The suites of Geno’s dorm were laid out such that each student had his own hallway entrance. The tiny kitchenette and bath were between the bedrooms and, if he wanted, Geno could keep enough doors closed to feel he had solitary digs.
In a way he identified with the kitchenette, living smack between his desire and his fear of being left alone.
His roommate kept his adjoining doors open and seemed to take Geno’s weird quirks in stride. If Geno was the resident recluse, Ben Marino was the mayor. The kind of guy you could air-drop into Bangkok Airport and he’d walk out with six business cards and a date. A social chameleon who looked around a room, tasted the air and quickly adapted. Geno had seen him loud and raucous and wild with other guys in the dorm. He could party with the best of them. Yet seemed just as happy to stay in some nights, hanging in the common area watching TV or playing video games. The space had foosball and air hockey but not, thank God, a pool table.
In or out for the night, Ben always made the overture for Geno to come along. Pleased if it were accepted, no hard feelings if declined. He was so preternaturally chill, Geno wondered if anything ever upset him.
Aware he could’ve ended up rooming with an asshole, Geno made the effort to go with Ben and socialize. One of the dorm’s more street-smart residents knew where to get good fake IDs in Chinatown. Geno slipped the astonishingly authentic-looking proof of age into his wallet, then glanced underneath a wad of folded ATM receipts. Checking that Carlos’ driver license was still secreted there.
The strange decision to hold onto this piece of his brother infuriated Mos.
He is dead to us.
I know, but I need it, Geno insisted. Just in case.
Out at bars and parties, he was hyper aware of the social dynamics, the ease with which situations turned dicey and how quickly things could get out of hand. Especially for girls. Christ, watching girls negotiate hook-ups and drink themselves into near incapacitation made him a wreck. Their lipstick-printed drinks left unattended made him want to scream. When guys turned backs on their beers with the privileged confidence that came with not being a target, Geno’s eyes narrowed in an alarm that was almost contemptuous. Didn’t they know what could happen? They should know what it was like. It would serve them—
Shame flooded his heart. Not only was he not being kind, he wasn’t even being decent.
I don’t mean it. Not like that.
“Dude,” Ben said, leaning in. “That blonde chick in the polka-dots can’t take her eyes off you.”
Geno looked and the girl turned away with a flip of golden tresses.
“Man, chicks love a wall,” Ben said. “You got a bricked boundary and it makes them nuts.”
“No, I don’t,” Geno said.
Ben’s eyes circled the ceiling. “You are a guarded man, my friend.”
Geno couldn’t argue. He was both guarded and guardian. The evening’s unpaid bouncer. Staying near exits and keeping eyes on the scene. Practicing his own kind of situational awareness. He talked a lot of girls out of what he thought were bad decisions. He walked a lot of girls home and made sure they locked their bedroom doors behind them.
Sometimes he did the locking.
He’d passionately avoided sex, resolute in not wanting anyone touching him. When getting laid gradually became a more attractive idea, he was convinced he wouldn’t be able to get an erection. Oddly though, arousal wasn’t the issue. He could sport some respectable wood, but his body didn’t know what to do with it. He could fuck until he was numb or chafed, but it never went anywhere.
Because you only love it with me, Anthony said at his shoulder. Always his right shoulder.
Right, baby boy? Can’t have one twin be gay without the other.
“I’m sorry,” he said during one such futile marathon. “This has never happened before.”
He was becoming quite a graceful liar.
“It’s fine,” the girl said.
“Can I… I mean, do you want to come? Show me how.”
Laughter as she took his hand and led it between her legs. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”
He paid attention and learned how to make girls come hard enough to lose their minds while he faked his own finish. He watched them orgasm with a blend of fascination and apprehension. Such a vulnerable and trusting moment. What if it wasn’t him here but some sick asshole? Holding his prey for days and selling it off. Taking pictures as she was raped bloody and broken.
Everything was so fragile. People taking off their clothes for each other, thinking they knew who they were lying down with.
Nobody really knew anyone.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Mo, you’re crying.”
“No, my eyes are just irritated. Allergies.”
His eyes burned through other nights, when female hands caressed him in the dark. Running over his defined muscles and lingering on the pictures inked in his skin. He had many of them now.
As his strength built up, he got braver about going to the tattoo parlor. He went nearly every weekend to get a new charm. A reward for surviving the preceding days and motivation to face the days ahead. Hebrew letters, mystical symbols and metaphysical signs crawled along his arms and across his back. Girls sometimes asked what the designs meant and sometimes he told them. Girls always wanted to touch his stoma scar and he always told them not to, because it still hurt.
All of it still hurt so much.
Lying in the dark, a soft, sleeping girl in his inked arms, he blinked through irritated tears and feared it would always hurt.