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by James Morena
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He – I’m unsure if that’s the right pronoun – sashays across the makeshift stage. A silk, see-through robe ripples Reynaldo’s movements. He displays a foldable fan that concealed a blue tidal wave and a dark mountain. He uses it to cover his big, gray eyes. His heels metronome a sad rhythm. His black stockings compress thin calves then unleash smooth, mahogany thighs. His panties sheen and tuck and contour. He stands slender and long. He closes the fan. Smirks.
“I’m the girl you want me to be,” Reynaldo says, gracing the stage, staring into eyes. “I will bake your bread and make your bed and give you head-,” he smiles, flicks open the fan, then slams it closed before flipping his shoulder-length hair, shouts, “Aches!”
The bar explodes with laughter and claps and Yes, mamas, but I blush because I feel embarrassed and tricked. I, too, glow red when he speaks “honey” and “babe” because I feel selfish of his adorations, of my adorations, but I continue watching his poetry and his batting lashes and his thrusting hips and him crawling about with hair dangling inches above the sticky, wooden floor.
I sip my beer, remembering when my military father had forced me to cut my long hair. I had turned eight and loved my ponytail as it made me look Native American-like when us kids played cowboys and indians in the woods across from our complex.
“It’s time you look like a man,” my father had said. He was a sergeant in the Air Force and American pulsed his veins.
We were on the balcony of our apartment building. He was smoking American Spirits and drinking half-priced whiskey. His naked belly – the one he wrapped with a rubber belt to hide from his superiors – folded over his cutoff jean shorts. His tube socks halfway to his knees. He had brought out his clippers – cradled like a football – snapped on the #2 guard, then flicked it to life. I listened to the hum and stared at the blades, trying to identify the individual teeth, like spokes on a fast-moving bicycle.
“I don’t—” I started.
“I didn’t ask,” he said. “Ain’t no girl like sissy hair. It’s time you start bringing girls home.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, as was the trained expectation.
But, tears dripped from my chin as nests of brown hair feathered to the ground. Blood rushed through my fisted hands. My body quivered and flinched under his calloused paws.
“Stop moving, boy,” he said. “I ain’t hurting you.”
I stayed as still as possible, watching those beautiful, dying strands cushion the blow of my falling drops.
I don’t remember when or where I saw the flier. It mentioned poetry and brothel, two words that seemed contrary: one sweet, the other filthy. But I remember Reynaldo’s picture. He looked innocent and sexy and lady-like. He had an umbrella and I imagined it twirling in slow revolutions. My girlfriend had pointed him out. Maybe we were in a coffee joint. Maybe the movies.
“That looks interesting,” she said. She was wearing baggy pants and a too-big sweatshirt; her casual attire as she called it. “We should go.”
I unlaced our fingers. Placed my hands deep into my pockets. I leaned in to better admire his softness. His gaze. His subtle smile that offered a hint of straight, white teeth.
“When’s the show?” she said.
I looked down, away, from his focus. He made me feel shy, childlike.
“It doesn’t say,” I said, then hurried in the direction of whatever we were supposed to be doing or attending.
“Hey, where’re you going?” my girlfriend said.
I had memorized his Insta handle, @humbertseducedme. His real name hadn’t been included on the flier. I hurried into the bathroom. Entered a stall. Stood in front of the toilet like I was pissing while I pulled up his profile. There were so many beautiful photos: him on the beach, him on a fluffy chair, a delicate brown hand sprawled on a desk. In each photo his makeup accentuated his thin cheeks and sharp chin and almond eyes. Sometimes his hair covered parts of his face, other times it lay to one side or the other. Jewelry blinged and sparkled.
When I was thirteen I had come home with an earring. It was a cold Sunday afternoon. My father had returned from a recent deployment, or at least that’s where he had told us he’d gone. I turned my left ear as far away from my father who was standing in the living room watching sports. There were other military dudes – them slender and strong-looking – there who, too, wore a silver and blue jersey and ball cap and stains of barbeque sauce. Plates of potato salad and bowls of chips and dip crowded our dining room table. Bottled beer littered every flat surface. Shouts and guffaws poured from tall, pawn-shopped speakers and drunk know-it-alls.
“What the fuck’s that, boy,” my father barked from across the room.
“I didn’t know you had a daughter,” someone said.
“Hey, cutie,” another man said.
I kept my head down. I lengthened my stride, picked up my pace.
“Get over here,” my father said. He pointed at a spot in front of him. He wobbled as the room quieted.
“Bill, let the boy go,” someone said.
“Shut the fuck up,” my father said.
He looked at me. I could feel his stare boring into me. I stopped, turned to him. Stood tall with my arms straight down, each thumb aligned to each pant seam. He remained in place. I marched to him. I had played out this conversation in my mind: Why are you embarrassing me; ain’t no boy of mine wearing an earring; are you a sissy? I was ready. I looked at my father’s clean-shaven neck. I waited for his harsh words. His judgments. He looked at me then at my ear. His hand sprung up then down. Before the pain had kicked in, I watched as my diamond-studded earring fell from my father’s hand to the beige carpet and bounced twice before settling facedown. A couple guys raced to my side. They cupped my lobe. They took me to the bathroom to clean my neck and arm. My father, though, had remained in the living room, continuing to enjoy the Cowboys beat up the Redskins.
I didn’t understand what it was about Reynaldo in that flier that had captured my interests, but I couldn’t look away even after text, after text, after text, ding-ed onto my screen. I want to say that I have no idea what led me to DM him, but it was him who had caused me to send: Hello. I was shocked when seconds later I received: Hello to you. I had expected my DM to sit in his nonfriend-box for weeks, months even, or to never hear from him at all. Who was I? But, he must have been on his phone. He might have been posting something new. Either way, it felt like he had been waiting for my message, for me.
I didn’t know what to say or how to react. I started when someone knocked on the stall door.
“Hey man, there’s a blonde chick outside asking about you. You alright?”
I wondered if he was talking to me or someone else. I could see the tips of his shoes pointing at me. It reminded me of my father’s shiny steel-toes that he had spent the majority of my youth polishing even after I had spent tens of minutes begging for him to throw- or kick-around some ball outside with me.
“I’m good. I’ll be out in a minute,” I said.
The guy walked away.
I looked at my screen. I typed: I saw your flier. You’re pretty. I had never DM-ed anyone before. I have always struggled to start conversations in person; I am a waiter; I am a hoper. I wait, hoping that the person across the way, at the end of the bar, right next to me will say something that includes me. That allows for me to take part. I pressed the send button.
I thumbed the app closed. Slid my phone into my back pocket. Exited the stall and bathroom.
“What happened?” my girlfriend asked.
“My stomach’s upset,” I said.
“Are you okay?”
I didn’t say anything. My girlfriend looked at me. She looked at my stomach. I kept my eyes in the direction we were headed. She asked no more questions, so we did whatever it was we had planned to do for the rest of that night.
Reynaldo finished his show. People stood, applauded. There were hoots and hollers. He took advantage of the final moments: going back and forth from corner to corner, blowing kisses, waving into the darkest portions of the bar. I wondered if there were actual fans or friends or acquaintances waving to him or was he still performing. He curtsied a couple of times. Feigned sheepishness. He hurried to the far-corner of the stage, scooped a bouquet of flowers from the floor, then princess-waved to no one.
I knew that wave well. A few days after DM-ing him, I opened Insta. There had been a notification of reply on my screen after having left the restroom, but I swiped it away. I didn’t want my girlfriend seeing it, asking questions. Reynaldo had written: Thank you!! I am Reynaldo. Are you coming? I didn’t know what to say.
I went to his profile and watched his story and videos. He sauntered and rolled and slithered around his tiny space. He princess-waved in all of them. I viewed his videos, over and over, trying to identify his possessions, trying to get to know him: a lamp with a purple cloth draped over it; a colorful rug on top of his blue carpet; a circle table with a notepad, pen, magazine, and trinkets. He had no pets or roommates, but I wasn’t sure because the majority of his films were from that small space. Maybe his spare room. Perhaps his lover’s office.
I, though, refused to imagine him living with another man. It had been so long since I spent a night at a male friend’s house. I was sixteen when I had told my father that I was staying at Brad’s house. Brad had been my best friend for years. We had taken turns sleeping on my- or his-living room floor. His mother had called me son. My mother had cooked us spam and eggs before school.
“You’re too old to have slumber parties,” my father said.
I laughed, shook my head.
“I ain’t said no joke,’ my father said.
We were in the kitchen. He was stirring pepper into his buttermilk. His hair was high and tight. His neckline had been edged and boxed, which was the only thing on his body that had definition.
“I’m just staying at Brad’s.”
“Ain’t no boy of mine sleeping with another boy.”
“What are you talking about?”
He removed the spoon from the glass. He placed it on the edge of the counter. I watched as the thick, yellowish liquid rolled the edge of the spoon, dripping onto the tile floor. A second, smaller drop splashed onto the same spot.
“You should invite girls here. Sneak them to your room. What happened to that girl you used to bring over?”
“What girl?
“That one with the blonde hair and blue eyes. The thick one. She looked nice. ”
I scrunched my nose. He displayed a grin, gazing as though picturing her right in front of him. I shook my head.
“I’m staying at Brad’s tonight.”
“To hell. You sleep at a boy’s house, you don’t come back.”
For a few days I visited Reynaldo’s profile page whenever I had spare time. He took me to downtown Austin, where we had drinks alone at a dive bar. He asked me if I liked his new outfits; they slim-fit him well. He recited to me some of his new poems while rehearsing his performances. I started to feel creepy, hiding in corners of cafes and pizza shops and my girlfriend’s apartment to see what Reynaldo was up to. He looked gentle and confident. I wanted to swim in his courage. I wanted to cup his hands and ribs and neck. I wanted to run my fingers through his straight hair. I wanted to run my fingertips the length of his fragile body.
“What’s on your mind?” my girlfriend said at dinner the night of the poetry brothel.
We were in her apartment where there were throw pillows everywhere and fashion mags aligned on end tables. She had cooked spaghetti, poured red wine. Maybe there was a candle burning. Maybe the lights were turned low.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing? What’re you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
“We haven’t really talked in days. I haven’t seen you for the past two nights. What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you serious? Something’s up.” My girlfriend set her fork down. Sipped some wine. She leaned forward, grabbed hold of my hand. “Whenever you’re here, you’re on your phone.”
I stared into her blue eyes.
“You’re on your phone,” I said.
She let go of my hand. She stood up, walked to the kitchen. I watched her go. I observed her hips and thighs underneath her sweats. I looked away, thinking of my father. I listened as she moved things: metal upon metal, the crunch of foil, something clinking against the sink. The fridge opened then closed. I placed my fork onto the table. I picked up my phone. I opened Insta.
“Who’re you texting?” she said.
“No one.”
“Why’d you wait till I left the room to grab your phone?”
“I just picked it up. I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to use my phone.”
“Are you serious? I didn’t say you weren’t allowed to use your phone.”
“Why’re you making a big deal about my phone?”
“I’m not making a deal about your phone. I want to know who you’re texting and why you haven’t been paying attention to us.”
“I’m not going to do this,” I said.
“Do what?”
I took my napkin from my lap, folded it, then set it on the table. I uniformed my fork and knife, side by side, on the plate like I had been required most of my childhood. I stood up.
“Where’re you going? Who’re you meeting?”
My girlfriend returned to the table. She looked up at me, into my eyes. She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face.
“I’m just going for a walk,” I pushed in my chair, “I don’t want to argue.”
“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m just going for a walk.”
“Are you lying to me?”
Her blue eyes felt piercing, probing, demanding.
“I just need to go do something.”
“What? What do you need to do right now?”
My girlfriend watched as I pushed my phone into my front pants pocket. She folded her arms in front of her. I turned around, retrieved my car keys from the entryway table.
“I’ll see you later?” she said.
The lights were low when I entered the venue. It felt dank and dusty, like one of Reynaldo’s dive spots. There weren’t many people inside but it was still early. I walked to the bar, ordered a shot and a beer. I tossed the tequila down, slammed the shot glass onto the counter. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m nervous.” The bartender ignored me.
I stood there for a moment thinking about how my father had tried to force me to join the military, to follow in his and his father’s and his father’s father’s footsteps. “The military will make you a man, boy,” he had said. He had said that so many times when I was a child, but he had stopped saying anything to me just before I had graduated from high school. So, when I left his house, he didn’t ask me where I was going. So, I never told him anything about my plans.
I regained my composure then DM-ed, I’m here.
Reynaldo gathers his notebook and wine and purse from the side of the stage. He still glowed and glistened from his performance. He walks to a booth, sets everything, including his flowers, into a corner. He takes out his phone. I notice him beaming as he thumbs the screen. He looks around the room. I smile at him. He sets his phone on the table. He bunches his silk robe into his right hand, picks up his wine with his left. He walks my way.
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Three or four messages arrive. I ignore them. Sweat beads my brow. Reynaldo seems to have slowed his pace. But, I recognize his saunter. The same one he did in his videos. The same one he did on the beach and at the mall and on stage. I take a swig of my beer. Electricity tingles my shoulder when his hip grazes me. I look into his eyes.
“Sorry, babe,” Reynaldo says.
I blush. He places his hand upon my shoulder. I reach up to touch his fingers.
“It’s fine,” I say.
But, he keeps walking. I turn, watch him go. He waves at some people at the end of the bar. They return his wave. They pick up a glass, indicating that it was bought for him. His pace quickens. I look at my phone, at Insta. Unseen, the message below the message states. So, I sit, waiting, hoping for someone to include me.
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James Morena earned his MFA in Fiction at Mountain View Grand in Southern New Hampshire. His stories have been published in Amoskeag Journal, Forge Journal, Rio Grande Review, and others. He also has published essays and poems. James teaches English at university and high school levels. You can interact with him on Insta: @james_morena.
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