around the world to the world's biggest gay-fest. “
So why am I here again
?” I wonder.

He's wearing a crisp white shirt, and other than the teeth and the belly thing I suppose he's OK. Anyway, he keeps smiling at me.

“Move on; move on,”
I think, moving away.

I cross to the bar, lean in, kiss the barman on the cheek, order a beer.

A voice to my right says, “I'll have the same please Gilles.”

It's a good voice. A baritone voice, intelligent sounding, yet masculine. I turn to look but it's the man with the teeth and the belly. He looks at me, cocks his head on one side, like a chicken. “Bonsoir,” he says, holding out a hand. “Ben.”

I shake it reluctantly, but it's a good handshake: firm, warm, self assured, the image of his voice. He smiles; his teeth don't look so bad now.

“Must have been the green light at the other end of the bar,”
I decide.

He stares at me, looks into my eyes a fraction too long. “Bien!” he exclaims, “So you are British Beef? Not mad cow I hope?”

I grin at him. “Vegetarian actually.”

He nods, surprised but apparently impressed. “Aha! Vegetarian – not many of those in France!” he says.

We take a table at the rear of the bar, behind the pool table.

Every time I go to the toilets he takes advantage of my absence and buys me another beer. It's a vicious circle, but he makes me laugh and with every beer he looks more attractive.

“I work as a graphic designer,” he says. My turn to nod impressed. I like arty people.

“Right now I live on the promenade des Anglais,” he says, “but I'm moving to Paris next week, only for six months though.”

We discuss Paris, Nice, and possible career options in both.

“I'm flying to Sydney tomorrow,” I tell him, “on holiday.”

“Tomorrow?” he says. “So can I still fuck you tonight?”

I frown. I feel sure I've heard him wrong over the cheesy techno music.

“I want to undress you, centimetre by centimetre,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Then I want to massage you from head to toe,” he says. “I'm a
very
good masseur.”

I nod. “Is that so?” I say.

“And then I want to lick you all down your spine,” he says. “And then, very slowly, very gently, I want to fuck you,” he adds, nodding earnestly. He blinks at me, smiles at his own forwardness.

I laugh slightly, embarrassed – the offer is obscene, but right at this moment it sounds like just what the doctor ordered.

He lays a hand on my lap.

I sit there arguing with myself, thinking,
“Why not, what's the harm?”
and
“The guy is quite clearly a complete slut,”
and,
“I'll be really tired on the plane tomorrow,”
and,
“At least I'll sleep during the flight.”

He strokes my thigh. “Your dick says, ‘yes,'” he says.

I can't deny that this is exactly what my dick is saying. I give in. “You're on,” I say. “It's the best offer I've had all night.”

His flat is huge; his bed is placed against huge bay windows overlooking the sea. The atmosphere is pre-storm heavy; in the distance – over the sea towards Corsica – spring storms are already lighting up the sky in little flashes.

Ben is true to his word – it's all very slow, very sensual, very relaxing. Beneath his clothes he's better than I expect, muscular arms, a tight torso, cyclists calves, oh, and a tiny dick, about the size of my index finger. I barely manage to disguise my double take when I look at it.

He massages me from head to toe, slow circular movements, sweet-smelling, amber massage oil. “My brother's a sports masseur,” he says. “Taught me everything I know.”

I stare at the flashes on the horizon, relax completely beneath the pummelling hands.

“I love to massage,” he says quietly.

As I doze, he lies on my back, slithers around on top of me. “I bet your brother didn't teach you that,” I murmur.