Through the Closet Door

Through the Closet Door By Rick R. Reed Journal Entry (College): I see through a flickering light, faded in time. I see only in this blue light, only in this memory. The figures pass before me, bare shadows in a rumpled room, heavy with the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke. The room is in complete disarray. Bedding thrown back carelessly, clothes strewn on spotted wall-to-wall carpeting…standard issue for college apartments. A dying pothos plant graces the windowsill, looking out on a dark and moonless light. The room’s dim light gives it an appearance of black and white unreality, like something from a movie. Perhaps I can get through this if I pretend I am an actor in a movie, something with a tawdry soundtrack with lots of lewd brass. Light from a computer monitor illuminates me as I remove my clothing. I do not look at the screen, but know there are thumbnail images there of men in various stages of undress and arousal. Knees crack as I struggle out of my jeans, catching my ankle in the folds, doing an embarrassing little hop-skip as I struggle out of them. Sheepish grin toward the bed, where you lie, waiting. There’s no way to be graceful, no way to be smooth. Not with lust and nerves conspiring to force my heart to beat out a tribal rhythm. I grope through the darkness to the bed to find you there, already naked, the hair on your chest tracing a line down your stomach and farther south. Nameless. The room is cold. You are warm. I have never seen your face and I have seen it a thousand times. Your hands are ghostly and white as they extend, your face is hidden in shadow. Excitement surges as you pull me toward you. “Come here,” you whisper, your voice husky, a growl. I can smell beer and cigarettes on your breath. I feel that same breath on my face as I move closer, feel your hand on the small of my back, urging me near, forcing me down on top of you. There is a swarm of butterflies in my stomach. A tiny voice in my head causes my heart to pound hard and the blood sings in my ears. The voice, the sensible one, tells me to flee, that this is all wrong, that, as a Catholic boy, what follows will bring insurmountable guilt, depression. I shove that voice deep down inside of me where it’s muffled, its warnings indistinct. The bed creaks as I allow one knee on the mattress, my body stooped awkwardly as I bring my clean-shaven face down to meet your bearded one. Your mouth seeks mine in the darkness. Tongues duel. Your spit is sour, yet something in me wants more. I suck your tongue, drawing it deep inside me, surrendering. I lean over more, both legs on the bed now and coming down, down, on top of your waiting, supine form. The hair of your chest brushes against mine like bristles, urging me on. For a while, I forget you are a stranger. You become one with all the rest. Corporeal reality…all that exists…warmth…wetness…darkness and the murmuring of your pleasure. I wrap my arms tight around you. Our bodies merge and meld, become one. Your hands flutter down my back, lower, and a finger gently pushes inside, making me gasp, making my c**k twitch. The kiss deepens and becomes something rough and devouring. Suddenly, the embrace turns into a wrestling match and you swing your body effortlessly over mine, pushing me down into the dirty sheets, covering my body like a big, hairy blanket. Your hands grasp me roughly, urgently, finding purchase in the small spaces behind my knees. You push my legs back, farther, farther, until it feels almost as if my knees will touch my ears. I look at you, plaintive, as you rise up above me, between my open and spread thighs. Your fingers have moved deeper inside me, first one, then when that’s comfortable, two, three. They are only to be replaced by something thicker and solid, pressing against me, seeking to find a home inside. I close my eyes and bite my lips as you enter with a gasp. The pain rises up and I slow my breathing, trying to quell it. Involuntarily, my hand reaches up to your chest to slow your progress. I whisper, “Wait.” I suck in some air once more, trying to quell the alarming pain down there, waiting for it to ebb. Finally, it does and with a small nod and a whimper, I look up at you, and, for the first time, our eyes truly meet in the darkness. I nod. You push in deeper, breaking through the ring of muscle. I imagine the ring opening, surrendering at last. Once inside, your tempo builds and my hands grasp at your thighs and your ass. The pain is gone. I urge you deeper. Squeaking bed springs reach a crescendo. The grimy white walls of this cheap apartment disappear in the overwhelming breath of my passion. You quicken your tempo, faster, faster, until I can imagine your hips moving in a cartoon blur. You cry out, shutting your eyes tight against the waves of pleasure coursing through you. I feel you shudder and buck. Coming. Without even a touch, I feel several hot splashes on my shoulder, my chest, and my stomach. The intensity moves down quickly and we are out of breath. You roll off of me and the cold rushes in once more. You grope in the nightstand drawer for a towel and hand it to me without a word. I long for a smile from you, but you only turn once more to grope on the surface of the nightstand for your Marlboro Reds. You light up, the acrid smell of the match and freshly lit cigarette stinging my nose. I wipe away the c*m with the towel, then fling it to the floor to mingle with the heaps of dirty clothes there. The room seems to have grown even colder and I think this is due not to a drop in temperature, but to the absence of your body atop mine. I do not pull the covers over me, as I might do if this were a romantic comedy or a love story, but rise to dress. This is a porno. You lie and watch. I try not to dwell on the grime of the room, noticing instead the drawing table in one corner, a riot of brushes, pastel crayons, papers in different sizes. So, you are some kind of artist. It might have been nice to know, along with your name…and if I was good enough. I feel nauseous and want to cry, but I don’t. I never have. You sit up, offer to drive me home. At least there’s a smidgen of grace in you, some kindness. The car smells of cigarettes and its exhaust tells a tale of old age and imminent obsolescence. The heat doesn’t work and I burrow down into my shearling coat, pull the hood up over my head, obscuring my face. The engine complains, taking several turns of the key before it finally turns over. I try to find purchase with my feet on a floor littered with fast food wrappers and textbooks. We do not speak. I ask you to drop me off at the library. We drive through the dark autumn night. I stare out the window, taking in the red brick campus buildings as if I’m seeing them for the first time. They have never looked more fascinating. I try to avoid my own face reflected back in the glass of the passenger window, but it’s impossible. Part of me wants to laugh at the frowning face I see looking back at me, a lower lip sticking out as if on the verge of tears. But there’s no humor here. Only guilt. Only remorse. I get out without speaking, and take my time going inside. The colder air outside the car feels good, fresh. I suck it in, as if this simple act will cleanse me. I think of the paper I have yet to write on The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. Magical realism. Is there some irony here? “Hey, thanks, man,” you grunt from the seat of the stuttering and ticking car. “See you around.” You light up another Red, dismissing me. I do not look back. The lights of the library are bright…it’s a clean, well-lighted place and I wonder if I belong here. Resolutely, I shift my backpack more securely over my shoulder and press in through the bank of doors, where hundreds of bright-eyed, preppy collegians swarm around me. And not a single one knows who I am.