THEN
The first thing Seth wanted to do after picking me up in his new, used van was to show me Petty Crime’s new rehearsal space. It was a garage in the 7th Street Collective, a grouping of warehouses that were rented out cheaply to artists and musicians. There were also a couple of outdoor stages set up on the lawns so that on Friday nights, bands could play out for the benefit of the community. Food trucks came in, and the local brewery sold beer, which added to the festive feeling.
Seth lifted the red warehouse door, and it felt like I was being transported back in time to his mom’s garage. It looked almost exactly the same—from the furniture to the arrangement of the instruments to the warm tones of the floor lamp lighting. He’d even brought with him the circular saw and had it set up in the back with his spare plywood and lumber.
“You bought a new washer and dryer,” I observed.
“Gently used. I still need someplace to do my laundry.” Seth dropped the sack of dirty clothes he’d been carrying onto the concrete floor.
The other new addition to their space were huge black-and-white, poster-sized photographs I recognized as my own from the essay I’d done on Petty Crime for my photography class last year.
“Wow, look at these.” I scrutinized a photograph of Sabrina pretending to drum solo on Dean and Mitchell’s heads.
“What do you think?” Seth asked, beaming.
“I’ve never seen my pictures blown up this big before.” I tried not to notice how their technical imperfections were magnified as well.
“I tell everyone they’re yours, in case you’re worried about getting credit,” Seth said.
I looked at him, trying to understand why he’d felt the need to say that. “I’m not.”
In one of the photos, Mitchell and Jeannie were on the couch. His head was in her lap, and she was gazing down at him lovingly. I hoped Seth asked permission before he’d made their intimate moment life-sized. Then I found a picture of me, one I hadn’t taken. I was sitting in Seth’s lap, both of us crammed into a lawn chair and surrounded by the smoke from someone’s joint or bong rip. I was laughing, and Seth was too, though you could only see part of his face. He’d been tickling me in order to get me to smile.
“I took that one,” Seth said.
“I like it,” I told him, and I did, but it weirded me out too because I wasn’t that open, trusting person anymore, and we were no longer that carefree couple. We weren’t even a couple in my mind, just friends who fucked.
“I’m getting into videos now,” I told Seth. I’d gotten into a class that was usually reserved for upperclassmen, which gave me access to all the school’s cameras and editing equipment.
Seth’s eyes lit up. “Really? That’s great. We need a music video.”
I smiled and shook my head.
“What?” he asked.
“You can afford to have a professional do your video.”
“But I want you to do it,” he said as if it were ludicrous to suggest anyone else.
“You have too much confidence in my abilities.”
He grabbed both my shoulders and turned me around so that I’d look at him. “You’re insanely talented, Hiroku. Everyone thinks so. Not just me.”
His praise was still dangerous, so I changed the subject to what they were working on, and Seth caught me up on their set list, then played me some of their new songs so that I could weigh in on which ones I thought should be included in their album. Seth often recorded Petty Crime’s rehearsal sessions and went over them later in order to give feedback to his bandmates. You’d think he was being overbearing, but many of his criticisms had to do with his own performance, and he was vocal about that too. He took his responsibilities as a front man very seriously.
The band came by later that afternoon, and I watched them jam while sipping on a Capri Sun, which Seth had stocked up on just for me. During a break, Sabrina pulled me aside and asked if Seth and I were back together.
“Nope.” Not in the traditional sense, anyway.
“Seems like you are.”
There was no way for me to explain our current situation, and besides, I knew she wouldn’t approve. I hoped she’d take my silence as a hint, but Sabrina always barreled right on through.
“What are you doing, Hiro?”
The judgment in her voice grated on me, and the bitterness I’d felt earlier that summer when she’d lured me into a bad situation bubbled up to the surface. I pointed to the picture of Jeannie and Mitchell looming above us. “How’s Jeannie?”
She shrunk back from me. I reminded myself she was only looking out for me. Not only that, but our situations were completely different. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “But you should probably stay out of it.”
“Fine,” she said with more than a little attitude. “Just know that he isn’t going to change.”
I hadn’t expected Seth to change, only the dynamics of our relationship, but it would be impossible to explain to Sabrina why Seth messing around with other people was now okay with me, and I feared the conversation would only cause me more confusion.
And even though Seth and I were re-engaging, I didn’t want to go back to my old ways of sneaking around and lying to my parents, so I invited my mom to come with me to one of the band’s jam sessions, so she could meet my friends and see for herself where I was spending all of my time. I gave the band warning, so they could get rid of anything incriminating—joints, bongs, beer, etc.
My mom marveled at everything, similar to how Mai had behaved when I took her to Petty Crime’s show. Mom asked about the purpose of the washer and dryer and the circular saw, and Seth told her he was a carpenter as well as a musician and needed a place to do his laundry, both of which were true. Mom admired my photographs, and I gave her one of their old Petty Crime T-shirts I’d designed, which she said was very artistic. That was the word she always used to describe my endeavors. I think it was the safest way she knew to praise me.
The band played what Sabrina termed their “grandmother songs,” and Seth kept his pelvic thrusting to a minimum.
Afterward, on the ride home, my mom asked some pointed questions about Seth. I sensed she was trying to figure out if we were romantically involved. Only there were words she couldn’t say because of my father’s denial of my sexuality.
“Do you like this boy?” she finally asked, which was a bold question for her. I struggled to find an answer because nothing could properly capture the way I felt toward Seth, and I wasn’t about to admit we had history.
“What do you think of him?” I asked instead. My mom was a pretty good judge of character, and she usually acted in my own best interest.
“He doesn’t seem like he’d be good for you.”
I expected her to bring the conversation back to my homosexuality being “unacceptable” as my father had put it, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Why not?”
“He doesn’t seem…” She furrowed her brow and seemed to consider her words carefully. “He doesn’t seem very honest.”
In some ways, Seth was honest—about his feelings, desires and ambitions, but in other ways he wasn’t.
“Do you think I’m honest?” I asked my mom.
She gave me a soft smile. “I think you’re trying to be.”
I nodded. She’d conveyed so much to me in that simple statement.
“Yes, I am.”
I’d resolved things were going to be different this time around, and I stuck to my word. I didn’t answer Seth’s texts and calls immediately or drop everything I was doing to be with him. I kept up with my jiu-jitsu training and my weekly basketball pick-up games, even though Seth complained about them taking up too much of my time.
I put myself first, even though it felt strange at times. Even when Seth accused me of creating artificial distance between us. I told Seth I wasn’t going to be his number one groupie anymore, and he seemed more than a little hurt by it.
I’d laid out the rules of engagement for this new iteration of our relationship, but Seth wanted more.
He showed up early to my jiu-jitsu class one afternoon and paced along the perimeter of the mats while we worked on takedowns. Michael, my sparring partner, and I were practicing Tomoe-nage, which is a judo sacrifice throw where you place your foot against your opponent’s lower abdomen and use your own momentum to throw them back over your head. It was a pretty flashy move and also risky because if it went even a little bit wrong, then you were at the mercy of your opponent. Michael was having trouble with timing—you’re supposed to grab your opponent when they’re about to step forward. The challenge for him was that I had really good balance and center of gravity, so I wasn’t making it easy for him.
Our instructor Jeovanni stepped in to demonstrate the takedown on me. Jeovanni was a younger second cousin to the owner. He’d come from Brazil to help out in the studio, and he’d been my instructor since I started with the school at the beginning of summer.
Since I was older than their average student, Jeovanni spent a lot of time training me one-on-one or partnering me with people of a similar skill level, some of whom had been practicing longer.
I tried to outlast him, but Jeovanni had me on my back within fifteen seconds. As he was helping me up, he said, “Is that boy the reason you don’t call me?”
I thought it was funny he’d said boy, not man, even though his English was good enough that he knew the difference. It also supported my theory that it wasn’t just his language skills he wanted to practice with me, as he’d claimed.
“That’s my brother,” I said to mess with him. Also, I wouldn’t call Seth my boyfriend. Not anymore.
“He doesn’t look like your brother to me.” Jeovanni flashed his eyes at Seth, who was glaring at him with the same proprietary defiance.
Jeovanni gave some instruction to Michael, and Michael resumed his position. This time, I shifted my balance forward a little and let him take me down because I didn’t want him to look bad in front of Jeovanni. At the conclusion of our class, after I’d bowed and was granted permission to leave, Jeovanni pulled me aside.
“Don’t ever give up your advantage,” he said sternly. He must have noticed I’d let Michael overpower me. “Don’t make yourself less for anyone. It is your opponent who has to be more.” He glanced over at Seth who was now as close as he could possibly be without stepping onto the mat. Jeovanni smiled widely at him, showing off his beautiful white teeth. Only I knew it was his false customer service smile. Jeovanni patted my shoulder and said so that only I could hear, “Call me when you are ready for a real man.”
I hoped my flushed face could be passed off as the result of physical exertion. Even still, I avoided looking directly at Seth just to be safe.
“Who is that?” Seth asked instead of saying hello. His eyes burned holes into Jeovanni’s broad back.
“My jiu-jitsu instructor,” I said simply, knowing that wasn’t what Seth was asking me. “You’re here early.”
“Yeah.” Seth inspected me all over as if he could determine if Jeovanni had put his hands on me in anything other than a professional manner, which he hadn’t.
“I still need to shower.” We were meeting the band for dinner, and I was sweaty and wearing my gi.
“You can shower at my apartment,” Seth said, eyes still tracking Jeovanni, who had moved onto his next demonstration.
“It’ll only take a minute.”
“I’ll come with you then,” Seth said.
I shook my head, wondering why Seth wasn’t more embarrassed by his obvious insecurity. “Absolutely not.” I pointed to the row of chairs where parents sat while waiting for their kids. “Quit pacing and go sit down.”
I grabbed my stuff and headed for the gym’s locker. The locker room had stalls for showering, so it wasn’t some Caligula-type bathhouse Seth was imagining. Still, I could allow myself to daydream about what it might be like to have Jeovanni in the shower with me, washing me from behind, sliding his strong, capable hands up my ass and perhaps slipping a finger inside of me as if by accident. I palmed my stiffening cock and used some soap as a lubricant, rubbing off a quick one there in the shower. It was the first time I’d been aroused by the idea of anyone other than Seth touching me. It surprised me but was empowering at the same time.
I had hoped Seth would let it go once we were in his van and headed to dinner, but no. He wanted to know more about this jiu-jitsu instructor—where he was from, how old he was, whether I thought he was attractive or not. I told him I didn’t have an opinion, and Seth gave me a look that said he clearly didn’t believe me. When I told him his name, he scoffed at that. “What’s that? His stage name?”
I shook my head and sighed, tired of this conversation and his incessant questions, which had started out as amusing but had quickly veered into irritating and obsessive. I wanted to tell Seth it was probably his own guilty conscience getting to him, but I didn’t want to start a fight.
In the parking lot to the restaurant, Seth finally just came out with it, “Are you fucking him, Hiroku?”
I glanced over at him; he looked truly distraught. Part of me wanted to put his mind at ease, but our agreement was to keep our extracurriculars to ourselves. He’d invaded my privacy by showing up to my practice early, so in that regard, I didn’t owe him anything.
“It’s none of your business, Seth,” I said gently but firmly. The look on his face nearly broke me. I didn’t think he was acting because I saw a glimpse of the boy I fell in love with, the one who just wanted to be loved unconditionally.
Seth took a deep breath and steeled his gaze. His vulnerability transformed into something harder. He was furious with me but trying hard not to show it.
We went inside where the band was already waiting. They were supposed to pick out which songs from Petty Crime’s repertoire would be recorded for their debut album. Seth said he wanted me there as an objective observer, but my role quickly turned into that of a mediator. Mitchell and Dean went with the flow, so most of their arguments were between Sabrina and Seth. Sabrina wanted to cut the slow songs, which she said were boring and sad and self-indulgent. Seth wanted to keep them because he said they demonstrated their range as musicians. It often came down to the difference between who was getting more airtime—Seth’s voice or Sabrina’s drums. I offered input where I could while trying to be as diplomatic as possible. I also engaged Mitchell and Dean in the conversation by keeping the questions simple with “this or that” type decisions. We were at the restaurant for almost three hours, but at the end, they’d more or less decided the song list for their first album.
“We still need one more song,” Seth said. “Something with a hook that will play well on the radio. Our anthem…” Seth studied the yellow legal pad where he’d scribbled everything down. He made a note “anthem” as a placeholder in the list of songs. Then he made everyone sign it. He handed the pen to me.
“I don’t need to sign it, Seth.” The band trusted me as an advisor, but I didn’t want to insert myself into their decision-making process or give myself the same weight as the others.
“You’re going to write the Petty Crime anthem, Hiroku,” Seth said as if I was being daft. “And shoot the video—for money this time—so I want you to sign it.”
It was like when I’d designed their logo, and Seth put me in charge of merchandise. I should know better than to question his intentions when it came to my role in the band. I glanced around at the other members who were all nodding in agreement.
“Fine then.” I took the pen and scrawled my name, Hiroku Hayashi. I studied my own signature as I hadn’t in a while. It was then that I realized the tattoo on Seth’s chest wasn’t just my name in cursive; it was written in my handwriting as well, as if I’d signed my own name to his skin. I set the pen down carefully and stared at him in awe. For all of the time and effort I’d put into trying to understand him, Seth was still able to surprise me.
“You just figured that out,” Seth said, looking a little hurt by it. Part of me wanted to ask him what the hell he was thinking when he got that tattoo, but a larger part was scared of his answer.
The sex later that night was rough, even for me. Seth was punishing me for not being as committed to our partnership as he was, according to him at least. He didn’t need to say it in those exact words because he told me with every admonishing thrust, tearing into me like he was trying to rip open something inside of me. I was sure I’d have finger-sized bruises on my hips and blood in my stool when it was all over. But I grit my teeth and bore it because on the other side was mind-blowing pleasure, and I was willing to go into the trenches with Seth in order to get there.
Seth didn’t say anything about it afterward. The only time he’d apologize after sex was if I didn’t climax. Instead, he stunned me again by suggesting we get married.
“I’m sixteen,” I reminded him, worn out from the physical and emotional strain of the day. I dismissed the idea immediately. My age was actually the least of my concerns.
“Priscilla was fourteen,” he argued.
“That was when they met,” I corrected. “They didn’t get married until much later, and Priscilla claimed she was still a virgin.”
Seth grumbled. “This friends with benefits situation isn’t working, Hiroku.”
I wished I didn’t care so much about Seth’s feelings or what he wanted. If only I could act in my own best interest, but our close connection and my own mental weakness caused my mind to get muddled, so that I began to believe his desires were mine as well.
“What more do you want from me, Seth?”
“I want to put you in a cage, and only let you out to be with me.”
His pretty, little bird in a gilded cage. He may not have said it so plainly before, but it was something I’d always sensed: his obsessive demand for total dominion of my mind, body, and spirit. “It sounds like what you want is a sex slave. Or a waifu.”
Seth rolled onto his side and stared at me. He didn’t have curtains in his apartment, so the light pollution from downtown Austin filtered in and cast a yellow glow on his face. And that damned tattoo. I was trying to make light of this serious and slightly fucked-up situation, but Seth wasn’t having it.
“You’re not allowed to be with anyone else,” he said severely.
I stared back at him, trying to be calm and rational about it. It would be easier to just give in—it wasn’t like I was seeing anyone anyway—but I had to stand my ground or risk being trampled by him all over again.
“You’re not my boyfriend anymore, Seth, which means you aren’t allowed to make those demands.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, anger permeating from his pores like an overpowering perfume, but he didn’t kick me out of bed or demand that I leave—he’d never do that anyway. Instead, he pressured me to go again, even though he knew it’d be painful. One way or another, he’d get what he wanted from me, and my compromise was that physical pain was far easier for me to endure than emotional pain.
As Seth climaxed for the second time that night, I thought again about what Jeovanni had said about not making myself less to allow my opponent to be more.
But there was a strange kind of power in yielding too. Seth derived his life source from me, and in that way, I’d created this monster.
That must make me at least partially responsible.