“You know,” he taunts and dabs my navel with the boa.
“How could I possibly know if you don’t tell me?”
“Cassius Peacock,” he says as if that’s the answer.
“What?” I ask, regretting giving him such a high dose.
He motions to the curio of my mother’s dolls, then beckons me closer so he can whisper in my ear, “They told me already. I’m your favorite.”
* * *
Adam is full of surprises,and I relish the opportunity to uncover every one of his sordid little secrets. I went through a similar phase with Lucia, needing to know all her darkest memories and fears, exploring the inner workings of her mind and seeing what makes her tick. I was the first person she told about her older half-brother who molested her when she was little, the eating disorder she developed as a result, every ugly feeling and thought she held against herself and others.
I was her nurse and caretaker after both her surgeries. And she was my first friend in elementary school, the only other child who was fascinated rather than repulsed by my odd behaviors. She was the first person I came out to and my wing woman in ferreting out who in our high school was down to fuck. After my mother died, we fell down the rabbit hole of cocaine and ketamine together, staying up all night at the afters and popping Adderall the next morning after to get through our classes, bullshitting our way through art theory like it was some kind of performance art. Only when I overdosed and almost died was she able to convince me we needed to go to rehab and get clean, using my mother’s death as my albatross.Do you want to end up just like her?
But now there’s Adam, a whole new vault of secrets to crack open and uncover. Another gay man like me. How have our experiences been the same? How have they been different? What was it like to grow up motherless with a pastor for a father and an older brother who looks like Chris Pine with a beard? I follow Isaac already on Instagram. I find his posts just as predictably dull as any other heterosexual man, but even I can see the raw sexual appeal of his wholesome lumberjack persona.
“Adam, is your brother as well-hung as you?” I ask one afternoon while spotting him on the bench press. I’ve finally found a topic with Adam that’s taboo, which makes me want to unearth it even more.
“Fuck off about my brother,” he growls with some real teeth.
“Does he also cry sometimes when he comes?”
Adam leaps off the bench and bodies me until I’m up against the wall. His anger is so sudden and so rash that I can’t help but pop a boner. His gaze is hooded, his nostrils practically puff out steam like a baited bull.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, electrified all over by his aggression.
“Nothing,” he says, seeming to remember himself. “But Cassius, please stop talking about my brother.”
Here is my opportunity to prove that I am a man of my word. I nod silently and change the subject, but like adolescent Adam rubbing himself raw in his bottom bunk to the scent of the burgeoning man sleeping above him, I can’t help but wonder about the elder Bailey brother. How does Isaac view Adam? What sort of relationship do they have? Is there another man whom I may have to compete with for Adam’s loyalty and affection?
“You should invite Isaac for a visit,” I tell Adam a couple days later over dinner. Might be wise for me to meet my future in-laws, and it couldn’t hurt to start spreading goodwill early on. Adam glances up at me, wary.
“Your father and his wife too if they’re interested. I’d love to host them. Maybe for Thanksgiving.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says sullenly, but that same afternoon he invites me to say hello to Isaac during their weekly video call. I’m usually in the background or off-screen having random conversations with Adam, but this is my first face-to-face introduction. Meeting the family at last, how exciting!
We make small talk. The lumbersexual Isaac tells me I have a “nice pad” and that I’d better treat his little brother right or else. But there is no real menace to his threat, more like the obligatory big brother thing he has to say. In fact, he has the same open, affable nature as my dear Adam. Imagine, a whole parish of beautiful, wholesome men with simple minds and ample cocks.
“Your career is really taking off,” Isaac says to Adam, stroking his beard in a highly erotic manner. I can see the same look working for Adam in ten years or so, when he’s finally lost the war with his metabolism and has a nice layer of meat over his emaciated frame. My future husband will age into a handsome, strapping man.
“Cassius has helped me so much,” Adam says, giving credit where credit is due. “We’ve been practicing like crazy, but I’m still so nervous.”
Adam has been singularly occupied with reciting his half dozen lines over and over, until the phrases themselves lose all their meaning and the words are stripped of any emotional gravitas. I’m surprised they even invited him for the initial read-through because he has so few speaking parts, but maybe they want to get a sense for the cast’s chemistry. He’s also been working out like a maniac, just in case they ask him to take off his shirt. If only shredded abs were enough.
“You’re going to be fine,” I tell him, yet again.
“But what if I forget my lines?” he says to his brother, drawing him into his vortex of self-obsession.
“You’ll have the script in front of you, won’t you?” I ask. He’s forgetful at times but not illiterate.
“What if I lose my place?”
“Adam,” Isaac says, sounding stern, and the effect on Adam is immediate. He quiets like a startled doe and waits for his brother to continue. “You’re going to nail it, bro. And if you forget, just flash them the Bailey smile.” Isaac demonstrates and good Lord, the man probably leaves a trail of sopping wet panties in his wake wherever he goes. “Works for me every time.”
Yes, I imagine it does. Adam looks to me for further validation since I am the resident expert on all things Hollywood. “Cassius, what do you think?” he says.
“My mother often forgot her lines on set.”
