BOYFRIENDS: A TRIPTYCH

Shaun Levin

1. The Cup of Vodka: A Fantasy

A young man went cruising. He went to the park. He walked round and round until he came to a clearing he had never seen before. He went to the edge of the clearing. There was a beautiful man there, and when he saw the man he fell in love.

“I want to love you,” he said to the beautiful man.

The beautiful man said: “How can I know that you are the one for me, a real man and the perfect boyfriend?”

The man said: “Try me in any way you wish.”

So the man took a bottle of vodka from his pocket and filled a silver tumbler to the brim. “Here is a cup of vodka. Balance it on your head. Climb the apple tree at the far end of the clearing and bring me two apples from the top branch. You must not spill one drop of the vodka. Do this and I will be yours.”

The man climbed into the tree. It was dark amongst the branches, but he noticed a small red light; someone was sitting in the tree, smoking. And he had his cock out. He was expecting some action. They smiled at each other.

The man in the tree whispered to the young man: “I’ve just heard what the beautiful man said.” And he plucked a hair from his own chest, and put it into the cup. The vodka became solid, and the tumbler became fixed to the young man’s head.

The young man climbed higher up the tree. He picked two apples from the top branch. On his way down, the man with his cock out was still sitting there. It was big and erect, and the young man touched it. “I’m tempted,” he said. “But I’m in love.” When he reached the ground, he took the hair from the cup. The vodka and the cup became as before. The young man walked up to the beautiful man and gave him the apples and the tumbler of vodka. The beautiful man said: “Truly you are a real man and perfect boyfriend material or you would not have done that thing without spilling one drop of the vodka.”

The two men went home together in the beautiful man’s beautiful car. They sipped vodka and ate apples all the way home. Then they had sex, and even came together. In the morning, the young man ate the breakfast the beautiful man brought him to bed. Later that week he moved in with the beautiful man and they are still living happily together.

2. A Misty Landscape with Glitter, Ice Cream, and Two Men: A Fatality

Paul met David in the steam room at Chariots. Paul had just been to a midweek barbecue where the children of the house had been sprinkling fairy dust on the guests. David had been to see some clients (he sold stationery) and popped into the sauna on his way home. He sat down next to Paul. He clearly liked hairy men. Their knees touched. David leaned over and took Paul’s cock into his mouth. Paul liked a man with a voluptuous hunger. Men gathered round, the kind of crowd that gathers when two guys in a sauna are about to have sex—the older ones, afraid of rejection, watched; others, too beautiful to be touched, kept their distance.

Paul liked a masturbating audience.

When the heat became too much Paul felt his body had been drained of its liquids, and besides, what with sucking cock, having his nipples pinched, and the tongue of a short Spanish boy being shoved down his throat, he could hardly breathe. Paul left the steam room. David followed.

They stood on the threshold to the showers and kissed.

“There’s glitter in your hair,” David said.

They smiled into each other’s mouths.

They were the opposite of each other. Paul was tall and stocky and hairy with an average-sized penis. David was slim and smooth, an inch shorter, but with an extra two inches to his cock. All the same, they were turned on by each other. After their showers, Paul suggested they find a cubicle, and led the way past the pool, down the stairs, then up to that row of three rooms with iron bars between them. Paul liked to be able to reach out and touch his neighbors.

They both felt special, cocooned in the intimacy they’d created. Men came to watch and tried to fondle them, but David pushed their hands away. Paul was more generous. At one point, a man with a very large penis—larger even than David’s—knelt at the bars and jerked off while Paul fucked David. Paul took David’s hand and put it on the man’s cock.

After they came, Paul lay on top of David while they stroked each other.

“You’re my blanket,” David said, rubbing against the hairs on Paul’s chest.

Paul felt he would do anything, be anything, to keep this man’s hands on his back, caressing him.

“I’m going to have to go soon,” he said, as if testing something.

“I won’t let you,” David said.

“We can’t stay here all night,” Paul said.

“You could take me home,” David said.

When they got off the bus in Stoke Newington they bought a tub of Häagen-Dazs Strawberry Shortcake ice cream. The night air was cool and their steps were buoyant. Paul thought of the Michael Jackson video in which every square he stands on lights up. In bed, with a teaspoon, they fed each other ice cream, slowly, until David said he’d had enough.

“I’m getting fat,” he said, and told Paul about his ex-boyfriend, a Lebanese guy called Kamal, whom he’d loved desperately and who left him when he became obese.

“By the time it was all over,” David said, “I was fifteen stone.”

“How did that happen?” Paul said.

“I got to a point where I just didn’t care,” David said. “I wasn’t hardly doing anything, just eating and watching TV and having sex, and then we weren’t even having that much sex. I was a pig.”

“You look great now,” said Paul.

“It’s the Atkins Diet,” David said. “And five days a week at the gym.”

Paul imagined taking David home to meet his mother. He imagined dinners with his friends, and David’s friends, one of whom was a painter. He imagined changing gyms, doing sit-ups together in the mornings. He imagined the new sign he’d put on his front door. He imagined moving to Enfield to live with David. Later, they’d buy a house together. He’d never been to Enfield.

They fell asleep in the spoon position.

In the morning they woke in each other’s arms and had more sex. Paul was so turned on he thought his cock would never go soft.

“You’re like a teenager,” David said.

David made whimpering, gurgling noises when he sucked on Paul’s nipples. It was a mixture of pleasure and a dread that the source of life would dry up.

“Keep making those sounds,” Paul said.

Paul brought in chunks of fresh pineapple and made toast with peanut butter, which they ate in bed, naked. David called a couple of his clients and said he was stuck on the motorway, that he’d come in and see them later in the week. He told Paul about the stationery world. He said that Viking—where Paul got his stationery—was not giving him the best deal.

“They just offer free chocolates,” David said.

Paul thought about “The Office” and about Ricky Gervais.

“When was the last time you had sex? Paul said.

“A couple of days ago,” David said, and mentioned the pool table at Central Station, which, he said, smiling, he knew very well.

“How many guys?” Paul said, stroking the smooth crack of David’s arse.

“Seven,” David said.

“In a row?” Paul said.

“Well, five, actually,” David said. “Two came back for more.”

Paul liked men who took risks. He also thought about the kinds of diseases one could pick up in a place like that. He liked the idea of having a slutty stationery salesman for a boyfriend. After his last relationship, which had been stifling, he was ready to try the nonmonogamy thing.

“This is such a treat,” David said, finishing his toast. “You’re my treat.”

“I must get up soon and do some work,” Paul said.

He opened the curtains and let in the light. David was still beautiful and his eyes were bluer than they’d seemed the night before. Sunlight hit a speck of glitter on his shoulder. Paul thought of the ping on the tooth of a smiling mouth in an advert for dental care. He also thought that the sun on the skin of a man lying naked on a bed was a natural wonder. Should I ask for his number, Paul thought, picking up the tub of melted ice cream, drinking it, bits of shortcake dissolving in his mouth. He had no idea what David was thinking. So they got dressed and kissed at the front door. And that was the end of that relationship.

3. Their Way to You: A Happy Ending

Fred waited a couple of days, then on Thursday he called.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” said Fred.

“Hi,” the guy said. His name was Michael. Fred knew this.

“You don’t know me,” Fred said.

“Yes?” said Michael. “Who do you want to speak to?”

“I saw you in Tinderbox a couple of days ago,” Fred said.

“You what?”

“Tinderbox,” Fred said. “On Upper Street. I saw you there with a friend.”

“Where did you get this number?” Michael said.

“You gave it…” Fred said, filling his glass, walking back to the living room with the bottle and glass clawed between his fingers. “You gave it to the guy in the café. I heard you.”

“You what?” Michael said. “I’m not sure I like this.”

“Couldn’t we just…”

“I’m going to put the phone down now.”

Fred sat on the carpet and leaned against the sofa. He held the phone to his ear until the dial tone was like an alarm clock at the far end of a room; he set the receiver back down.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” Fred said.

“Is that you again?” Michael said.

“I’m afraid it is,” said Fred, on a Friday night, very drunk.

“I’ve got your number, you know,” Michael said. “I did one-four-seven-one the last time you rang.”

“Oh,” said Fred.

“Don’t call again.”

“Hello.”

“Hi,” said Fred. “Please don’t put the phone down.”

“What?” said Michael.

“I saw you again today,” said Fred. “In Highbury Fields.”

“This isn’t amusing,” Michael said.

“Couldn’t we just talk?” Fred said. He had nothing to fear.

“What are you doing this for?” Michael said, his voice deep and sharp, as if he had to project it over a great distance.

“I saw you jogging round Highbury Fields,” Fred said.

“You what?”

“You know you keep doing that?” Fred said.

“What?”

“That,” said Fred. “You say ‘what’ as if you hadn’t heard what I said.”

“Thanks,” said Michael. “I’m glad you’ve pointed this out to me.”

“I like the sounds of words,” Fred said. “Are you training for the marathon?”

“What?”

“See?” said Fred. “Are you running the marathon?”

“Never again,” Michael said.

“So, you’ve done it before,” he said.

“What do you want?” Michael said.

“Look,” said Fred. “I’m not mad. I saw you in Tinderbox, you were giving your number to a friend and I overheard. You were saying something about sensory perceptions in Aristotle. You’re a good-looking guy.”

“Oh, please,” said Michael, his chuckle giving away way too much. “Are you desperate?”

“I fancied you, so I wrote it down,” Fred said, thinking: Isn’t everyone desperate?

“This is creepy,” said Michael.

“Trust me,” said Fred. “I’m not mad.”

“How do I know that?” said Michael.

“Hello.”

“Is that Frank Sinatra in the background?”

“It’s the radio.”

“ ‘My Romance’?” Fred said. “Is that Dinner Jazz?”

“Bingo,” said Michael.

“You’re cautious.”

“Am I?”

Fred thought of quitting. Of saying: I’m out of here. But that would be like giving up; he couldn’t walk out on something he’d started.

“Look, couldn’t we meet somewhere?” he said. “I’m really bad on the phone. I hate it. I don’t even have a mobile. I’m not sure what to say. I’ve made a fool of myself. Ask me something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Fred said. “Like: What do I do for a living? Have I got brothers and sisters? How tall am I?”

“So?”

“What?”

“Tell me.”

“I’m a musician. I’ve got an older brother. I’m six foot two.”

“What kind of a musician are you?”

“Piano” said Fred. “Tell me what you do.”

“I write,” said Michael.

“What?” said Fred.

“Stories.”

“Cool,” said Fred. “What kind of stories?”

“I don’t have an answer to that,” said Michael. “I suppose I should have one. Stories about life, I guess. I don’t like that question.”

“Why?”

“I don’t. It makes me feel stupid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Let’s say I write stories about meaning,” Michael said. “And relationships. And beauty. How does that sound?”

“Impressive,” Fred said. “I wish I could create my own music.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t pull away.”

“Why?” said Michael. “Are you getting off on this?”

“No,” said Fred.

“I’m sorry,” said Michael. “What were you saying?”

“This is hard work. Not my ideal turn-on. But I do like you. I’m normal. If you saw me you’d see. Really. We could meet somewhere in public. Bring a friend to keep an eye.”

“From behind a newspaper?” Michael said. “What’s your name?”

“Fred.”

“Are you serious?” said Michael. “As in Flintstone.”

“Frederick J. Cohen.”

“That’s very distinguished.”

“Just Fred is fine. What are you doing?”

“I’m sitting down. I’ve been pacing. Fred, hey?”

“And you’re Michael.”

“I am.”

“Are you always hard work?”

“I think so,” said Michael.

“Is that you, Michael?”

“Good voice recognition,” said Michael.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t call.”

“Well, here I am.”

“You’re very defensive.”

“This is not going to work. It’s ridiculous. I hate it when people say they’ll call and then they don’t. Are you there? Fred? Let’s just call it a day. Fred? Are you going to say something?”

“Hello?”

“You’re very beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Your face is beautiful. They’re deep blue, your eyes, aren’t they? I wasn’t that close. And that blush in your cheeks. Like a farmer, a mountain climber coming in from the cold. I love your hair. I wish I could touch your hair.”

“You do, do you?”

“Those bouncy curls. I’d bob them in the palm of my hand. Did you turn the music off?”

“No.”

“I thought the music stopped.”

“It did.”

“It’s nice and quiet. Can I kiss you?”

“Is this phone sex?”

“Shh. Let me kiss you. Gently. Lie back and let me kiss you. On your eyelids. Close your eyes. Let me kiss you there. Like this. Softly. Don’t open them. The right one. Like this. Your skin’s so soft against my lips. Now the other one. How does that feel? Let me kiss your cheeks. Keep your eyes closed. Feel how dry my lips are against your cheeks. Gentle pecks. Is that Barry White?”

“Mm,” Michael said.

“I like him,” said Fred. “You hardly hear him nowadays.”

“Kiss me.”

“Where?”

“Kiss me.”

“On your lips?”

“Are you writing? Am I disturbing you?”

“It’s okay.”

“Did you get home okay?”

“Yeah, I took a cab from the station,” Michael said. “I couldn’t be bothered with the Tube.”

“Did you have money on you?”

“The driver stopped at a cashpoint,” Michael said, and then they were silent for a few seconds, a few delicious seconds, making room for Michael to say: “I’m sorry I didn’t stay.”

“That’s fine,” Fred said. “I wish you had. I liked cooking for you.”

“You’re a good cook,” Michael said. “And a good pianist.”

“Thanks.”

“Where did you learn to play like that?” said Michael.

“I’m not sure,” said Fred.

“You must have started somewhere,” said Michael.

“The official version is: one summer in Scotland, when I was eight. We were staying in this castle, three families, for a month. There was a piano in the drawing room. A pianette. One of the fathers taught me, got me playing—but the keys were hard to play; you had to bang on them to get them heard. It forbade meekness.”

“I wish I’d had someone to encourage me to bang on the keys,” Michael said.

“Your writing’s loud,” Fred said. “That’s confidence.”

“But it’s all done in silence really,” Michael said. “The world doesn’t hear anything when I write, unless you’re so close you can hear my pen scurrying across the page.”

“I want to be that close,” Fred said.

“Do you?”

“Is Fred there?”

“Just a sec. I’ll get him for you.”

“Are you busy?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want to meet up for coffee? I could come to your place. Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

“No. My brother’s still here, he’s driving me mad. His wife doesn’t want him, he’s moping, and it’s driving me crazy.”

“I’ll come to your end. We can walk through Camden. I need to get out. Get some exercise. Can I bring you another story?”

“So?”

“He’s still here.”

“Not him. So?”

“It’s beautiful. I knew it would be.”

“Thanks.”

“How do you know all those things?”

“Like what?”

“About the army. War. Death.”

“My dad was in the army, his father was in the War. My brother was killed in Bosnia.”

“God.”

“Yup.”

“Michael?”

“It was you. I did one-four-seven-one. Are you okay? Michael? What’s the matter? Mikey. Don’t try and talk. I’m here.”

“Should I tell you how he died?”

“Let me come be with you.”

“They tortured him.”

“I know. I know, sweetheart. I remember it from the papers. And the telly.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“That’s better.”

“Stop being nice to me.”

“But you are my sweetheart.”

“I’m not. I’m horrible. I didn’t see him for ten years, then he got killed, and now I’ll never talk to him again. Never. Do you know what that means? Not ever in the world. I don’t care if he was horrible to me. I don’t. I don’t care what he did to me. I want to talk to him. I want to talk to him about when we got lost in the woods in France and he found the way home.”

“How?”

“He climbed a tree to look for rooftops. It was getting dark and he had this brainwave to follow the electricity cables. So we followed the outlines in the twilight until we got home. He was the best.”

“Oh, Mikey. Sweetheart.”

“I know.”

“Do you want me to come over? I’ll drive there. It’ll take me half an hour.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re so lovely.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Who’s that?”

“Did you want to speak to Fred? Is that Michael?” she said.

“Yes?” he said.

“I’m Fred’s mother,” she said. “He told me about you.”

“Oh,” said Michael.

“He’s just popped out to Sainsbury’s. He’ll be back in half an hour. Should I tell him to call you?”

“Yes, please. Tell him I called.”

“Mikey?”

“Freddie.”

“No, never Freddie. Were you on the phone now?”

“To your mother.”

“Ah. Yes. I forgot it was Sunday lunchtime.”

“But I’ve still not been fed my breakfast.”

“I’m coming. I’m at the bakery counter. Chocolate or almond croissant?”

“Both. And coffee and strawberries and kiwi fruit.”

“They’re in the basket,” Fred said. “On their way to you.”