Mechanics of Homosexual Intercourse Read online

  Some nights Morton would exit his study holding an empty wine bottle and pause in front of his son’s room on the way to bed, and he would think of what might be happening on the other side of the door between Dumb and his boyfriend Right, but when Right died Morton could only imagine his lonely son sitting and reading a book, and he knew there would be no more curiosity unless there was another boy. Morton left his study holding an empty wine bottle and a book he was unready to set down, and passed his son’s closed bedroom door without pausing. Dumb sat at his desk and looked into his lamp until his eyes hurt, then he shone the lamp back down on the surface of his desk where he had made several lines of powder from a pill he had crushed up. Dumb sniffed the powder using a piece of a straw and then listened to Glenn Gould playing the Goldberg Variations on his laptop. He moved from his desk to his bed, and picked up a book, and thought of what the book was about, then he read the book, and thought of Right. Right sat in the corner of Dumb’s room, never on the bed unless they were fucking or sleeping together, and read books with serious titles, and frowned, and interrupted Dumb’s concentration with endless philosophical lectures, entirely cynical and dense; Dumb tried to listen to him even when he wasn’t trying to be coherent, contradicting himself as he made a convoluted argument, and then one day he wasn’t alive, but Dumb was alive, and Dumb stayed in his room, on his bed, holding a book and listening to Glenn Gould. “I’m only pretending to like you,” said Right, “because I get so bored.” “Okay,” said Dumb. “The only thing I care about is nihilism,” said Right. “That’s kind of cute,” said Dumb. “I know,” said Right, “I hate it!” Dumb would revisit a little memory when he wasn’t thinking enough about anything different, but he couldn’t be sentimental about that. It made him feel less.

  The apartment was in one of two long fat buildings that ran the length of the block, separated by a dreary gulch of a street littered with crushed beer cans. Both buildings were previously purposed for industrial use and were not zoned residentially, but they were filled with unfinished loft apartments, one of which was particularly crowded on a woolly night with kids nearly pressed up against each other, holding beers and talking loudly. Dumb was there with his girlfriend Lucy, and they stood in the corner of the loft next to a dirty stove, holding bottles of beer noncommittally and trying to squint out into the dense congregation of kids all around them. “I don’t think we know anyone,” Dumb told Lucy. “I think we know somebody on the other side of the room,” said Lucy. “Well I hope they’re having fun over there,” said Dumb. Lucy rested her head on his shoulder. “We’ll never know how much more fun it is on the other side of the room,” she said. Dumb barely heard her because of the racket of voices. Nearby, a smiling kid was being given a birthday cake with twenty-one candles burning on top of it. “Happy birthday!” said the people around him. Dumb touched Lucy’s head, and then he tried to move. He squeezed through the small spaces between people standing close together until he reached one of the giant windows that looked out onto the street. There was a fire truck parked down the block; its flashing lights colored the façades of both buildings. Firemen in black uniforms ran from door to door, carrying axes, trying to get into the building opposite the one Dumb was in. Dumb turned away and made it back to where Lucy stood. “I wonder if any of these people are interesting,” said Dumb. “They don’t look interesting,” said Lucy, “they all look like art students.” Dumb drank his beer. “I guess none of us has anything better to do,” said Dumb. “I could be editing Wikipedia,” said Lucy. “I like being here with all these kids doing nothing and I don’t know any of them,” said Dumb. “A boy just walked up to you and is standing behind you, looking at you,” said Lucy. Dumb turned around and saw the boy. “Hi?” said Dumb. “I saw you and I thought I could probably talk to you,” said the boy. “Oh! We’re drunk,” said Dumb. The boy drank from the beer he was holding. “Well hello in that case,” said Dumb. “My name is Orange,” said the boy. “I’m Dumb,” Dumb said. “What’s up?” asked Orange. “Are you an art student?” asked Dumb. “Yes,” said Orange. “Where did you come from?” asked Dumb. Orange pointed behind him. “The other side of the room,” he said. “You must be so brave to have traveled all this way!” said Dumb. Orange shrugged. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “Why?” asked Dumb. “Are you queer?” asked Orange. “Yes,” said Dumb. “Brilliant,” Orange said. Dumb introduced Orange to Lucy. “This is my girlfriend,” he said. “Hello,” Orange said. “I’m going to try and get in line for the bathroom,” said Lucy, and she squeezed between two people and disappeared. “Do you like Andy Warhol?” asked Orange.

  Dumb and Orange sat together at a small table in a café in the city, drinking coffee. “This is going better than I thought,” said Orange. “Oh, good,” said Dumb. “You seem sort of reserved and standoffish at times, but you’re very gentle,” said Orange. “Your teeth are very clean and bright,” said Dumb. “I guess we were made to be together,” said Orange. Dumb occupied himself with his coffee. “Do you have a boyfriend?” asked Dumb. “Not really. A few. I don’t know,” said Orange. Dumb smiled. “Do you?” asked Orange. “No, I’m on the rebound,” said Dumb. “Great,” said Orange. “My last boyfriend killed himself,” Dumb said. “Oh,” said Orange. “It wasn’t my fault or anything—he was sort of distraught … or terminally frustrated,” said Dumb. “He was an intellectual, huh?” said Orange. “He was a philosopher king in his head, at least. Let’s make the rest of our informal date about my boyfriend who is dead,” said Dumb, “ex-boyfriend, I mean.” Right did not like having seizures in public, it ashamed him; and since there was so much in public that could inspire him to a seizure, he did not often go out with Dumb, and never to the city, where the people he found most intolerable, whose behavior was most likely to unknowingly drive Right into a state of disgust that would turn into a seizure, came together to meet each other in small cafés or to sit in bars downtown. “And there are too many faggots in the city downtown,” said Right. “There are fags, poetasters, and jejune cretins everywhere! They make them at these universities.” When Dumb tried to kiss him he would frown; Dumb had to wait until he was distracted for a moment of reciprocity in a kiss Dumb initiated before Right would realize how his immediate reaction to the kiss belied his dislike of tender gestures. Finally his body was gone and probably nobody got to touch it, which would have met his approval. “I wonder if anybody changes, whatever,” said Dumb. He looked into his cup, then at his date. Dumb moved his leg so that it was touching Orange’s leg under the table. “Your dead boyfriend is a prick for killing himself. If I can say that,” said Orange. “He could be like a diva, I guess, and, um, messianic? He’d kill me for saying that, because it’s the wrong word. He was really frustrated about being smarter than me,” Dumb shrugged. “I try to read a lot,” he added, “but he always read more, it’s all he did besides talk about the void and admonish me for being facile.” “You should think about something else,” said Orange, “like me.” Dumb said, “And will you think about me, then?” They kept talking and sipping coffee. As the night arrived Orange saw the street grow darker through the window behind Dumb. “We should go to the park,” said Orange. “Great,” said Dumb. When they finished their coffee, and paid for it, they left. The park was mostly empty except for an idling police car and those who were using the dog run. Orange looked at trees. “This would be fun to draw,” he said, touching a mangled one. Dumb stood still, looked at the tree, and Orange leaned on him. Orange leaned his head on Dumb’s shoulder and they stood that way in silence. Then Orange said, “Can I do something forward?” Dumb said, “What?” Orange kissed him. “Oh!” said Dumb. Orange blushed. They walked to a bench, and sat down, and held hands, watching the animals play in the dog run. Orange brought his face to Dumb’s face, and they kissed again, and that, and other things like that, happened several more times as they sat on the bench in the park, not saying much, until finally Orange had to go to the bathroom. When Dumb stood up he realized he had an erection. They walked to a bar nearby and Orange slipped into the bathroom while Dumb looked around and almost tried to order a drink. When they left the bar they went back to the park and kissed again.

  The calico couch was where it was before it had been moved back to where it was several months previous and the new lamp was sitting on the coffee table by the chair. Morton and his wife Alice were seated on the couch, perusing two typed copies of a manuscript, when Dumb walked into the living room from the entryway. “You’re back finally!” Morton exclaimed when he saw his son. “What is it?” asked Dumb. “Please, take a seat,” said Morton. Dumb obeyed suspiciously. “I want to try a new approach,” said Morton, “that I think will be very therapeutic.” “Oh,” said Dumb. Morton waved the manuscript he was holding in the air. “I have crafted a dramatic scenario in which you and Right are the characters interacting, with dialogue that I believe maintains a suitable fidelity to the actual language of your conversations insofar as I knew them, and pertinent topics, videlicet interpersonal relationships and dealing with depression, are addressed in such a way that hopefully you will be able to perceive the circumstances surrounding Right’s death and the consequent end of your romantic involvement with him from a previously unconsidered perspective that nourishes your emotional faculties and helps you process the change that death of a loved one brings,” he said. “Well, okay,” Dumb said. “I’ll be playing the role of Right,” said Morton, “and your mother will be playing the role of Dumb.” Dumb nodded. “Remember the notes on line delivery I gave you,” Morton whispered to Alice, “and we’re not reading the stage directions this time.” Alice nodded. “I love you,” she said. Morton cleared his throat. “How can you say that, how can you feel that, when right now there’s a sixteen-year-old pregnant girl getting r
aped with a knife by her father somewhere! It’s absolutely sophomoric,” said Morton. “But we’re sophomores,” said Alice. “You’re not stupid, so I don’t know what you’re doing wasting your time convincing yourself you love people,” said Morton. “It just happens,” Alice said. “It’s a sociopolitical hallucination,” said Morton, “and I disrespect you for valuing it so much.” “I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” said Alice. “No, you can too help it but you don’t because you’re under the delusion that love will make things better, or will redeem your meaningless life, imbue it with some sort of contrived resonance,” said Morton. “It’s a feeling not an ideology,” said Alice. “Then why do you try to predicate your understanding of your surroundings on it?” asked Morton. “Why do you attack me when I just want to be close to you?” asked Alice. “Because your spatial praxis is fucked,” said Morton. “At least I don’t use pedagogic despair as an excuse to be so hateful,” said Alice. “We’ll never escape the binary, will we? You love and I hate, it’s as uncomplicated as that for you all the time, isn’t it?” Morton asked. “I’m not the one who killed himself,” said Alice. “I was bored,” said Morton. “You were depressed because you were so insecure. All you wanted was ambiguity, but it prevented you from accepting the love I offered, and the struggle of denial became so difficult you made a desperate decision out of weakness to kill yourself so you didn’t have to face your problems,” said Alice. “I’m not weak,” said Morton. “You’re not here,” said Alice, “and the only thing I can do is learn and grow from my experience with you, because I understand now you weren’t being theoretical, you were just scared.” Morton and Alice both put down their manuscripts, and Dumb felt pressured to applaud them briefly. “Oh, thank you,” Alice smiled. “I hope the ending wasn’t too bluff,” said Morton, “but you get the gist, I think.” Dumb stood up. “Do you want to have a discussion about your reaction now or after you’ve had some time to digest it?” said Morton. “Um,” said Dumb, “in a while.” “Very good then,” said Morton, and he leaned over and hugged his wife. “I think that went well,” said Alice. “Decidedly so,” said Morton. Dumb went to his room and closed the door behind him. He took a pill out of a bottle he kept in a drawer, sat down at his desk, and crushed the pill into a powder, then made several lines and sniffed them with a piece of a straw. He thought about Right having a seizure on his floor, and trying to resist when Dumb held him, but not being able to control anything as he shook. Dumb played Glenn Gould on his laptop and sat looking into his lamp until his eyes hurt, then he turned the lamp away.

  Walter was an older cousin of Dumb’s; a thin effeminate man who lived in the city in a small apartment far uptown, and his impending marriage to his lover Nicholas became the source of much excitement and preparation as the date of the ceremony drew nearer. Walter was beholden to Morton, who contributed an undisclosed sum to partly fund the wedding, and so he felt obligated to always accept the invitations to dinner that Morton enthusiastically extended to him and his fiancé. One night the couple was a guest of the household and everyone sat around the dining room table as Alice brought in dishes of food from the kitchen. “Did you ever resolve the issue with the cake?” asked Morton. “Oh!” said Walter. “We took a bath on that awful bakery—they are just a bunch of scam artists. Now we’re basically back to square one with the cake.” Nicholas shook his head in frustration. He said, “We were better off when none of this was allowed.” Walter touched the back of his fiancé’s neck. “Nicholas is just a wreck this week, but he knows there’s nobody better than the likes of us to put on a show in style. We’re not worried about the cake.” “Can you believe that when Morton and I married we just eloped!” said Alice. “We thought we were being progressive, but we were really just trying to alienate our parents,” Morton commented, pouring a glass of wine. “I suppose that’s what we’re doing too, in a way,” said Walter. “Oh, you know your father is very proud of you,” said Morton, “he just has a hard time communicating his feelings.” “Or lending any support,” muttered Nicholas. “Oh stop that,” Walter said to his fiancé. “We’re lucky for what we have.” “Let me know if you run into any more snags,” said Morton. “We’re doing fine considering the time crunch,” said Walter. “The cake is, well, we’re going to fix the cake problem, don’t fret.” “Oh, Dumb,” said Nicholas, “be sure to let us know who you’re bringing so we can finalize the seating arrangement at the reception.” Dumb thought about it. “I’m bringing my friend Lucy and I think my friend Orange,” he said. “Yes, Alice and I recently met this boy Orange,” said Morton. “It’s a very positive step.” “Oh!” said Walter. “Dumb is bringing his girlfriend and his boyfriend. I remember when you were five years old, Dumb.” Dumb smiled. He tried thinking about what it was like to be five years old. “That’s funny,” he said.