CHAPTER THREE

Constant Craving

Our apartment was the first floor of a house just north of Little Italy in the downtown west end. It was a fifteen minute bike ride to campus, twenty minutes by streetcar in the winter. Little Italy and Queen Street West had become our regular haunts, a funky mash-up of indie outlets and galleries, bars and cafés. The Centre for Addiction and Mental Health at Ossington and Queen attracted a colourful array of personalities. Sometimes Karen and I would cycle all the way out past Roncesvalles and spend a whole afternoon lounging and wandering the trails in High Park. I figured if Liam ever visited us, High Park’s four hundred acres could be his home away from home.

That September I started seeing a guy named Sean, a part-time DJ at the Drake Hotel. Over the summer, we kept spotting each other in the neighbourhood at random events and locations. He finally remarked on the coincidence one day while we waited side by side for our orders at Smoke’s Poutinerie. He was thin, bordering on skinny, but had the most beautiful big brown eyes. He’d spent his childhood in Dublin before moving to Canada, and the lilt in his speech hadn’t entirely gone away. I thought it was the sexiest thing in the world.

On our first date, we went to a matinée and spent the afternoon at Little Nicky’s Coffee. We talked about how polite Canadians were, the defunct rave scene (which I knew nothing about), David Bowie and Eighties rock (which we both knew a little bit about), and hockey (which he knew nothing about). On our second date, we saw his friend play at the Poetry Jazz Café in Kensington Market, got drunk on gin and tonics, went back to his place and had sex. On our third date, Sean let me into his inner sanctum: he took me shopping for LPs. Our first stop was Sonic Boom, a warehouse record store up in the Annex. I observed him from a distance as he flipped through the jazz section, sporting his silver rings and bell-bottoms, tapping his foot to some invisible beat only he could hear. I’d never met anyone quite like him in my life. Standing in line at the check-out, he asked if I was seeing other guys. When I told him I wasn’t, he nodded thoughtfully.

“Are you seeing other guys?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Danny. Should I still? What do you think?”

In that moment, I wanted to fall to one knee and burst into song, professing my crush on this boy who poured music out of his soul like a mountain spring in May. Instead, I fumbled and dropped my change purse and coins scattered underfoot, rolling everywhere.

After we left the store, Sean slung his jean jacket over his shoulder and looked me squarely in the eye. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “No. I don’t think you should be seeing other guys.”

His eyes sparkled. I felt like I was in a Disney movie. “Alright, Danny. So it is.” He reached out and gently pinched my ear. He liked playing with my ears. A week earlier, after an evening of Oscar Peterson tributes, when he was on his back and I was gripping his ankles, he’d reached out with one hand and held onto my ear while furiously jacking off with the other. Then I leaned over and kissed him open-mouthed, tasting gin and lime. When he came, ribbons of cum splayed across his chest hitting him in the face. The gesture was a little bit strange and my ear was sore afterwards, but I didn’t complain. To each their own. For such a small guy, he certainly shot the hugest loads. Maybe one day, I figured, I might ask him to wear a jockstrap.

Sean and I had been seeing each other over a month when one morning I spotted him having pancakes with another boy. I was about to tap on the window when I noticed Sean smile, reach out and stroke the boy’s ear. Their hands rested on each other’s knees. Then I walked into the diner and introduced myself. Sean immediately turned bright red, but it was his boyfriend who had the meltdown. Apparently they’d been together over a year. He started in on Sean, and was still ranting when I turned my back and walked out. I never was one to make a scene. Part of me hoped Sean would chase after me, but that never happened. If he had texted or called, I would’ve sat down and talked with him. But that never happened either. Sean had almost a thousand friends on Facebook. That evening, I was scrolling through, trying to find out who exactly this other boy was when, without warning, I found myself cut off from his Facebook page. I’d never been blown off before, not like this, and I was stunned.

“What the hell?” Karen, sitting next to me at the time, exclaimed. “Did he just unfriend you?”

“I think he just unfriended me.”

“No way.”

“Wow.”

“What a total douchebag.”

I set aside the tub of Häagen-Dazs ice cream we’d been sharing, and flopped back on my bed. I felt dazed.

Karen knelt beside me. “When’s he spinning next?” she demanded.

“What?”

“When is he DJing next at the Drake?”

“Why do you ask?”

“We should go. You and I, we should go. We’ll dress ourselves up and sit cozy close. We won’t talk to him. We’ll just have a drink. What do you think?”

“No, Karen. I’m not really into that kind of drama.”

“Who said anything about drama?”

“It’s drama. It’s fucking gay drama. I don’t want to have anything to do with it. I’m tired of it. It’s juvenile and stupid and there’s no way, okay?”

Karen sat back. I’d never spoken to her this way before. “Sorry.”

I held her hand and closed my eyes.

“You really liked this boy, didn’t you?”

I sighed. “I suppose.” I listened to the clock ticking on the wall. “The next time we were going to do it,” I confessed, “I was planning to have him wear a jockstrap.”

“Sweetheart.”

I pointed at a bag on the dresser. Karen pulled out the jockstrap in its unopened box. “You still have the receipt here. You want me to return it?”

I nodded, then shook my head. “No. Thanks. It doesn’t matter.” I sat up. “I’m over it.”

“Here.” Karen scooped up a spoonful of Rocky Road and fed me. “He’s obviously got issues. Good riddance, right? You’re too good for him, Daniel. You can do so much better than a scene-ster like him. He didn’t deserve you. There’s plenty more in the sea.”

By the time Karen finished feeding me all the rest of the ice cream, I actually was feeling better.

I never did like jazz music anyway.

Late in October, I found myself out in High Park. It was unseasonably warm, what people called an Indian summer. The black oaks and maples had begun to turn fiery yellow and red, but the sun was blazing hot and the grass still lush beneath the carpet of fallen leaves. I’d brought my collapsible MEC camping chair and was working on a school assignment on my laptop. I’d set myself up on a slope overlooking Grenadier Pond; maybe a dozen others like myself were out enjoying the rare weather. I’d taken off my shirt and pulled my baseball cap low over my face. I noticed two men sunbathing close by. They were older, maybe in their early thirties, clearly a couple. I watched one massage sunblock into the other’s back. If passers-by noticed, nobody seemed to care. Now I put on my sunglasses, mainly so I could spy on them more closely while I worked. After a while, one of them got up and walked barefoot over to me and asked for a light.

“Sorry.” I squinted up at him. “I don’t smoke.”

“Okay.” He smiled and returned to his companion, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. They exchanged a few words and he lay back down again. I was acutely conscious of the fact that he hadn’t approached any of the others on the hillside. I wasn’t sure what to think. I did know that the moment he’d approached me, I’d gotten an uncomfortable hard-on inside my cargo shorts. They were both put together in a lean and coiffed, metrosexual kind of way. Not the usual kind of person I’d be attracted to. I shifted in my duct-taped chair and adjusted myself as discreetly as I could. Thirty minutes later the two got up and left. The first man nodded pleasantly in my direction. Then he retrieved his cigarette and his companion lit it for him. They disappeared, strolling through the luminous trees along the path by the pond.

A Chinese family arrived and settled noisily in their place. Mom and grandma unpacked the cooler while dad and uncle set up beach umbrellas and lawn chairs. Grandpa bounced a baby on his knee, grinning toothlessly. When the older kids started tossing a bright neon Frisbee back and forth, I gathered my belongings and left.

The path by the pond led northward along the secluded edge of the park. I strolled with the sun at my back, encountering the occasional jogger or dog-walker. The truth was, I’d never deliberately gone cruising in a public place before in my life. The closest I’d come was the Robarts Library stacks a year ago, and I hadn’t even ventured into the washroom then. Karen would regularly point out cute boys while grocery shopping or at the laundromat, but I simply wasn’t confident at meeting people on my own. On a few occasions, when Karen was away during the summer, I’d go into the Village close to last call, and let some usually older guy pick me up. But most of the time, when I was feeling particularly horny, I’d watch porn at home and jack off in a peremptory fashion like regular people did.

This afternoon, the pond was full of geese and ducks. Black squirrels roamed through the underbrush and on the boughs overhead. I followed a narrow trail branching off the wide path, which led me deeper into the heavily wooded interior. The sunshine through the leaves cast everything in a golden, flickering light. I deliberately kept my shirt off and tugged my shorts lower over my hips. I felt exposed and vulnerable, and subtly thrilled. Furtively, I smelled my armpits to make sure my deodorant was still working. I kept my eye out for any sign of the two men. I’d never hooked up with a couple before, and I wondered if I was getting myself into any kind of danger. I thought of American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman with his perfect physique and bone-coloured business card. I imagined Karen reporting me missing and the police finding my body weeks later, decomposing and covered in frost, stuffed into the hollow of some fallen log. Utter ignominy.

Eventually, the trail led out of the woods onto a paved road near a baseball diamond. My little adventure was over, I was back in civilization. I had to admit, I felt disappointed. There’d been no sign of anyone looking for sex, much less the two men. For years, I’d heard about cruising in parks, but it remained as mysterious to me as ever. I drank from my water bottle, put my shirt back on and headed up the road to the parking lot where I’d locked up my bike. I was securing my helmet when a red BMW rolled up next to me. Cigarette Guy leaned his head out the passenger window and asked mildly: “You sure you don’t have a light?” His teeth were perfectly white and straight.

I swallowed and let my hands fall to my side. “I might,” I said without thinking.

He looked at his companion and back at me. “Okay.” He nodded. The trunk hood popped open. “Why don’t you throw your bike in the back?”

Then I realized this man looked exactly like Bateman from American Psycho. The thought flashed through my mind that I’d stow my $80 Kijiji bike in the trunk of their $80,000 BMW only to have them drive off in a cloud of exhaust. I imagined a storage unit in the basement of their penthouse where they kept dozens of bikes and skateboards like trophies. Maybe it was some weird fetish of theirs, and these two would have sex down there with young guys covered in bicycle grease, tying each other up in makeshift slings fashioned from inner tubes. When I didn’t move, he glanced at the obvious bulge in my shorts and back up at my face. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Aah,” I mumbled. “I’ve got to go.” I started riding away. Even though I wasn’t pedalling so hard, I could feel my heart thumping. The red BMW pulled back up alongside and slowed. I kept pedalling and forced myself to keep looking straight ahead. I was prepared to be sideswiped or to be cursed out or to have a handful of money waved at me. But the car accelerated past and disappeared ahead around the bend, scattering a flock of seagulls. I braked and pulled over onto the grass. “Holy shit,” I muttered under my breath. “Holy shit.” I felt dizzy. Something wet hit the side of my helmet. When I touched it, my fingertips came away sticky and white. A bird had crapped on me.

Later that evening, when I told Karen everything that had happened, she said it was good luck.

“Good luck?”

“When a bird poops on you, it’s good luck. Didn’t you know that?”

“Is that like some native superstition thing?”

“No, Daniel, it’s just some thing. Everyone knows that.”

“Oh, gee, well then.” I sat back on the couch and folded my arms. “Is that all you can say?”

“What I’m saying, is that maybe you were lucky today. Those two could have kidnapped you, drugged you and had their way with you. Daniel, you have to be careful. Something awful could’ve happened.”

“You really think so?”

“I have no idea. They also could’ve been really nice, normal guys who just wanted to pick up a cute boy. They might’ve served you champagne in their roof-top hot tub and driven you home with a swag bag.”

“Normal people don’t drive BMWs,” I mumbled. I didn’t tell her I thought Christian Bale was on the down low in Toronto with his secret male lover.

“Normal people actually do a lot of things, Daniel, believe it or not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means who are we or anyone to say what’s normal? Everyone and everything’s normal at some point in time and place. What’s not normal is simply whatever the people in power at the time happen to say is not normal.”

“I think Christian Bale is on the down low in Toronto with his secret male lover.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

That evening, I fantasized I was Dick Grayson on a date with Bruce Wayne, wantonly seduced in the underground chambers of his secret lair. My life was so boring, I could hardly believe myself. I wished I could be more like my brother Pat, fronting a rock band, backpacking around the world, having wild sex and getting tattooed. Even Liam was following his passion, building fences and smoking salmon out on a native reservation close to nature, away from all the mendacity and mundaneness of human civilization.

Karen had said I was uptight, and the truth was she was right. I’d spent half my life working to keep our family together and safe. Growing up, I don’t think Pat or Liam had any idea how close we came to being taken away by child welfare. I played by the book, toed the line and did what I was told. Our social worker was a burntout bitch who had it in for Grandpa, watching our family like a hawk for any reason she could use to have us three boys removed. The day we turned sixteen, that danger was over. Except, I still kept following the rules. It was like that with hockey, with school and work, and it was still like that with life. I was tired of playing by the rules. I promised myself: the next time someone invited me for a ride in their BMW, I would get in.

That winter in Toronto, I discovered bathhouses. I’d never heard of them before, and after doing some research, I was shocked that I’d never heard of them before. Most of them were clustered around the Gay Village, and in early December, I found myself walking through the front doors of one shortly after midnight. Earlier that night, at a bar called Woody’s, I’d met a young guy named John from out of town. He told me he’d rented a room just a couple blocks away. He was sweet and wholesome looking, with a scruffy beard and the nicest laugh. Even after we passed through the big oak doors with their brass handles, I had no idea where we were. Only when John flashed his pass at the caged booth and slid a bill over, did it slowly begin to dawn on me we weren’t in the Holiday Inn. Some transaction was conducted, a buzzer sounded and John opened a second set of doors. “You coming?” Men were lining up behind us and giving me looks. I followed him in.

I found myself in what appeared, at first glance, to be a typical downtown lounge. Couches were arranged comfortably in front of a big screen TV. Guys were standing around chatting, reading the paper, even playing pool. Everyone was nude except for white towels around their waists. Baskets of condoms lined the bar. In my winter jacket, I started to sweat. I took off my toque. The bartender handed John a neatly folded towel and a numbered key, both of which he passed on to me. “Here,” he said. “C’mon.” He led the way out another door into a confusing array of dimly-lit stairwells and hallways. I could hear showers running and the interactions of other patrons. The place was labyrinthine, with a seemingly endless series of identical doors. Eventually, John keyed open one door, revealing what looked like a miniature dorm room, just large enough to hold a bed and a dresser closet. He hung up his coat. “You okay?” he asked, reaching out and patting my arm.

I was still standing in the doorway, clutching my toque. “We’re in a bathhouse.”

“We are.”

“I’ve never been in a bathhouse.”

“Oh shit.” John squeezed my shoulder. “I am so embarrassed. I. I just thought you knew.”

“Why would I know?”

“I told you I’d rented a room.”

“I thought you meant a hotel room.”

“Look, Daniel. Look, I’m not wanting to get it on with random guys. I stay here when I’m in Toronto because it’s more convenient and cheaper than a hotel. I like you. I liked you the first moment I set eyes on you. I just want to be with you tonight.” He caressed the side of my neck.

I thought to myself, if he touched my ear I was leaving. But he didn’t. Instead, he pulled me in and kissed me gently. Then he kissed me again. By the time he kissed me a third time, I was inside and he’d closed the door behind us. It was warm, but we took our time taking off our clothes. He had the softest skin, and he smelled nice. By the time we were finally naked, I felt I knew every part of his body. We didn’t have anal sex, but we jacked each other off. After that, he spent ten minutes playing with my cum, spreading it over my nipples, tracing it along my collar bones and jaw, and my lips. He had me suck it off his thumb, which was something I’d never done before. That got me hard again. Then he lay between my legs, cradling my hips, stroking and kissing me, using his fingertips and the tip of his tongue, until I finally came a second time. Afterwards, he asked if I wanted to go into the hot tub with him and I said I would.

By now, the place was practically crowded. There were men of all body-types, young and old, roaming the darkened hallways. Some would brush up against me in passing, but the overall ambiance was respectful and discreet. John and I washed ourselves first in a communal shower. The stinging water roused me from my drowsiness. The hot tub room was surprisingly tasteful, all marble and mirrors. We hung our towels on chrome hooks and gingerly waded in through the steam. Two other men were already in the tub. I wasn’t sure if I should make eye contact with them or not, so I didn’t. The water felt luxurious and we reclined side by side, savouring the penetrating heat of the jets at our backs. After a moment, John squeezed my hand and said he had to go pee and that he’d be right back. He wrapped himself in his towel and stepped out of the room.

One of the men across the tub had been staring at me for some time. Now I returned his gaze. My heart skipped a beat. I recognized his face. It’d been two years since we last saw each other. It was my old assistant hockey coach from Sudbury, Stephan Tondeur. “Daniel,” he said in greeting. For one terrifying moment, I expected him to tell me that I’d ruined his life, that I’d broken up his marriage and left him destitute and alone, shunned by family and community. But he was smiling shyly, stunningly handsome as ever. “How have you been?”

“I ...,” I said. “This is my first time here.”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to explain. Was that your boyfriend?”

“Who? Oh, him, no. No, I just met him tonight.” I mentally swore. That just made me sound like a slut. Then I asked: “Do you come here often?” and mentally cringed. That just made me sound like an idiot.

Stephan nodded. “Whenever I’m in Toronto. It’s clean, the staff are friendly here. The bartender makes a terrific Caesar.”

“Great.”

“You’re in school?”

“U of T.”

“Good for you. How are you enjoying school?”

“It’s good.”

“What are you studying?”

“Arts and sciences right now. I’m not sure where I want to go with it yet.”

Stephan raised his eyebrows. “Are you still playing hockey?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Are you still coaching AA?”

“In Sudbury? No. I’ve been too busy. The real estate market is booming. You might consider getting into it.”

“How’s your daughter?”

“She’s two.” Then I thought he might show me photos of her, but we were naked in a hot tub in a bathhouse. “We’re getting her ready for pre-school. You have to understand, my wife doesn’t know I come here.”

“Okay.”

“I better get going. It’s really good to see you, Daniel. I’m glad you’re doing well.” As he climbed out, I couldn’t help but stare at his pendulous genitals, his muscular legs and enormous hands. All I wanted was for him to have reached out and touched me. I was aching to feel his hands on me. But he’d made no such gesture.

“Hey,” I called out. At the entranceway, between two plaster urns containing fake plastic trees, he turned. “I still have it. The picture. Rocket Man. I’ve still kept it.”

Stephan drew a breath. “I’m glad. Take care.” He smiled sadly and waved in an oddly effeminate manner. Then he was gone.

After a few moments, an elderly gentleman across from me cleared his throat. “Old boyfriend?”

His watery eyes were sympathetic. I looked at him, and looked through him. “Yes,” I finally said. “Yes.”

John hadn’t come back yet. I got out and went looking for him. There were open doorways and shadowy chambers full of half-naked men coming and going. I recognized the smell of poppers. Someone groped my ass. I got lost and found myself circling back. I kept my eyes on the floor, and shrank back against the walls so I didn’t have to touch anyone. Eventually, I returned to our room. The door was open, a bright light was on and a cleaner was briskly remaking the bed. “Where’s my stuff?” I asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“This is my room. Where’s all my stuff? Where’s John?”

The cleaner pulled off his gloves and tossed them into a plastic bin on his cart. He shrugged. “I don’t know who John is.”

“I was here with a guy, his name was John. This is our room. Where’s all my fucking stuff?”

“Sir, please lower your voice. The last person who rented this room checked out. I suggest you talk to someone at front desk.”

Downstairs by the exit, there was a line-up of people leaving, turning in their keys. Everyone had their jackets and coats on. My hair was still wet. The towel kept slipping from my waist and I had to clutch it in one fist. Across the narrow hallway, laundry tumbled in half-adozen industrial-sized washing machines. The linoleum felt clammy and sticky beneath my bare feet. I had to wait five minutes before I could speak to a staff person with a mohawk. By that time, I was so upset, I was shaking.

Apparently I’d been given a key to my own locker. I kept trying to explain that I hadn’t used any locker, and that all my stuff had been stored in John’s room and now everything was gone, including all my clothes and shoes, my phone and wallet. I had nothing. Couldn’t they understand that? I had nothing.

Mohawk Guy conferred with another staff person. “Look,” he said, “do you want to make a phone call?”

“A phone call? It’s like fucking four in the morning!”

“Sir, as I’ve pointed out already, we can’t be responsible for lost or stolen items. We can let you use our phone. Is there someone you can call?”

I refused to cry. “Okay,” I said as calmly as I could. “Okay. Let me make a phone call.”

Mohawk Guy had someone replace him at the check-out counter, and escorted me into a small office space. I called Karen’s cell and immediately got her voice mail. I tried again with the same result. I didn’t leave a message. “Is there anyone else you can call?” Mohawk Guy asked. Impulsively, I called my own phone and after five rings, got my own voice mail. I hung up.

“No,” I said.

“Here.” He rummaged out a T-shirt from a cardboard box. “You can wear this.” I tore open the flimsy clear plastic and put it on. The desk phone rang and he picked it up. After a moment, he glanced at me sidelong. “What did you say your name was?”

“It’s Daniel.”

He handed me the phone. “It’s for you.”

It was John’s voice on the line. “Daniel, where the hell are you?”

“Where the hell am I?” I shouted. “Where the fucking hell are you?”

A three second pause. “I’m in our room, where do you think I am? I couldn’t find you anywhere. Your phone was ringing. I just pressed call-return.”

“The room’s empty, asshole. It’s empty. I want my fucking stuff back.”

“What room’s empty? What are you talking about?”

“Room 303. It’s empty.”

“Our room is 305, Daniel. I’m sitting in room 305. Look, you’re at front desk, right? Come on up. I’ll wait here for you.”

He hung up.

I put the phone down in its cradle.

Mohawk Guy held out a box of Kleenex. “You find your friend?”

“He’s upstairs. I’d gone to the wrong room. He’s in room 305.”

“305.” He folded his tattooed arms. “Well, I’m glad that’s worked out.” He opened the door. “S’okay, you can keep the shirt. Cheers. Have a good night.” I shuffled out of the office. I went up two flights of stairs and down a corridor where John was waiting in our room. 305.

“Where’d you get that T-shirt?” he asked.

“The staff gave it to me. Look, I thought you’d bailed on me. I thought you’d stolen all my stuff.”

“Your things are right here where you left them. I’m not a thief, okay?”

“You didn’t come back from the washroom.”

“Yeah, well, it took a little longer than expected. All the washrooms were being used. When I came back, you were gone. This guy said you’d hooked up with someone else.”

“I didn’t hook up with anyone.”

“According to him, you took off after your old boyfriend. You told him it was your boyfriend.”

“What? No. What does he, no. I mean, yes, I met someone I used to know a long time ago. But I didn’t take off after him. He left. I went looking for you.”

“Right.”

“You have to believe me.”

“I’m tired. I think you should go.”

“Wait, no. Not this time.” I drew a deep breath and let it out again. “I fucked up. I am so sorry I called you an asshole. I’m sorry. What more do you want me to say? I don’t want to leave. I really like you, John. I really like you. This is all a big misunderstanding.”

“Daniel, I believe you. But what I really need right now is some sleep. I have a bus to catch tomorrow. I had a good time with you tonight, okay?”

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

“Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you get dressed?” I dressed while he sat on the bed watching me. When I was ready to leave, in my snow coat and shoes, I went to kiss him, but he handed me my toque, stood back and held the door open. “Take care.”

“Bye.”

He closed the door in my face. I rested my forehead against the number 305. Two young guys in towels walked past, staring at me. I held out my arm and gave them the finger.

On my way out, I kept looking for Stephan Tondeur, but he was nowhere to be seen. Outside, a thin, drizzling rain was turning the snow to slush. I thought Stephan might be waiting for me, but there was no one but the cold and empty city.

I hailed a cab and went home.