Where There’s Smoke… (Part II)

I wake up next to Mr. Danger and quickly climb off his bed without making much noise. I go to the restroom, splash cold water on my face and look at the mirror as I mouth the word, “Fuck!” I keep running all the details from last night over and over in my head but yet cannot come to any form of clear conclusion.

I sit on his bed and put on my sneakers. He is still fast asleep, breathing softly and grabbing on to his large pillow by his head. I consider waking him up and letting him know I’m leaving. But, really, what am I supposed to say?

“Oh, thanks for smoking me up, I can’t believe we smoked two bowls. I really liked hanging out with you and watching Cruel Intentions, while we talked nuzzled underneath your sheets. Sarah Michelle Gellar is such a psycho princess in that movie, right? Oh and thanks for suggesting that I should spend the night, even though I was kind of thinking that I should just be heading home when it started getting late and you hinted that you were ready to go to sleep. Oh wait, you didn’t say you were ready to go to sleep, you said you were ready to do something else. What did you have in mind exactly?

Then you turned the lights off and turned your back on me, but a few seconds later began rubbing your butt up against my thigh and caressing my lower leg with your feet. And when I rolled over and started spooning you and running my cold hands up and down your torso, you didn’t flinch away. Instead, you exhaled heavily. And then I started fingering the elastic on your boxer briefs and getting so close down to your crotch. But then I stopped. You noticed I stopped. And I turned over and closed my tired, drunk, stoned, delirious, horny eyes. But then, you rolled over and got so close to me that I could feel your breath on my cheek. And you began poking my hips with your knees. And when I turned my head to look at you, you didn’t look away. So I kissed you, and you kissed me back briefly, softly, before you closed your mouth, recoiled back gently and said, ‘We shouldn’t do this.’

Right, I shouldn’t have kissed you. And you shouldn’t have lied to me about lying to my best friend, you shouldn’t have had invited me over, asked me to spend the night, put your body so close to mine, teasing me to make a move. And I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

No, I don’t say anything. I just grab my phone and put on my jacket and leave, slamming his apartment door as I exit. If I can’t sleep in, neither should he.

It’s a beautiful day in Lakeview, I ponder as I dash to catch the train back to campus. The entire morning, I expect the worse from Mr. Danger, calling Captain Spirit and telling him his side of the story. “And then he tried to kiss me!” he’d say after manipulating the facts, just like he manipulated me, just like he manipulated Captain Spirit.

And it really gets to me. My entire young adult life, when it comes to friends, the one rule I’ve declared rigid solid, unforgivable if broken, is “bros before hos.” Silly as it sounds, it can shred. And after everything I knew and stood by, to throw it all away for a 2-minute kiss? I feel like I’ve cheated myself.

The only legitimate reason I can come up with to justify Mr. Danger’s actions is that he was using me maybe to end things with his boyfriend, inconsiderate of the possibility that his actions might also ends things for me and my best friend. No, not his actions. Mine too. Fuck. But surely, there are easier ways to break off a relationship that do not involve setting up a trap. And in between all these rundowns of possible scenarios, my mind keeps lingering on what a great time I had hanging out with Mr. Danger, talking, smoking and watching the movie, before things got sticky.

I get back to my apartment and check my e-mail. And there it is. A notification from Facebook. Mr. Danger had written on my wall just mere minutes ago.

“Why the escape? Did an alarm go off?”

I’m positive that there’s some part of Mr. Danger that wants to get caught. That night at Sonotheque, I expect a hell blaze. An impending confrontation with Mr. Danger and with Captain Spirit, I’m ready to defend my loyalty, wavering as it might seem. I put on my second favorite pair of jeans, just in case drinks come flying at me during the course of the night.

Captain Spirit shows up alone. I’m relieved that I won’t have to deal with Mr. Danger just yet, but worried that his absence might suggest build up for a looming resolution even more explosive than I had planned for.

“Where is Mr. Danger? I thought you said he was coming with you tonight?” I ask even though I had told myself not to ask.

“He’s staying in tonight,” Captain Spirit answers without even a hint of suspicion. “I think we wore him out last night!”

Maybe not…

But as the night progresses, I realize that Captain Spirit is clueless as to my whereabouts the night before and not a bit curious either. He would have mentioned something, if he thought something was off. Thankfully, I regain some emotional stability to enjoy the last hours at the club. Captain Spirit and I are standing by the bar, waiting for another round when he says, “I think I’m going to try to be single for a while.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m serious. All these guys, even when I know it’s not going anywhere, I keep investing so much. It’s so draining.”

“Oh come on! You always get the most devoted, reliable puppy dogs going crazy over you! All of your past boyfriends were upfront about how they felt, never played games. What more do you want?”

“I don’t know, I feel like something has been missing. And I keep buckling down each time a decent guy comes around. I don’t even know if they’re right. Or what I want, what I’m missing.”

“You’re happiest in a committed relationship. It’s in your DNA. You’re the boyfriend type and I’m the type who…” I stop and I can’t say it. It suddenly comes pouring over me—a drunken retrospective of my dating life so drenched in disaster.

“You’re the type who never settles,” finishes Captain Spirit with an emotional tissue to wipe away my self-pity like only a best friend could. “That’s what I’m missing, the one thing you always go for: sparks.”

“Sparks tend to combust,” I reply.

“Sometimes, but it’s better than faking interest in someone out of fear of being alone.”

“Yeah, but aren’t we alone now?” I ask raising an eyebrow and looking around the crowded club.

“No way!” Captain Spirit responds immediately. He’s still a little frightened of being alone. “We are… in transition,” he says after careful deliberation.

“In transition,” I repeat with emphasis. I’m liking the term. “And all we need is sparks to launch the rocket.”

“All we need is sparks,” he repeats.

As we make for the exit right before closing time, I turn to Captain Spirit and thank him for coming out. I had never felt the need to do that before, but for some reason, tonight, it feels like I should.

“Of course,” he says a little thrown off by my formal regards. “You planned this whole thing, you know I wouldn’t miss it.”

Captain Spirit was right that night. We weren’t alone.

The thing about sparks is that sometimes they’re actually an alarm signaling for you to run in the opposite direction. And sometimes, they can be going off right in front of you without you even realizing they’re real.

[Where There's Smoke... (Part I)]

Where There’s Smoke… (Part I)

My best friend and I couldn’t be any more different. He’s from a small town in the Midwest; I grew up in San Francisco. He joined a clean-cut fraternity our freshman year of college; I was never really into institutionalized spanking. He was Captain Spirit, tailgating before every football game; I was Juvenile Delinquent, always on the verge of getting kicked out.

He really hates staying up past his bedtime, his favorite fruit is pomegranate and he lost his virginity the night of my 21st birthday party. I know pretty much everything about him. And he knows pretty much everything about me. Except that one night I slept with his boyfriend.

Captain Spirit is the type who always has a Mr. Right, a caring, cute, smart guy he can spend his nights in with while I rummage out and about, drinking Redbull and making out with dicks (sometimes literally).

Of course, I was always supportive of my best friend even when his picture perfect boyfriends turned out to be all photoshop, but deep down, I couldn’t help but resent Captain Spirit and his All-American, well-bred knack for monogamous bliss. If we are completely opposite, and he’s the relationship type, then what does that make me?

I was never jealous of the cute boys he was with. Not surprisingly, we go for different types. My best friend embraces the stable, and I like my fireworks. That’s why I was so surprised when he introduced me to his current Mr. Right. Sure, he looked like all his past Mr. Rights, but instead of cool and composed, this guy’s personality was more volatile, like he could explode at any minute. In other words, he was my type.

So upon first meeting him, my best friend alarm instantly goes off, and I keep feeling like we’re entering a danger zone.

They had only been dating a week or two, when they decide to meet up with our mutual girl friend and me for an after hours party at Evil Olive. It’s obvious that this boy, Mr. Danger, has already caused a shift in Captain Spirit’s sleeping schedule.

We are all on the dancefloor, and I’m dancing with my tipsy girl friend to Kid Cudi’s “Day N Night” while Mr. Danger and Captain Spirit linger closely behind us. Captain Spirit leaves to go to the restroom, and as soon as he’s out of sight, I catch Mr. Danger approaching. I dance with him for a couple of minutes but then feel awkward when Captain Spirit, who’s not much of a dancer, comes back. I make my way back to the girl and keep dancing with her.

A few minutes later, I feel someone coming up from behind and dancing up on me. Dancing up me real close. I turn around and see Mr. Danger right behind me and biting his lower lip. Captain Spirit is there too, watching this. I feel guilty even though I know we’re not doing anything wrong, but the last thing I want to do is cause a scene, so I just nonchalantly push Mr. Danger away and bring my best friend closer to us.

The rest of the night consists of moments like these, of moments of me pretending like Mr. Danger is just being a friendly dancer with no concept of personal space. But the way he is looking at me and dancing next to me, following me whenever I make the slightest move to try to avoid his incriminating presence on the dancefloor, he’s leading me on.

As we’re closing our tabs by the bar, Captain Spirit asks Mr. Danger to get in a cab with us and come back up to campus.

“Should I come up?” Mr. Danger asks seemingly in general but looking directly at me with his almost-menacing blue eyes.

“Do whatever you want to do,” I say instantly in a rather defiant tone, as if to say, “fuck off.” But the words come off more as posing a challenge. Do whomever you want to do. Despite how hard I try to act like he repulses me (or maybe because I try so hard), he senses that, really, I’m attracted to him. And my put-on hatred is fueling a flirtatious fire. And just like playing with fire, the game is both dangerous but extremely enticing.

I’m leading him on too. And he’s not going to let it go.

“Fine, I’ll come up,” Mr. Danger replies smiling and still looking at me and then grabs Captain Spirit’s face and gives him a big open-mouth kiss. I see his tongue going in deep right before, and I’m truly repulsed.

The next week, I’m having lunch with Captain Spirit who, after much bitching about his lost phone, confesses that things with Mr. Danger are getting kind of serious. I, for once, keep my mouth shut and just stick to using one-word, vague adjectives when he asks me what I think of him. “He seems nice.” “He seems cool.” But Captain Spirit doesn’t catch that my brevity might suggest bad news.

That night, we are all out at MiniBar for a quick round of drinks. I’m not looking to stay up too late because I’ve planned a huge party at Sonotheque the next night. All of my comrades are on the same page. Except for Mr. Danger.

As we’re leaving the bar, he turns to me, puts his two fingers up to his mouth and quietly says, “Smoke up at my apartment?”

“Sure,” I say, and although I think it’s just going to be a big, chill after party, I still have to make sure, “is Captain Spirit coming?”

“Yeah, of course, but keep it on the DL. I don’t want a whole bunch of people over,” he says.

We all get on the Red Line, and I get off at his stop like we had agreed on. The train continues on, and I notice that Mr. Danger and I are the only guys that have gotten off and standing alone on the platform. It all starts to feel way too DL for me.

“Where’s Captain Spirit?” I ask with an open arms motion signifying total confusion.

“I don’t know,” he responds, not confused at all. “I thought you had talked to him.”

“You said to keep it on the DL, it’s your apartment and your pot, and he’s your boyfriend,” I say feeling guilty and feeling guilty for feeling guilty.

“He’s your best friend.”

I pick up my phone and dial Captain Spirit’s number. The call goes straight to voicemail, and I realize that he still hasn’t replaced his lost phone. I don’t leave a message. We get off the platform and start walking towards his place in Lakeview.

[Where There's Smoke... (Part II)]

I Like Boys Who Wear…

Abercrombie & Fitch. That’s the smell that awakens me, the smell of that cheap cologne they put in the air vents in all of their stores. The smell of a kinky teen boy hustler. I look around the room—kind of dark but I can see a pile of clothes on the floor. Oh yeah, I wore those jeans.

I look to the other side of the bed and see him sleeping shirtless on his chest right next to me. Handsome, rust-colored hair, some wrinkles but a warm skin tone. Ridged shoulders and a few freckles, firm back. Taking deep breathes.

I get out of bed, wearing only my black 2(x)ist boxer briefs (don’t judge), and notice that my forearms and thighs are sore. I walk to the bedside table separating the two beds, and check the hotel brochure. The Embassy Suites.

Great.

I grab my jeans and hear the animal in bed wake up. He tosses the sheets and yawns. Toronto! I’m starting to remember. He’s staying in Chicago with a work friend for the weekend; they work at some mechanical engineering lab. “So you, like, build robots?” I asked him when I thought he would fall for my “dumb boy” flirting routine. He did not.

I notice that the other bed is fully made. Where is his friend?

Knock, knock!

“Can I get into the fucking room now?” the friend says in a low groan. I finish putting on my jeans and open the door.

His 5 foot 4 Indian coworker stares at me and shakes his head. Last time I had seen this guy was at Tryst in Wrigleyville right before my friends left, and I left with Canadian Stallion.

I let his friend in the room and step out to the suite living area. I turn on the posh lamp on the table and look around the room for my stuff. My black v-neck is thrown on the couch, my shoes on the floor by the door, my belt underneath the coffee table. I grab my shirt and right as I’m about to put it on, I feel Canadian Stallion’s cold arms going around my warm, bare torso.

Last night was supposed to be chill, just a few close friends grabbing a few drinks and catching a soccer game. I had only three drinks, but they hit me hard. I think it was more than just the Grand Marnier that compelled me to grab and squeeze Canadian Stallion’s tough denim-covered leg just shortly after I had met him standing next to me at the bar.

It was the Fierce pheromone overdose that got me intoxicated.

And now, with him pressing so close to me, I can smell it again. The Indian guy makes some snarky remark from inside the bedroom. He’s still angry that his friend locked him out in the suite he helped pay for because he wanted to hook-up with “some guy.”

So that’s my queue. I thank Canadian Stallion for having me over and hand him one of my business cards I got at work the week before. Since they didn’t have a title printed on them, he believed me when I told him that I was an intrepid, young reporter, not some intern who is always arriving late.

He kisses the card and gives me a wink. I blow him a kiss, turn around and go out the front door trying to remember which side the elevators are on. On the way down to the lobby, I ride the elevator with an attractive blond couple, former Mr. and Ms. Midwest, and their 7-year-old daughter. They seem startled when I dash into the elevator right as the doors begin to close. But I’m not the most patient guy, especially the morning after.

On the 4th floor I look at the girl and give her an innocent, earnest kind of silly smile. She looks at me, then looks at her mom. “He smells funny,” she whines.

“I smell Fierce,” I want to say. But I just hold it in.

We finally get down to the lobby and shortly after stepping out, I realize something’s not right. There are all these people walking and gathering around with the family from the elevator joining in. But it’s 8 a.m. on a Saturday. Who at the Embassy Suites is up this early? Then I realize that it’s a bunch of families, all traveling and staying together, laughing and conversing in the lobby before registration. A conference! But what?

A Bible Conference… that’s what.

I have to make my way through all of that before being able to escape safely. I put my hand on my chest and suddenly feel as if though my v-neck runs all the way down to my knees. My Catholic guilt creeps up my back and spreads to the rest of my body. I feel naked. I smell funny. I’m an animal.

But at least,I’m free. Free to smell like Abercrombie & Fitch.