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My Sex Story
Are you going to pick me up or should I take a cab?” Chris asked.
“I’ll send a car out for you, or I’ll go myself. The schedule’s tight
but I think I have half-days of shooting that week,” Jake said, Chris could
hear him flipping through a stack of papers over the phone. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.” When Jake hung up, Chris realized how much he
really did miss him. The two weeks apart seemed to drag on forever; he
didn’t want to call Jake, knowing that he’d probably be shooting or
memorizing lines, and then the time difference made it even harder to gauge
whether or not he was sleeping, awake, or shooting scenes at night.
Chris threw a few more sweaters into his suitcase before snapping it
shut. Vivian had sent him a ticket to New York to meet with Houghton
Mifflin for the cover of his next book. He had no idea what he wanted it
to look like, and he was still working on giving it a title. He had a
journal full of working titles now that he’d ditched his laptop for
something lighter. There were words crossed out, charts testing the flow
of word combinations, shopping lists, and an ink stain on one page. If
anyone saw it, they’d think he was schizophrenic. He threw an extra blank
journal into his messenger bag and went looking for his wooden fountain
pen. Ever since Vivian found it for him, it was the only thing he liked
using.
Opening and closing the drawers in the study, which was growing
increasingly messy, “Shit,” he said, knocking over something on the floor
with his clumsy feet. Looking down, he noticed it was a rocking horse with
a note on it. Opening the pale yellow envelope, he felt stupid for not
noticing it until now. How long had it been sitting there?
There, scrawled in Jake’s shaky handwriting, was a message: “For
Chris–who made me real. Jake.” Chris realized it wasn’t just a rocking
horse; it was a skin horse, its leather faded and worn. Jake spent a lot
of time in the study when Chris was writing, since he wrote everywhere but
the study. He only used it when he was editing or making phone calls.
Chris kept his favorite books on the very top shelf, because they were all
really old, falling apart, or both. Chris never read a book just once,
every book he got was read at least twice, it was just something he was
used to from his literature classes. “There are two levels to every book,”
one of his professors would always say.
Chris grabbed his copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, the first book he
could remember having read to him. The corners of the book were tattered
and fraying, the pages were more yellow than white, and there were
scribbles all over the end sheets. He remembered telling Jake just once
that The Velveteen Rabbit meant a lot to him, it was when they’d only met
and Jake asked him what the “little book that’s falling apart” was. Chris
remembered going into a long speech about how it wasn’t falling apart, it
was being loved and would become real any day now. Jake probably thought
he was crazy, but here he was, looking down at his very own skin horse.
Had it been there this whole two weeks? It was too late to call Jake and
ask, and to say thank you, but he made a mental note to give Jake a special
thank you when he go to New York.
He noticed his pen sticking out from under the desk and grabbed it,
sticking it in his pocket. It seemed that when he least expected it, Chris
was always surprised. Jake always kept him on his toes.
Chris waited for everyone to leave the plane before even trying to get
out of his seat, the rush was too much to deal with, and after sitting
there for so long, what was another few minutes? Waving goodbye to the
flight attendants, he walked through a long tunnel into the terminal.
Everywhere he looked, people were hugging and shaking hands. Families
reunited and businessmen meeting to make their big deals, Chris looked
around for Jake, or at the least, someone holding a sign with his name on
it. Looking around, he saw neither, and as the crowd dissipated, he
figured that he should just head out to the street, maybe Jake told whoever
was picking him up to get him out there.
Pulling the handle from his suitcase, he took a few steps with the
rest of the crowd before he saw Jake standing there, a goofy smile on his
face and a messy sign that read “Lewis.” Chris practically ran to Jake,
throwing his arms around him. He didn’t care who saw, didn’t care if the
picture would be all over the internet that night, didn’t care if the
entire world stopped to stare. He felt safe, like he was home again.
Jake’s hand patted Chris’ back before reaching for the suitcase. “Let’s
get out of here,” he said.
“Thanks for picking me up,” Chris said, “and thanks for the horse.”
Jake’s eyes wrinkled as he smiled, “I knew you’d like it. But it took
you long enough to notice. I put it there right before I left.”
“Sorry,” Chris said, “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“When do you have to get back on set?”
“I got the rest of the day off.” Chris let his head fall to Jake’s
shoulder when they got into the cab, “Reservations for dinner, and a suite
at the Astoria.”
“Where to?” asked the cabby.
“Astoria,” Jake said, his hand grabbing Chris’. The stress of the day
seemed to disappear when Jake touched Chris. The warmth of Chris’ hand,
the familiar feeling of it inside his own, made Jake’s entire body relax.
He let out a long sigh, it was the first time in two weeks he just forgot
about the movie, and it felt good. Chris was looking out the window, his
eyes tired, but Jake could feel his pulse racing in his hand. “Tired?”
“It was a long flight. And it’s weird that I left at breakfast and
now it’s dinnertime,” Chris said, “I must have eaten six or seven bags of
peanuts on the plane.”
Jake smiled, the cab coming to a stop at the marble rotunda of the
Astoria. Chris got out of the car, stretching the fatigue out of his legs.
Jake pulled Chris’ suitcase out of the trunk, handing it to one of the
bellhops. “Twenty-eighth floor, I forget what number. It’s the third door
on the right after the elevator bay, I think. It’s under Lewis.”
The bellhop looked at Jake like he was crazy, and Chris grabbed his
suitcase from his hand, “I can take care of it, thanks.”
Chris and Jake walked into the hotel, it was quiet, but there were
still plenty of people in the lobby. “Elevators are over there,” Jake
said, motioning to the right. Chris walked towards them, everything about
the hotel distracting him. The architecture and the flowers, everything
was lush and opulent. “You guys can go first,” Jake said to an older
couple that was waiting for an elevator too, “we’ll catch the next one.”
Confused, Chris didn’t question it. Something was up with Jake and he
didn’t want to make it any worse. “The shooting schedule along with the
stress of the script itself must really be getting to him,” Chris thought.
An elevator opened and the two of them practically jumped inside, Jake
slamming his finger onto the “door close” button. When the doors slid
shut, Jake pounced on top of Chris, slamming him into the cold marble of
the elevator wall. The breath was knocked out of him, Jake’s lips on top
of his, hands on Chris’ ass and one knee spreading Chris’ thighs apart.
“Two fucking weeks,” Jake said, panting, “I’ve been crazy, I can’t
concentrate on anything, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
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