Guilty Little Secret Page 8

  Abruptly Marsh stood up and hurried towards the men’s room. I tried not to be too obvious as I let my eyes follow Marsh’s trail. After a discrete period of time, maybe two or three minutes, although it seemed like an eternity to me, I made my way to the men’s room, too. It was a one-seat job with a bolt on the door. I knocked softly and waited for Marsh to unlock the door.

  When Marsh opened the door, I shoved him back inside the tiny room and pushed my way in, bolting the door behind me. The smell of sour urine and tobacco nearly knocked me over. “I never got to make you,” I told Marsh quietly. “And I want to.”

  Marsh laughed nervously. “That would even the score, wouldn’t it?”

  I didn’t respond except to pull Marsh into my arms with a crushing hug. I sought Marsh’s mouth hungrily. And Marsh didn’t resist. I reached for Marsh’s fly. “I just love your mushroom.”

  “My what?”

  “Your mushroom. Your dick. It looks like a mushroom. Look at it!” I had it in my hand, caressing it with my thumb.

  “Jesus!” Marsh breathed, his eyes on mine. “Jesus, you’re only 16, babe. I can’t do it.”

  “No, but I can, right?” I set my mouth on Marsh’s and poked my tongue into it. “Just let me, please?” Without any more discussion, I led Marsh to the toilet. Closing the lid, I pointed to it. “Here kneel on this. I won’t be long.”

  Quickly I unzipped my pants and hauled out my zizi. I spit on my hand to wet my zizi, a technique I’d picked up from Brian. I marveled at my power over the great Marshall LeBon. As I pushed and pushed and pushed against him, I thought about how good Marsh felt, how good I felt, then about Paul Priestly, then about Terry. Then I lost it, my zizi convulsing deep inside Marsh.

  I didn’t forget to take care of Marsh. I pressed and pressed my tongue against Marsh’s mushroom, to quiet him, to tame him. Then we collapsed in each other’s arms.

  After that, during lunchtime, except when Dad and Maman accompanied me to the studio, we made it in Terry and Drew’s apartment. It was close to the studio, it was empty, and, to me, it was the safest place in the world. It didn’t matter what the other guys in the studio were thinking. Marsh and I slipped away at lunchtime, to be alone, to enjoy each other, to press and to hold and to love each other, to love each drop of each other.

  I played a song for Marsh in the studio one day. Actually, it was a song I’d been working on since the summer. I played it on the piano. And Marsh loved it. We worked on it for almost a week and then recorded it. I called it “You, Me, Too.”

  One day, about a week after recording “You, Me, Too”, Terry showed up at the studio. Terry, all by himself. I nearly gasped with surprise when I saw him. My heart did the same funny flipflop it always did when I encountered Terry for the first time after a separation. I rushed to greet him. Terry smelled so good. I had forgotten how good Terry looked. Terry was –

  Then it struck me. What was Terry doing in New York? Terry was supposed to be in France.

  I studied Terry’s face closely for an answer. But Terry smiled, and hugged me, and murmured that he’d missed me. And, for that moment, I was Terry’s boy again, lolling in his arms.

  I heard about it later, though. Terry let me have it almost as soon as we were out of the studio. The doorman had called Terry in Paris. The doorman had ratted on me, telling Terry that I was going to his apartment every day with an older man. The doorman was worried about what I might be doing there.

  I scowled at the doorman as we entered Terry’s building, ignoring the doorman’s pleasant greeting. I muttered to Terry, “What an asshole! Does Drew know?”

  Terry waited until we were alone in the elevator before he responded. “No,” he said, smiling into my eyes. “I promised you I would let you conduct your social life in private, remember?” He watched me nod. “You’re lucky that I intercepted the phone call, Paulie. You’ve got to learn to be discrete. Go up by yourself and let him buzz you a few minutes later. Then leave separately.”

  I smiled, thinking about Terry’s advice. I had to admit, I was really an amateur at this kind of stuff. Terry was very cool. I loved Terry. I hugged Terry as we stepped out of the elevator. “What did you tell Drew? How come you’re here?”

  “I told him that you called and asked me to come and get you.”

  I laughed.

  “Remember those days?”

  I laughed again. “And he believed you?”

  “Of course.” Terry unlocked the door and ushered me inside.

  “So, why are you here?”

  “To keep you out of trouble, to keep you safe.”

  The next day, Terry went back to the studio with me. Marsh got him to sit in for a track. The day after that, Terry again accompanied me to the studio. At lunchtime, both days, it was Terry who went home with me for lunch, leaving Marshall behind at the studio. On the third day, I arrived to find Paul Priestly in the studio. Marsh was very animated. At the end of the week, Marshall LeBon quietly thanked me for my work on the album and said they were wrapping things up. He wouldn’t need any more of my help on his album.

  In a way, I was relieved. Now that we had finished recording “You, Me, Too”, I didn’t really like the new number we had started to work on. And I was glad that Marsh was together again with Paul P, really glad. It was wonderful to see Marsh so radiant.

  But I did wake the following day feeling like I had nothing to do. Going to the studio every day had given my life a routine. Now I felt like there was nothing to get out of bed for. So, I stayed in bed, which worried Terry.

  About two in the afternoon, Terry entered my bedroom to see if I wanted to get up and eat. I shook my head and let it sink back into the pillow, feeling quite listless. Terry sat down on the edge of my bed, his hands busy smoothing the sheets and pillowcase.

  “Are you feeling ill, Paul?”

  “No,” I grunted.

  “How about if we call up Jeff and see if he would like to come over and play some music?”

  The idea almost appealed to me. I considered it for a moment, wondering why Terry was into Jeff all of a sudden. Jeff was supposed to be off-limits for me. Then I decided that I was too tired to play music that day. “Not today,” I told Terry. “Maybe tomorrow. I just want to rest here today.”

  Terry regarded me curiously for several seconds before getting up to leave my room. “All right,” he said. “But I expect you to be up for dinner.”

  After dinner, although Terry tried to coax me into going to Ziggy’s with him (“We can bring Jeff along, too!”), I went back to bed. Terry followed me back into my bedroom and lay down on the bed beside me. Neither of us got under the covers. Terry pulled me into his arms, like he used to do when I was younger, stroking the hair behind my ears. I let Terry caress me until I became so sexually aroused that I couldn’t lie still. Abruptly, I jerked away from Terry’s touch.

  “What’s wrong?” Terry wanted to know.

  “You! The way you make me feel.”

  Terry looked genuinely mystified.

  “God, Terry, you turn me on so much! Feel this!’ I took Terry’s hand and placed it over my swollen zizi. “God, all I want to do is make you!” I slid my hand down Terry’s hip to grasp his zizi.

  “Hands off, Paul!” Terry’s voice began to rise. “It’s not me you really want, anyway!” He slapped my hand away.

  “Yeh? Who is it then?”

  “Marshall.”

  I laughed, a bit out of control. “No, Ter. I want you.”

  “Paul, did you ever hear of being on the rebound?”

  I knew what Terry was driving at, but I also knew that Terry was wrong. I was determined to show Terry that he was wrong. I shook my head. “Ter, I love you, only you. No one else.” I threw myself on Terry. Being much larger than Terry, I easily overpowered him.

  Terry squirmed violently beneath me. “Paul, get off! Get off!” he shrieked. His fury was so overwhelming that it cowed me, causing me to retreat meekly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Terry stood up and stormed out of the room, not waiting for an answer.

  I was numb with remorse. I lay on the bed and listened intently for sounds of Terry’s movement in the apartment. A short time after Terry left my room, I heard the front door open and close and Terry’s step fading as he moved down the hall. And I knew I was alone. I began to sob miserably, like an abandoned baby. Then I tiptoed around the apartment, hoping to find that Terry was still there. I peeked into Terry’s room and, finding no one there, threw myself down on Terry and Drew’s enormous bed.

  What was wrong with me? Why didn’t anyone want to love me? Suddenly I didn’t feel like living any longer. There was no reason to be alive. I was a terrible, terrible person. Even Terry didn’t like me anymore.

  I strolled into Drew’s bathroom and began sorting through the contents of his medicine cabinet. Several vials looked promising. I read the labels, then opened each bottle. Seconal, six capsules left in the vial. Valium, 25 mg, eleven left. Inderal, seven left. Impulsively, I poured them into my cupped hand and washed them down with tap water in several gulps.

  Then I lay down on the bed to die. For Terry to find me. Then I decided I should write Terry a note. I grabbed the note pad and pen on Drew’s night stand and scrawled, “Terry, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I love you. – Paul.” Then I lay back down on Terry and Drew’s bed. But suddenly I didn’t want to die alone. I wanted to die dramatically, in someone’s arms. Dizzy was around the corner, Dizzy was closest.

  In my bare feet, sweat pants, and teeshirt, I went out into the street on that chilly November evening. I jogged the three blocks to Dizzy’s house. When I reached Dizzy’s corner, I began to feel very nauseous, very sick to my stomach, as if a dozen snakes had suddenly sprung to life in my belly. I hoped I could make it to Dizzy’s house without vomiting.

  Too late. I puked in front of the building next to Dizzy’s and then again on Dizzy’s doorstep. I could barely stand up.

  “Paul!” Dizzy’s security guard, Martin, called to me. “Paul, are you okay?”

  Terry (1982 - 1984)

  I awoke in a dimly lit room. Bob Marley’s “Burnin’” album was playing softly. That was Terry’s favorite record. I opened my eyes and looked around, searching for Terry. My father saw that I was awake, smiled broadly, and crossed the room in loping steps to me.

  “Paul! You’re awake, pal! How’re you doing?”

  I shrugged, then felt a tugging sensation in my right arm. That’s when I noticed the IV pole and the needle planted in the inside of my arm, right above the elbow. “Where am I?” I asked Dad, hoarsely. “What happened?”

  It took several minutes for me to grasp what my parents were telling me, but I finally understood that I had taken an overdose of pills at Drew’s apartment. Funny, I didn’t remember. Not at all. I was at Bellevue Hospital. I’d been out for almost 24 hours. I thought hard, trying to recall what had happened the day before.

  Drew came in later that evening, but without Terry. Dizzy showed up, too. He joked with me about vomiting on his doorstep. I laughed, but wondered in silence about Terry. Since no one had mentioned Terry, I was reluctant to bring up his name. I slept fitfully that night.

  The next morning, Dad’s old friend and psychiatrist, Gabe Edgeworth, brought in a young doctor to talk with me. I chatted with him for a while, but was soon bored by his questions. When I asked him if he were gay, the young psychiatrist visibly flinched and said “no” in such a superior way that I suddenly felt shy and untalkative.

  Where was Terry? I didn’t want to ask in front of Drew. And, since Drew was there all the time, I couldn’t ask.

  When at last I was left alone with my father, I began to ask Dad about Terry. But, Dad had his own agenda. He threw himself on the bed next to me and gazed for the longest time into my eyes. I stared back at Dad’s somber gray eyes, marveling at their ability to unnerve me.

  “You’ve inherited that Koster knack for self-destruction,” Dad told me quietly. “You know what it did to me.” He gestured toward his face.

  I raised myself on my elbow and studied the disfiguring scar on the left side of Dad’s face and neck. Then, for the first time since I was little, I pushed my father’s luxuriant dark hair, which Dad always wore in a long ponytail, back off his face to touch a gaping purplish hole where his left ear used to be. Yes, Dad had really tried to do himself in once, but Terry had saved him. Terry had pulled him out of that burning room and kept Dad breathing until the ambulance arrived. Terry had saved my father’s life.

  Where was Terry? Suddenly I lost my courage to ask. Instead, I gently replaced the hair over my father’s left temple and kissed his cheek.

  “I don’t remember anything,” I told my father. “I wish I could remember why I did it.” I wished I could ask Terry. Terry might know.

  Dad watched my face as I spoke. “Marshall LeBon,” he hesitated for a moment, as though searching for a word, “laid you off from the studio, do you remember? Sounds like he has his old bass player back.”

  I nodded, thinking about Marshall and Paul Priestly. I remembered that. I remembered how happy Marshall was to have Priestly back in the studio again. “Yeh,” I replied, “Marsh sure does love Paul.” Then I caught my father’s probing look and shook my head. “No, Dad, that’s not it. I was never in love with Marshall. I wouldn’t kill myself over Marsh. Really!”

  “Maybe it hurts so much you don’t want to admit it, even to yourself.”

  Laughing, I hugged my father’s neck. “Dad, I think you’ve been in therapy for too long!”

  The next day there was still no sign of Terry. I was beginning to really worry. Again no one mentioned him. I wondered why, sneaking furtive glances at Drew in hopes of finding the answer in his face. At lunch time, Drew and Dad went off in search of food, leaving me alone with Maman.

  “Maman,” I said to her as soon as we were alone.

  Maman approached my bed, smiling. “Paulie, why don’t you drink some nice juice?” She spoke in French to me. “Here, please take a drink.” Every hour, Maman was relentless in her attempts to force food and fluids in me. “We can have the tube taken out,” she told me, “as soon as you start eating and drinking on your own. Here, look at this nice bread. Here, some nice bread and some nice juice.”

  To placate her, I chewed tentatively on a slice of buttered bread. I had absolutely no appetite, nor did I feel thirsty. But I drank the entire glass of juice that my mother handed me. I realized that I was stalling. I realized that I was afraid to ask about Terry, afraid to know.

  I set the glass down. “Maman,” I said to her, my eyes brimming with tears, “tell me, Terry, is he dead?” I spoke in French. I never spoke in French. Hardly ever. But, my question was so painful that I couldn’t bear to ask it in English.

  Maman sat down carefully on the edge of my hospital bed. She brushed my curly hair back off my face with both hands. “Paulie, is that what you think? That Terry is dead?” She laughed softly, “No, cheri, Terry is fine.”

  “But, where is he, Maman? Why --” Suddenly I was overwhelmed with nausea. “Shit. I’m going to puke!” The words were barely out of my mouth when I began to vomit violently.

  Maman scrambled to get me a basin. She shoved one under my mouth. But she was too late. My blankets, my bed gown, even my mother’s sleeve were sprayed with undigested bread and juice. With the basin propped against my belly, I continued to wretch, even after I’d emptied the contents of my stomach.

  Within minutes the room was filled with people. Doctors and nurses conferred in hushed staccato tones. I heard their talk, but I couldn’t stop the heaving in my stomach. I tried to get out of bed, which brought a half dozen hands to my bedside to hold me down. A syringe flashed. And then my stomach relaxed. I relaxed. I could feel my muscles melting from my bones. My eyelids became too heavy to control.

  When I regained consciousness, I could tell by the light in the room that it was evening, even through my half-closed eyelids. I squirmed in bed a bit, but felt too exhau
sted to waken fully. Someone spoke to me, his mouth against my ear. It was Terry! Terry was lying on the bed with me.

  I still could not fight the urge to sleep. Weakly, I moved toward Terry, pressing my face into Terry’s neck. It was Terry’s voice, Terry’s neck, Terry’s smell. I collapsed against him, almost sobbing with joy. Terry spoke again, soothingly. His arms pulled me close as I descended back into my stuporous sleep.

  The next time I awoke, the light in the room was dim. I looked around the room. It was empty. My parents and Drew, who had stayed with me constantly since my first day in the hospital, were gone. Someone stirred on the bed beside me, startling me.

  “Hi, there.”

  I spun around to face my bed partner. It was Terry! I sat up to look at him. “Terry! You’re here! I’ve missed you so much! I thought something was wrong with you. Why didn’t you come here sooner?”

  “I’ve missed you, too, Paulie. I stayed away because I was afraid that my being here would upset you.”

  “But why?” It didn’t make any sense to me. I loved Terry more than anyone. No one was dearer to me than Terry. Why would Terry stay away?

  But, as Terry began to explain, it all started to come back to me: the scene on the bed, the pills in Drew’s medicine cabinet, the letter to Terry. I felt extremely embarrassed. I snatched Terry’s hand and brought it to my mouth, kissing it. “I’m very sorry,” I told Terry. “Did you tell Maman and Dad about it? Or Drew?”

  Terry shook his head and smiled at me. “No, Paulie, I told them you were upset about Marshall and that you got into a fight with me.” He exchanged a long look with me. “It’s sort of true, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, filled with intense love for the man lying on the bed next to me. He had kept my embarrassing tantrum to himself.