the finances
It was springtime in New York City. The slog of winter had finally departed, and new growth was everywhere. Flowers seemed brighter, foods more delicious, my lover most sensuous.
We spent a lot of time in my apartment. Lazy mornings bled into idle afternoons until one of us would surface and discuss the need for a proper meal and exercise. We read, wrote, made love, and philosophized, not in any particular order. Arden seldom wore more than a silk robe tied loosely round his narrow waist. It was something he’d found in the back of my closet, and on more than one occasion, he gave the workers across the street an eyeful. He was a nudist by preference and an exhibitionist for the thrill of it, neither of which bothered me one bit.
My appetite for him was voracious, to the point that if we’d gone more than a couple of hours without my hands on him, Arden would seek me out for gratification. I spent a self-indulgent number of words in my diary describing the way the afternoon light played upon his skin, the aperture of his mouth when he was moved to ecstasy, how he held his breath when he was about to come, and then after, gasped as though just surfacing from a near-drowning.
We exhausted my supply of condoms, then shared our most recent test results and agreed that if we were both taking PrEP, and if Arden was safe with his clients, then the risk was manageable. The first time I fucked him bare I thought the stars would fall out of the sky. I wished, fleetingly, that he were a woman, so that I could bury my seed inside him and see what might grow. It was the first time, too, that I began to think about family and our future and what it might look like to share it with someone else. With him.
And then there were the days when he was gone, sometimes for a modeling job, but more often for reasons we did not discuss. Those days were dim, and I kept myself busy with cleaning my apartment or running errands or catching up with friends, usually with a mask of cheer because part of me was always with him, worrying about his safety and hoping he was being treated kindly. Those days were to be tolerated and soldiered through. Not to be lived and certainly not to be dwelled upon.
“You could move in with me,” I said to him one afternoon. He was lying with his head on my chest as I dragged my fingertips down the valley of his spine and over the fleshy hills of his ass. Here was my favorite landscape. Arden loved being touched like that, gentle affection with no other purpose. It was how he fell asleep at night.
Then I thought of where I’d fucked him last, still slick with lube, dripping semen onto my sheets indiscreetly.
“What about my things?” he asked.
“I’d make room.”
He shifted so he could look at me. “What happens when you get sick of me?”
“I won’t.”
Arden hummed. He rarely argued, mostly distracted and demurred. I didn’t know if that was how he’d managed his father’s temper or a strategy he’d adopted to minimize danger with his johns, but on occasions such as this, it frustrated me. I wanted a straight answer. And if I didn’t like that answer, I wanted the opportunity to persuade him.
“It would save you money,” I said, knowing it was a sensitive topic.
“My rent is affordable. My landlord gives me a really good deal.”
I hated myself for thinking it, but I suspected there was some exchange of services for Arden’s “really good deal.”
“When’s your lease up?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I never really signed one.”
My fingers drifted into his hair. He was still looking at me, innocent. He wasn’t a native New Yorker, to which I attributed some of his naivety. And he hadn’t really been indoctrinated as a youth into the industrial complex of our society—one of the reasons I loved conversing with him. Despite his life experience, he wanted to believe the best in people. We were opposites in that way. I assumed the worst at the outset and offered people the opportunity to prove me wrong.
“That can’t be good. What if your landlord decides to kick you out?
“He wouldn’t.”
“And if there’s a maintenance issue?”
“Then I call the super.”
“What if there’s a leak in the unit above yours, and your expensive clothes get ruined. Or your books?”
Arden thought about it. “I guess I’d just get new ones.”
I was drifting from my target. “So, what you’re saying is, you’d like to keep your apartment?”
Arden gave a small smile, indulging me, and nodded. “Think of it as a storage unit. I’m here all the time anyway.”
Except for when you’re not.
“Then at least bring some of your favorite things over here.”
He rose up and shifted so that he covered me, his smooth body warm and pliant against my more hirsute one.
