Commitment Issues (8 page)

Wyatt and I would have nothing to do in bed except talk. I guess we could have pretended that we were a lesbian couple or something, but that was gross. I was a bottom and Wyatt was a bottom, and I needed to get used to it.

Maybe we could live together and go over to Chico for the occasional nookie.
Chico had texted me about an orgy, so maybe he could just do Wyatt and me at the same time.

Wow, listen to me. I have everybody's life all mapped out. Give me a baton, and I'll conduct the entire orchestra. Maybe I should invest in a yellow legal pad so I can write “Wyatt is a newcomer” about a million times. I could stand to write “Remember Chico is too intense for daily use” and “Chico is too rough for Wyatt” too. No, that's stupid. Why would I even think about Chico and Wyatt

It was almost enough for me just to be near him and to look at him—almost. I wanted him so much that I could taste it. Maybe I could go to counseling or to a hypnotist. Maybe they could turn me into a top for Wyatt. Maybe Wyatt might even want me as a top. Or maybe he would just see me as not being up to his high standards. I was handsome, but I didn't just step out of a magazine. Even as a top, I would still not be good enough for somebody like Wyatt. I was so fucked.

I really thought about calling Chico again, even though it was about four in the morning. He would kill me, but maybe he could slap some sense into me. Maybe he could twist my nipples and tie them into a knot, and that would help me forget about getting Wyatt to bed.

Hi, I'm Sean, and I'm an alcoholic. And I am fixated on somebody that I can't ever have.

"Hey, I got a job,” Wyatt said the next week.

"Art?"

"No, John. The boss's name is John,” he said. “Art is John's lover, but I didn't meet him yet."

"No, silly,” I said. “Art. Did you get a job as an artist?"

"Being an artist is all I got, Sean,” he said with a wink. “I ain't no rocket scientist, you know. I used to know somebody who worked over at NASA, and I asked him if I could qualify for work there. He assured me that I'm not qualified. Even if I invented some resume, they'd be able to spot the forgery after talking to me for less than a minute. He even offered to call some of his friends at NASA to confirm it. I'm an artist and built to stay that way. I'm working at INK."

"INK is a tattoo parlor!"

"Yup,” he beamed. “Ain't that a kick in the balls? I start tomorrow."

"I know you've done commercial art, but do you know anything about tattoos?"

"How hard can it be?” Wyatt said with a shrug. “The boss says it's like doing airbrush, and I can do airbrush. I'm all over airbrush work. I can use cans of spray paint too, but I have to wait for the statute of limitations to run out on graffiti before I admit to that on a resume. Plus it is really hard to get the side of a building or a city bus into your portfolio binder."

"Do you have any tattoos to show?"

"Never did a tat, but I'm just an apprentice."

"I didn't know there was such a thing."

"Yeah, there is,” Wyatt said. “It isn't common, but they do that sometimes, and INK is even paying me. It's minimum wage, but that's more than a lot of apprentices make. It's more than Vincent van Gogh made in his entire career."

"Wow."

"No shit. I was in the store looking at all the work on the wall, and I asked for a piece of paper and a pencil. I started drawing just for the hell of it. I don't want to get too rusty. Anyway, John chats me up when he sees the rose I drew. After he saw me finish a dog, he was really interested. He asked if I could draw Our Lady of Guadalupe. When I showed him a quick sketch, he told me that he wanted me to work there."

"Apprentice,” I said.

"Yeah. I asked him if they got much call for religious artwork, and he told me that it was right up there with tribal scroll work."

"Who knew?"

"I know,” he laughed. “To start with, I am going to learn how to keep all the tools clean. I'm kind of the janitor with an autoclave. I have to learn how to keep from spreading disease to clients and to the staff. I have to learn how to draw tattoos in a way that they can become stencils to transfer to somebody's skin. Once that's done, it's kind of like paint-by-the-numbers. All the while, I'm supposed to be drawing."

"On paper or people?"

"They bring in frogs and snakes from a pet store,” he said. “Just paper to start with, silly. One day I will graduate to oranges. When everybody is sick of eating tattooed citrus and they see that I am able to handle the tattoo equipment, they get me a pork roast. Pig skin is my final exam."

"Congratulations,” I said as I squeezed his hands. “You got any tattoos?"

"Yeah, wanna see ‘em? We have to get naked."

"I... I mean...."

"No tattoos on me,” he grinned. “There's a sign at INK that says: ‘It's all about the pain. The ink is just a souvenir.’ I hate pain, and I'm terrified of needles."

"But you're training to be a tattoo artist."

"I hate pain on me,” he whispered, “but I don't mind causing you pain if you pay me enough."

I squinted and waited to see if he grinned or laughed. He didn't. I thought he was serious.

"You need supplies?"

"Thanks, Sean. You're absolutely the best. But INK is getting me some sketch pads and charcoal."

"Hey, I have to be out of town for a day. Are you going to be okay?"

"Radio?” Wyatt asked.

"How'd you know that?” I asked.

"I love your beer, man,” he said, “and your voice makes me almost cream my pants. After we first met, I even recorded one of your shows so I could jack off to your voice."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"About recognizing your voice or about jacking off to it?"

"Both."

"Didn't know if you were trying to keep it secret. If I didn't recognize your voice, I'd still be able to tell that you're a natural for radio or TV. Plus, I didn't know how you'd react to me saying that your voice gives me a hard-on."

"React?” I said. “I think you're a little pervert."

"You ever do TV?” he said, laughing.

"Naw, after all my drinking, I'm just happy to have any job in broadcasting. I'm national now on the beer and a new show, and I don't want to rock that boat. Plus, I have a great writer who is putting a kid through parochial school. And my engineer has one kid in college and another going to college."

"So you're holding yourself back for their sake?"

"I'm holding myself back for me because I'm fine where I am, and TV scares the crap out of me, but it makes me feel better to say it's all for them."

With that, Wyatt scooted around to my side of the booth. It was a corner booth with a circular bench seat. He put one palm on each side of my neck and let his fingers meet behind my neck. His palms were so warm and smooth and gentle, and he just held me for a while. He leaned in so our foreheads were touching, and Wyatt hummed.

"You are really special, Sean. I am so glad that I know you."

I felt my dick jump to attention.
What's with this guy? He's a complete swish... so delicate and funny... with a devilish twist to his personality. He called me special. That is so sweet that—

"Can I have your autograph?” he asked just as I was about to get tense and pull away. Wyatt was seriously messing with me.

I got a quick mental picture of Wyatt tattooing his name on my heart while I sang in iambic pentameter. What was with all the poetry? I hate poems. They make me want to throw up, and yet Wyatt was a big magnet that pulled out verse after verse from someplace deep inside my soul.

[Back to Table of Contents]

... That's Perspective America. Thanks to Janie at the newswire and Ronny at the knobs. Special thanks to Wyatt. Reporting from New York, I'm Sean Roberts...

"And, we're clear. That's a wrap,” Ronny said through the studio speaker. He and Janie Marroquin were at our regular studio, and I was at an affiliate station in New Jersey.

"Wyatt?” my manager said as he walked into the broadcast booth.

"Guy back home,” I said.

"We don't usually do shout-outs on the air, you know."

"He's a fan and going through a rough spot, and nobody but you and I noticed."

"We have a car to get us over to the Marriott."

"Times Square?"

"Yup."

Hi, I'm Sean, and I'm an alcoholic. And I'm a national star of radio syndication. I pressed the flesh and schmoozed in a meeting room of the Marriott in Times Square. It's a crazy hotel built on the ruins of a famous Broadway theater. They put a shiny new theater in the new hotel building, but I've always thought it was harsh and impersonal. The hotel part is an empty tube of a building. The lobby is eight floors off the street, and you can look up forty-five floors as elevators shoot up to the rooms. I hate the hotel because I am afraid of heights. Who makes an atrium forty-five stories high? The hallway for each floor is a balcony that overlooks the big hole in the middle of the building. I remember getting to my room in the Marriott, terrified by having to walk along the balcony. I stuck to the far side of the balcony, but I knew that one wrong move would send me crashing down forty-five floors. I got inside the room and looked at the window. The glass went all the way to the floor.
Great, just great
. I swore that I'd find a different hotel if I ever stayed in Times Square. There were other hotels nearby, and I was sure that they didn't have issues for somebody afraid of heights.

No problems this trip. We came out at the crack of dawn, and we'd be heading back on the last flight out of Newark. Up and back was cheaper than staying the night. I didn't complain because there wasn't any reason for me to be in New York. It was Friday, so I could sleep in the next day.

I was there for a mid-afternoon social for the managers of our syndicate from all over the country. The room was full of people who made decisions that translated into money for me and Janie Marroquin and Ronny and everybody else around me.

My talent agent, Chico, had been giving me schmoozing tips for a week. He taught me how to “press the flesh” (his phrase). I asked Chico why it was important. Wasn't it my ratings that drove their decision to renew our show? He said that they'd ignore an occasional ratings drop if they liked everybody. If I was a horse's ass, then all I had was ratings. If I was nice, there was some goodwill to buffer ratings problems. Chico said everybody had ratings dips and valleys, so I needed to make sure everybody liked me.

I was their rising star because my ratings were in the top three in almost every market. In medium and small markets, I was an unrivaled power at midday. If anything, the managers were pushing the company to give me a second timeslot. They were pushing for an afternoon drive-time newscast that could be edgier than the lunch offering. I thanked everybody for their kind words, but I didn't mention that I even wanted to double my workload. It made me feel really good.

Hi, I'm Sean, and I'm an alcoholic and a big radio star.

"Hey, kiddo,” I said when I answered my cell phone.

"Hi, handsome,” Wyatt said. “You back already?"

"Still in New York. I won't be home until about one or two in the morning."

"Can I go swimming at your place?” he asked.

"Sure, tomorrow?"

"I was thinking tonight, if you don't mind."

"I don't know how you'll get through the gate, but I don't mind. If you get caught, I'll disavow knowing you, of course."

"Of course,” Wyatt said. “I'd complain if you tried anything less. Thanks, and I may see you when you get home. Come check the pool, and I'll either be there or under arrest somewhere."

"I won't bail you out, you know."

"I love this ‘tough love', old man."

"Old?” I protested. “I'm twenty-five."

"Well, I'm twenty, so twenty-five is positively ancient. Bye."

It made me smile. I was actually going to have an adorable man waiting for me to get home. That hadn't happened to me in years. Maybe I ought to get him a key to the gate and the apartment.

No, wait. Earth-to-stupid: Wyatt is a fragile newcomer who is trying to get sober. He is looking for unconditional love from me. He's a bottom like me, so even if he weren't a newcomer, there would still be nothing for me.

But still. I could dream. Maybe I should go back to that Chinese restaurant. The fortune cookies always knew what to do.

I thought about Wyatt all the way home. They got me a car to take me to the airport in Newark. When I fly out of New Jersey, I usually just take the PATH train there. The boss rented a car and driver for this trip, but then he got me the cheapest ticket he could. I was back in the second cabin, and I knew enough about the arrangement of the seating to know that I was in the middle of three seats. I'm not stuck up or anything, but I have long legs.

When I checked in, the ticket agent got me a better seat. She moved me to an exit row, which had extra space for my legs. You couldn't reserve an exit row in advance, so I was happy that there was still a seat available, even though I'd have to wait to deplane back home. Exit rows are further back than I usually like, so I have to wait for all the mommies and little kiddies sitting closer to the front of the airplane to pack up and leave.

I had a book about some gay vampires, but I could barely read it. The last time I read any of that book, the whole Vatican was attacking the vampire heroes. The vamps were in a pickle, and I looked forward to seeing how they slashed and bit their way out of this one. It was my kind of book, with just the right balance of sex and blood. Any story where vampires are eating pedophile priests is festive. (Not fun for the doomed priest, of course.)

I tried to read, but I sat there and thought about Wyatt. He had engraved his smile into my imagination: stark white teeth, ivory skin without a blemish, those haunting green eyes coming at me with the slightest whiff of an Asian influence in his distant gene pool. I felt myself almost melt in the seat when I thought of his smile.

If I had had a pencil, I probably would have given Emily Dickinson some competition.
Why am I channeling Rod McKuen all of a sudden? I hate poetry.
It was creepy. Maybe the counselor who was going to teach me how to be a top could also extract whatever seeds of poetry were stuffed inside my personality. Maybe I had mommy issues.