I Will Forget His Voice
Tweak makes you ambitious. You fire off paragraph-length texts to friends you haven’t seen in months. You have marathon online chats with guys you’d love to fuck but know will flake. You disclose your extensive sexual history to men whose first names elude you. Our host Adam is higher than all the saints, has been for three days. This explains why some skinny dude stands before us, slipping off his Peanuts T-shirt with an enthusiasm that saddens me like last call on a Saturday night.
My boyfriend Curtis lies at the bottom of the mattress. He lifts his gaze, coolly appraising our unexpected guest’s likely skill on all fours. Curtis wears only a sheer pair of briefs. Their gray hue flatters his toned, tan thighs and taut abdomen. I know it’s crass, but it turns me on when Curtis flaunts his physique. It proves I’m clever. It proves I’ve earned the envy of other men. Now shirtless, the guest frankly surveys my boyfriend. He lightly rubs the bridge of his foot along Curtis’s calf. You have a great body, he says. Curtis chuckles but doesn’t thank him.
I ask the stranger his name. Thomas, he says. Like the tank engine. He laughs at his joke, my first clue he made one. He must be a smart guy or some shit. Curtis asks what’s so funny. Thomas’s smile falters. He stammers about the children’s character he had in mind. Never heard of the fucker. Children disturb me. Curtis laughs, but I don’t hear joy. He asks if anyone ever laughs at that joke. Thomas mumbles and absently rubs his petite, hairy chest. I can’t make out what he says and don’t know if Curtis could either. We don’t speak again until Adam returns.
Our host carries a loaded pipe. He never shows anyone where he hides his tweak. House rule. I’ve partied with him two or three times but never questioned this. His paranoia doesn’t curb his generosity. As long as the dope keeps coming, I don’t give a fuck about its source. On the way home from our first encounter with Adam, Curtis spent the whole ride speculating where he hid his goods. He vowed to suck Adam’s dick so hard and long, the bastard would spill. I watched Curtis do just that at our next gathering, but Adam opened his mouth only to moan, nothing more. Adam asks Thomas if he’s high and learns he gorged Musantt last night. I’m surprised this fucker could be high on a drug I’ve never tried. It’s a new stimulant medication for ADHD, Thomas explains. I want to ask if he has any left, but that might lead to more talk. I might have to suck him to keep the peace, but I won’t start before I have to.
Thomas shucks off his cargo shorts, steps over Curtis and sits in the center of the mattress. Adam curls up in the far corner, elbow propped on the brick-and-plywood structure that serves as a low nightstand. Four men on one mattress, but we don’t touch, not at all. We pass the pipe. Adam jams at least three decent-sized crystals into the bowl each time, so the pipe makes numerous rounds.
Adam asks Thomas why he’s shaking. Indeed, his hands tremble as he lights the pipe and sucks the stem. His tremor is so pronounced, I wonder if he gets any smoke when he sucks. After he exhales, Thomas assures us it’s just a side effect of the Musantt. It only flares up with fine motor movement, he says. I can still suck dick like I’m getting paid, he boasts, laughing again. Thomas blocks my view of Curtis, but I imagine my boyfriend’s sour look after hearing that. What exactly had Adam promised Thomas when they chatted online before his long trek to Dallas?
After we cash the pipe, Adam stands and asks Curtis to follow. My boyfriend stretches, arms high above his head, toes flexed. Watching him tease Adam by pretending Adam bores him totally turns me on. Curtis knows I don’t care if Adam desires him more than me. This is Adam’s house, but I decide who gets fucked. With a jerk of my head, I can end Adam’s little fantasy and Adam knows it. I don’t realize until moments later that I’m alone with our guest. What was his name? Trevor? The guy looks at me, his lips mashed together yet not quite smiling. I have no clue how Adam plans to incorporate this skinny fucker into our playtime, but I decide empty chitchat might distract him until Adam reveals his bonehead brainstorm.
He’s from Tyler. I ask him what’s in Tyler. Roses, he says. Roses and bigots. Why doesn’t he move? Moving costs money, he says. He asks if there’s any dope left. I shrug and retrieve my laptop from the floor. Before Thomas arrived, while Adam puttered elsewhere, I reviewed my latest blog, admiring it. I don’t trust livestreams, and you have to rehearse. And I never could understand “good” lighting. Curtis lay at the foot of the mattress, gazing at the ceiling. He knows I need quality time with my work. I’m a writer. I’m not an influencer and I don’t sell shit on Instagram or TikTok claiming said shit saved my soul from actual hellfire. I write about whatever I want. Smoking dope greases the gears, helps the words flow. My latest post is about the not guilty verdict in that trial where the white trash bitch was accused of drowning her two-year-old. It’s stupid how many people obsessed over that for weeks and weeks. I keep track of my hits. I keep that shit to myself though. It’s not like your followers—some things are private.
Thomas asks what I’m reading. I tell him it’s personal shit. I try to leave it at that, but I can’t help myself. I’ll tell anyone about my writing. First, though, I ask his name again. It’s okay, he says, laughing. I hate his laugh, how it stutters like it can’t quite get started. I don’t remember yours, either. That’s because I never told you, I snap. Thomas tries to smile, but I know his feelings are hurt. For whatever reason, I feel shitty watching his eyes dart back and forth, his gaze unsure where to land. I’m Bart, I tell him. Like Bart Simpson. Thomas laughs, slaps his thighs. I have a T-shirt that’s the top half of Homer’s head! He smiles at me so wide and earnest, I look away. Where did Adam find this redneck? Too bad the show’s not funny anymore, Thomas says. I grunt, return my eyes to the screen.
We don’t speak. Thomas busies himself positioning the lighter at various angles to the bowl, trying to scare up more smoke. I peck at the keyboard. I basically forget about him until he asks if I want to read something. It’s real short, he adds. Only 400 words. I’m a writer too, he says, as if we’re brothers now. I ask what he writes. Short stories, he says. Four hundred words is real damn short, I say, too high to keep my derision in check. I can’t remember the last short story I read. High school, probably. Every asshole knows real writers write books, like the kind you buy at Wal-Mart. He asks to see the laptop. Why not kill another two minutes while we wait for Curtis to finish sucking Adam’s dick or whatever? When he returns it, the browser displays a sort of literary website with its title stretched across the top of the screen and ads for books draped down each side. Below the banner and a horizontal menu, I see what I assume is his story. It’s called “Put Your Hands Together.” Before the story begins, a dedication appears: for my dearest Mike. It hadn’t occurred to me this bozo might have a boyfriend. Thomas stares at me intently, like he wants to learn things about me that even my drunk-ass mama would never want to know. I begin just to get away from that.
The narrator spends the story’s first half describing his high. I’ve never read a story written by a tweaker that’s about a tweaker. Why let the whole world know what we do with strangers? All party fags have an unspoken pact. We live far removed from society, so there’s no one to remind us that the society we’ve patched together is every bit as cruel and pointless.
Suddenly, the dead lover appears, like a mirage. The narrator begs him to stay forever. Your emotions can go haywire when you tweak. Big storms of bad feelings kick up inside you at the worst time. I never think to stop reading. I glance briefly at Thomas. He still stares at me likes what he sees is both godforsaken and gorgeous.
The last paragraph reads: I pound my palms together. The harsh staccato of flesh against flesh scampers through my apartment. It’s the only noise in the room. I remember the last time he said he loved me, over the phone when he was drunk. One day I will forget his voice. I keep clapping and Jeremy keeps grinning.
I think of the men I’ve lost. None of them died, but I’ll never see them again. I wonder how things will end with Curtis. I’m not a dumbass. Men like him don’t play for keeps, only till the fun flickers out. Thomas pinpointed the pain I prayed would slip out silently like a failed trick so long as I never gave it a name. What do you think, he chirps like a flight attendant. Fucking intense, I say. It took me ages to write a story about Mike that didn’t suck, he says, chuckling. Thanks for the feedback, he says and runs his fingers down my arm. He resumes trying to conjure smoke from the pipe. I’m his guinea pig. Thomas will forget me the moment we toss his ass. His words mean nothing to him.
Since he’s still busy with the pipe, I read again. I won’t show this to Curtis. One day I will forget his voice. I concentrate, shut my eyes and recall Curtis’s voice. What did he last say? Fucking tweak, I can’t remember. What if he never returns? I pray for Curtis and Adam to return. I don’t care if Curtis spent the whole time working Adam’s dick. The sooner they get back, the sooner I can convince them Thomas must go.
Hey, Tyler boy. Thomas and I both find Adam in the doorway. Sorry I’m obsessing over this pipe, Thomas says, crimson blazing his cheeks. No worries, Adam says. Let me show you something in the other room. Thomas springs from the mattress and scampers away, Adam vanishing with him. A moment later, Curtis saunters inside, stops at the foot of the mattress. I’m determined to conceal the turmoil seizing my gut. I love parading my man before the other fags at the club on weekends. Our Grindr account is a two-for-one deal. It’s like a parents’ joint-checking account back in the Analog Age. I don’t trust him, though, and he doesn’t trust me. What does Adam want with the reject, I ask. Curtis crouches upon the mattress, runs his hand along my leg, calf to thigh. I want him to grab my dick, get me hard, anything to kill that story.
Curtis says he persuaded Adam that Thomas was a mistake. I ask if Adam finds him attractive. Curtis assures me in his mesmerizing purr that our problem will soon disappear. He doesn’t offer details, and I don’t ask. Did the poor bastard make a move, Curtis asks. I know how to end this exchange. I pull my boyfriend’s face toward mine and we kiss, our mouths opening the moment they meet, tongues wild but dry as sandpaper. Curtis finally pulls away, gasps for air. Sweat slicks on our faces, our shoulders, our chests. Trust me, Curtis says. In less than an hour, you won’t remember that redneck fucker.
Curtis and I show restraint waiting for Adam to do whatever Adam thinks might hasten Thomas’s departure. It’s impossible to track time when you’re tweaked. I simply hold Curtis, our breaths falling into sync. We’ve been together six months. This is a considerable time for me, but Curtis doesn’t know this. He rarely asks about my life before him. That might worry me if I weren’t so eager to keep my own tea from being spilled. Our friends tease that we’re still in the physical phase of our romance. One day, perhaps soon, the frantic sex will subside, whether tweaked or not. I know how this story ends. Curtis will shift, like a pianist from key to key, over to a new man. There will be no anger, no tears. I’ve survived the party scene over seven years. A simple rule: nothing lasts long. One day I will forget his voice. Yes, I’ll forget, and I won’t tell a soul. I may be a writer, but I know shame. I don’t display my grief for anyone with the right Wi-Fi password.
Adam returns alone. Thomas still sits on the patio smoking a cigarette. As if on cue, Curtis leaves my embrace and chirps that he must want company. This is it. The plan has commenced. Bart, follow me outside, my boyfriend says. Adam has shit to take care of. His command stuns me. What part would I play since neither he nor Adam had divulged the plan? Curtis, however, is the most experienced man from our trio. Well into his thirties, he’s orbited the scene over a decade. I place my faith in his skill. We cross the living room as a big-screen television streams a porn clip and slip through the sliding glass door to the patio. Thomas sits in one of the wrought-iron chairs, puffing a Salem. Curtis informs him they need to chat. He sits across from Thomas in another high-backed iron chair. I remain standing, tucked away beside a tall shrub. I pray Thomas doesn’t mention his story.
Thomas laughs, hikes his foot upon the small, high table between Curtis and himself. When the axe falls, it falls with a whisper, he says. His smile spooks me. There’s no doubt or hesitation in it. I’ve watched men get bounced from fuck parties before. Hell, I’ve been bounced myself once or twice. Thomas keeps smiling, says nothing. Curtis exhales and brings his hands together as if to pray. His gaze cuts high to meet Thomas’s bright glare. This isn’t working, he says. It’s nothing personal, believe me. I’ve been in your position. More than once. I’m really sorry. I admire how congenial Curtis sounds, like the dumb kid at the box office muttering how the new blockbuster has sold out. Thomas nods and offers his thanks that Curtis delivered the news with such class. That’s the word he uses: class.
As Thomas takes the last drag from his menthol and puts it out, Curtis offers him his phone number. I’m sure my face betrays my surprise. Fortunately, the two men have forgotten me. Thomas himself draws back in confusion. Why would you do that, he asks. Call me if you want, Curtis replies. Fumbling for words, Thomas expresses his gratitude, and the three of us go inside.
I scurry toward Adam’s bedroom. It’s safe in there: neither Curtis nor Thomas can freak me further. Before I make it, however, Thomas thanks me for reading “his work.” I dart into the bedroom and collapse, no response given. I wait. On my laptop, his story still appears. Curtis is the pimp daddy douchebag of this party-and-play parking lot, so why is Thomas still haunting my device? I jab at the keyboard until a different webpage appears. I hope Curtis won’t ask what Thomas thanked me for.
When the front door shuts, I listen for Curtis’s footsteps. I hold my breath until I hear them stop and find him posed in the doorway, shoulders askew, propped against a bent arm. I crave confident men. I ask where Adam disappeared this time. Curtis shrugs. He doesn’t give a fuck. He leaps on top of me. He’s a large man, tall and muscled. I imagine smothering beneath him, unsure whether I’d cry out for air or just wait for the darkness to find me. He kisses me, burrows his arms between my back and the mattress it’s pressed upon. Perhaps it’s my body that excites him. If it’s not, why does his touch feel no different than it did during the other dope fucks? Whatever the reason, his touch feels the same. The tweak makes us sweat, makes us ravenous. I lose myself to snap-crackle-pop pleasure. Killer dope and marathon sex. I need nothing else.
One day I will forget his voice.
The line has infected my brain. Curtis ravages me, and the line repeats… in my own voice now. Curtis doesn’t notice my distress, how I clutch him like he’s a firecracker. It doesn’t matter if I burn so long as he takes me far away. He’ll never love me. His lips migrate down my throat. The man we discarded loved his Mike so proudly he shared his grief with the world. He shared it with me. I might receive such love one day. There’s still time, I’m still young. My cock stiffens, but Curtis’s grip is tight. I won’t stay hard much longer. It must be easy to love a dead man.
Thomas Kearnes (@queerjudas) is the author is the the Lambda-nominated collection Texas Crude and its follow-up collection Death by Misadventure. He hopes to have out his third collection Without You, I’m Nothing by next year and is currently at work on his first novel, What Happens Next Happens to Us. He lives in Houston and teaches SAT Verbal prep courses.