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Chapter One – Belonging
I first meet Max at my office’s summer party. He’s the first man I’m enamoured with since The American, and it feels good.
“Who’s your favourite Avenger?” I ask him the question without preamble, putting my hand on his forearm from nowhere, without introduction. I aim to startle him into conversation, and it works.
“Er…” he stutters and stumbles, before finding his voice. “I don’t really have one?” His answer comes in the form of a question, which tells me that my attempt to knock him off balance has worked.
“Me neither,” I admit to him. “Honestly, I fucking hate the Avengers, but it’s a good conversation starter.”
“Yeah I get that,” Max replies. “Those movies are fucking everywhere, so I imagine as a spray-and-pray question you probably get quite a lot of answers.”
“I do,” I say, smiling, “which creates an issue: when they’ve finished talking about their favourite, they’ll ask me mine.”
“So, who is your favourite Avenger?” Max asks with a wink, the crafty bastard. I like him immediately.
This ruins my plan, but by this point it’s okay. I ask the Avengers question with no preamble or introduction because it usually knocks the other person off balance, and gives you the upper hand in the conversation. I don’t normally buy into this pseudo-scientific pick-up-artist bullshit, but I find this is one technique, for me at least, that actually works. Despite this confident conversation with Max, I’m actually a very shy person normally. It’s only the alcohol I have in my system at the party that allows me to speak to Max, to touch him, to engage him both audibly and physically. It’s a thrill.
In case you don’t believe me about being shy, let me tell you that I bump into Max in the toilets once, before I’ve worked up the nerve to talk to him, and it completely throws me. I end up using the urinal next to him without noticing right away. In fact, it takes me a long time to notice, because I’m too busy staring at my dick in my hand, willing it to do one of its two primary functions. I’m a nervous pee-er at the best of times; when I realise Max is next to me, it almost feels like my testicles reverse the drop they made many years ago and return to the warm confines of my insides. Eventually Max leaves, shaking, zipping, washing, drying, exiting. Eventually, I’m able to coax a small stream out of the end of my dick, and I shake, zip, wash, dry, leave. Once I’m back in the party, Max is nowhere to be seen.
I do my best to mingle, try to distract myself from the constant search for him I’m doing out of the corners of my eyes. It’s a warm July day, late afternoon verging on early evening, and the company has hired out a local bar which is equal parts indoor and outdoor space. The sun is beating a terrific tempo down from its perch above the cloudless sky, and I find myself spending most of my time indoors; I’m so pale as to nearly be translucent, the human equivalent of an unfried spring roll. Except instead of delicious meat and vegetables, I’m filled with a crippling self-loathing and doubt. Max will soon change this for me.
“Having fun?”
I look to my left, to the sound of the voice, and see Chris standing next to me. I’m leaning on the quiet end of the bar, the bit where the 16-year-olds clump the dirty glasses, out beyond the sign stating this end of the bar offers no service. Chris leans next to me, and we take in the party together.
“Meh,” I shrug.
“I get it.”
We stand there quietly for a short while; I have absolutely no idea what to say. I like Chris, but beyond work I don’t know anything about him. I could ask him the Avengers question, but I worry I’ll get an actual answer, and when I’m prepared to disappear at any moment should I see Max, I’d hate to leave mid-conversation. Terribly rude.
“I saw the most amazing—”
“—I need a piss bye.”
I don’t need a piss, but I do need to extricate myself from this situation. I move away from Chris, and halfway across the dance floor I glance over my shoulder to see him looking at me, confusion and a little bit of sadness on his face. I feel bad, but I also don’t; I’m sure he’ll recover from this trauma.
As I move to the toilets, not needing to piss but having to commit to the lie, I’m accosted by Thomas. He’s the one black person in the office, a testament to England perhaps having equality on paper, but still being an incredibly racist country in reality. He’s incredibly drunk, and quite grabby.
“Hi Noah,” he smiles at me, his mouth forced into a shape somewhere in between genuine pleasure, and drunken leer. I try to ignore him, brush past him and keep walking, but he grabs my arm and won’t let me go.
“Hi Thomas,” I half say, half sigh, trying to make my exasperation incredibly clear, obvious even to someone as drunk as he clearly is.
“Why won’t you fuck me, Noah?”
The question startles me, even though I’ve heard it a thousand times before. Thomas and I kissed at the Christmas party two years ago, and he just can’t let go.
“I—”
“—don’t give me all that ‘I’m not looking for a relationship, it was one kiss, let it go’ bullshit. I know your game.”
He’s leering at me through one eye, whether through suspicion or drunkenness it’s impossible to tell. I don’t know what to say to him, but he’s still gripping my arm, so I can’t leave. He’s incredibly strong, and with a person this drunk, who’s clearly on the verge of being terribly upset, I don’t want to push him.
“Thomas,” I say, unable to keep the whine out of my voice. “I’m just going for a piss. Let’s talk afterwards?”
He finally releases my arm, and I use the opportunity to move away from him, slip into the toilets, praise God there’s an empty cubicle I can lock myself in. I stay there for nearly an hour.
Thomas was yet another casualty of The American. Since he left me, I haven’t been able to hold down a fully functional relationship. I know it’s probably because I’m not over him. How could I be? With what he did to me?
I don’t normally come to these work things; I work for money, and that’s it. I’m not in it for a career, to better myself, any of that. I work because I have to, because I’ll become homeless and starve to death if I don’t. Perhaps a bit hyperbolic, but what can you do? The reason I’m here now, instead of at home, happily by myself, is that I’m trying to be more outgoing, and less cynical. I’m of a certain age that was raised mainly by American sitcoms, and so sarcasm is second nature. Though recently, I’ve come to see it as actually very unhelpful; I used to think no one ever knowing if I was serious or not was amusing, however the older I get, the more I realise it’s just a bit odd. I don’t want to become that guy. So I’m working on myself, trying not to be. I’m not doing very well. But still, baby steps.
I spot Max as soon as he arrives at the party; it’s impossible not to. When a person who’s as beautiful as Max is enters a room, you can’t help but notice. The whole room notices. It isn’t like everyone stops and stares, but they all clock him, out of one corner of the eye or another. He’s what I imagine Michelangelo’s David would look like, were he a real man, and also carved in the 21st century. Obviously Max is fully clothed, he isn’t displaying himself for all the world to see, but from his outfit, skinny jeans and a very snug white tee shirt, I can tell he has a good body. I’ll later learn how much of an understatement this will come to be. I get a glimpse when I grasp his forearm, and it immediately gives me half an erection, the feel of his firm, taught arm in my hand, his muscles working beneath the skin, his body in the act of being alive. Max moves with the confidence of a man who takes care of himself, a man who knows he looks good, but isn’t arrogant about it; he looks like he knows he’s lucky to have been born so pretty, but he’s also aware that it’s constant hard work that keeps him this way. Or maybe he just looks like a normal man, in a room full of people he doesn’t know, and the couple of drinks I’ve had are making me think like a fool.
In spite of my sudden and immediate desire, the Avengers conversation doesn’t happen until much later. He attends the party with Anna, a woman who works in my department, but who isn’t on my team. I know her to speak to about work, but nothing otherwise. We’re not friends, not even acquaintances. I’d wager she’d have a hard time calling me a colleague if I were described to her. If I was presented to her as a suspect in a murder case, if she was shown a glossy 5×7 of my face, I wouldn’t be surprised if she couldn’t place me. She’d probably recognise the face, but not be able to give it context within her life. I don’t blame her, because I often feel like I’m lacking context. Perhaps she actually knows me really well, to be able to know this about me? Much more likely it’s just coincidence.
I wonder if Anna and Max are together; it seems the logical assumption, as they’re accompanying each other. But you know what they say about assumptions: most of the time they’re usually right, except when they’re not. Okay, so maybe they don’t say that, maybe I say that. But maybe I’m part of the mythical ‘they’? Someone, somewhere must be? Or must know who is? We all always think about what ‘they’ say; ‘they’ must exist, surely? Because of my assumption about their relationship status, as well as the fact I don’t know Anna, I’m not comfortable approaching her, ingratiating myself into the various conversations I see her having. I want to, but I don’t have an in, I literally know nothing about this woman other than what she does at work; where do you begin with that conversation? Max is involved in all the conversations; for a man who doesn’t know anyone, people sure do seem to like him. Every time I see him he’s nursing a bottle of beer, sans the label, and I wonder is it the same one each time I see him, or does he simply peel the label off every beer in the same way? I’ll ask him about this much later, and he’ll smile his knowing smile at me, that glint in his eye that tells me he isn’t going to provide an answer because the question doesn’t need one, the information he’s withholding isn’t vital, but he appreciates my interest, nonetheless.
As the party progresses I often lose sight of Max, but frequently I see both of the office hotties, so they’ll keep my mind occupied for the time being. There’s Daisy, who works on the team next to mine, but frustratingly sits at a desk with her back to me. I hate it, but I reason with myself that it makes the times she turns around and I get to see her face all the sweeter.
“Hi Daisy,” I say to her, with a familiarity perhaps out of place considering how little acquainted we are.
“Noah,” she smiles at me, “having fun?”
Ah the standard party question. I shrug, not because I’m a disaffected millennial (or not just because), but because I genuinely don’t know if I am. Discovering such a person as Max exists is great, and not only seeing but now talking to Daisy is also great. But then there’s Thomas, who I’m worried will find me and accost me again. There’s Chris, who probably thinks our conversation needs a proper ending. There’s Anna, the fact she might be Max’s girlfriend. Everything is so fraught, I just don’t know where I stand. I attempt to communicate all of this with a shrug.
“Are you?” I ask back out of politeness, but even before I finish the question I can see she’s lost interest, and I don’t blame her. Such boring, standard party fare.
Fuck it, I decide; not now.
“Daisy,” I say to the side of her face, as she’s turned away from me and is scanning the room, probably looking for a better, more interesting conversation. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
This gets her attention.
“What?” She shouts at me over the music.
“I said,” I reply, “you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” That this isn’t true should make me feel cruel, but it doesn’t. She’s not the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, but she’s certainly in the top 10. This isn’t the time and place for nuances though; I’m trying to give her a compliment, a way of remembering me. It seems to work.
“Thank you,” she blushes at me. I can see the genuine joy in her eyes at the compliment, but I can also see her guard come up. She braces herself for what she thinks will come next. It doesn’t. I smile and laugh as I speak to try and put her mind at ease.
“Don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you.” She visibly relaxes, her shoulders dropping, her entire body unclenching. “I know you have a boyfriend, and, honestly, that’s the market I’m currently looking in anyway.”
It’s not, at least it isn’t my entire focus. But I don’t want to tell Daisy that I want to fuck Max. Too much info. Daisy’s smiling now, looking happy. I ask her if she wants a drink but she shakes her head, says she’s going for a cigarette. She asks me if I want one but I shake my head, tell her I need another drink. We go our separate ways for the time being, and I walk away from Daisy hopeful that I’ve made her day a bit better with my compliment. I’m aware I’m most likely vastly overestimating my own importance in her life, but it’s nice to pretend.
Everything is better in moderation, so they say. Including moderation. Including beauty. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I could offer you any number of cliches, if you’d like? A selection of amuse-bouchées to keep you occupied before the main course. Tonight, I can see not only Daisy’s entire back, made possible by the top she’s wearing, but quite a lot of her front, too. She’s gone skinny low-cut jeans with a crop top; there’s a lot of flesh on show, and I have a lot of time for it. Once you get past all the generally agreed on attractive parts of a person (breasts, ass, and hair for a woman, chest, arms, and shoulders for a man, face for both, etc.), and move into the subjective, the stomach is where you’ll find me. I don’t know what it is about them, but I just cannot resist a good stomach. And Daisy’s appears to be the best. I’m going to have to resist it, if only because Daisy’s so far out of my league, not to mention she has a boyfriend, not to mention I’m horny for Max. But for a time I can’t take my eyes off it, and her; whether she’s dancing, moving her hips to the beat, her stomach bunching together at alternate sides as her hips rise and fall; whether she’s at the bar ordering a drink, standing on the ends of her toes, leaning as far forward as her diminutive frame will allow her, in order to make herself heard over the music; whether she’s outside, a cigarette held between two impossibly long and thin fingers, her elbow bending every few moments to move it to and then from her mouth, her mouth forming an ‘O’ shape as she sucks the smoke in, holding it for a moment before breathing it out. I’m not staring at her, I promise. She’s just so fucking beautiful.
The other hottie is a guy named Jason, which for some reason to me, with no basis in fact whatsoever, seems to be a geeky name. It reminds me of Jason Donovan and the TV show Neighbours, a small child from the north of England somehow watching an Australian soap of which he follows little, but enjoys a lot, nonetheless. Jason is on my team, sits next to me in fact; and actually, seeing him next to me every day hasn’t diminished his attractiveness in my eyes. Perhaps we can all actually get what we want? Perhaps it won’t end life as we know it? Two words: doubt it.
Jason has the chiselled jaw of a marble sculpture – one might be again tempted to use David as a yardstick, no matter how unfair this may feel – and the body to match. Though unfortunately the attitude to match, too. As the saying goes, he’s sexy and he knows it. Jason and Max are a total contradiction in this sense; they’re both sexy, and they both seem to be aware of it, but Max is in denial, doesn’t believe he’s as attractive as other people, or the mirror, tells him he is. Max is humble, he’s almost embarrassed to be considered so beautiful, as if it’s a burden, a curse, an unconscious privilege, rather than the wonderful reality it actually is. Jason is very much not embarrassed; Jason uses his beauty like a weapon, a tool of oppression. Even though he does the same shitty low wage job as me, as the rest of the team, hell the rest of the department, he thinks his beauty makes him better than the rest of us. The sad thing is, in many ways he’s right. There are three main currencies in the world; money, power, and beauty. I have none; Jason has beauty. He may have wealth and power that I’m not aware of, but I couldn’t say, where I know for a fact he has beauty. So whilst we may be equally cash poor, failures of the neo-liberal system from which we cannot escape, Jason at least can trade on his beauty, he can be the master of those transactions that require a little something more than money can buy. If I sound incredibly bitter, it’s because I’m incredibly bitter.
Normally arrogance is a huge turn off for me, but as there’s never going to be anything between Jason and I, I don’t mind it. (He’d be so pleased, so humbled, if he knew that in my head I was making allowances for him. I mean really, who do I think I am? Woah, don’t open that can of worms.) I fantasise about Jason regularly, laying on my bed with my dick in my hand, impatiently waiting for the blood to reach it, for the soft flesh to become hard, for me to have my very own, if only temporary, marble sculpture. The best thing about fantasies is that they are just that; as such, in my head Jason is wonderful. He looks the same, however he’s shy, retiring, I have to coax him out of his shell. He’s never been with another guy, he tells me nervously, as I take his hand in mind. It’s okay, I tell him, I’ll guide him, I’ll be gentle. Then before I know it fantasy Jason is coming in my mouth whilst in reality, I’m coming on my own stomach. Not the most graceful way to spend your evenings, but it happens to us all every now and then. At least, I hope it does. It can’t just be me, surely?
When I finally find Max again, what feels like several lifetimes later but is in reality probably only an hour at the most, I find him heading towards the club’s main bar just before midnight. I stumble up to him, wanting to intercept him before he reaches the bar; I have a full bottle of beer in my hand, so can’t use wanting a drink as an excuse to be near him, to engage him in conversation. In my drunken stupor I drop the beer; my mind decides this is the best course of action, and then carries it out almost before I’ve realised. I don’t mind it though; sometimes, in my darker times, I’ve fantasised about a life on Valium, or Xanax, or some such tranquilliser. I’d like to live out my life passively; I don’t want to kill myself, but I’m happy just to wait for my death. Life is relentless, and it’d be nice to take a break every now and then. Weekends are never long enough, and actual time off work always disappears before you’ve barely adjusted. But 5, 6 years on Valium? Maybe then I’d finally be able to relax and catch up with myself. Maybe in those 5 or 6 drug-induced, drug-addled years, I’d be able to place myself in relation to the world around me. Although I doubt it; what I haven’t achieved sober in 24 years, I doubt I’ll achieve inebriated in one fourth of that. And anyway, sometimes I feel like I’m skating through life so much I wonder if Valium would actually make a difference? Do I need to take apathy in pill form, when I’m living apathy in human form? Who even fucking knows.
Before I first approached Max, he had looked tall from a distance. Standing next to him I’d realised he’s even bigger than I’d imagined. I’m six feet tall, and he towers over me. He must be 6”4 or 5, easily. I think about using this as my second opening line, but stop myself as a sober(ish) part of my brain shouts loud enough for me to hear that he’s probably had that used as an opening line so many times it makes him want to scream. I drunkenly tap Max on the shoulder, hoping I’m being suave and sophisticated, but knowing the odds are that I’m not. More physical contact though, look at me doing a decent impression of a normal human being. I have no idea what I’m going to say to him; I simply tap his shoulder until he looks at me with a quizzical expression, and I open my mouth to see what words, if any, fall out. (This is fairly typical for me, not just when I’m drunkenly hitting on friends of colleagues, but of all life; I have no plan, no idea what’s going on, I just lurch forward head-first, and hope things work themselves out. They often do. I’m a very fucked up person, but I’m not going to sit here and deny my Western white privilege. If I were straight as opposed to bi, I don’t think I could have been handed many more advantages, both at birth, and then continually through life. I may not be rich, but at least I’m not a black man in America going for a job, Or a Brazilian tourist in England simply running for a tube).
“So how do you and Anna know each other?” My words are louder than I intend, even taking into account the fact I have to shout over the club’s music, which is blaring at an almost unbearable level, and I wince as I see Max flinch. Not off to the most auspicious of starts. But I persevere nonetheless, because fuck it, why not. “Sorry, I just sort of dived in there. Again.” I thrust my hand towards him with perhaps too much zeal, but he shakes in nonetheless, his grip firm without being painful, almost tender, the flesh in his palm soft as it rubs against mine; my hands have never done a real day’s work in their life, but compared to Max’s they feel like stone, like relics from another age. I want to end the handshake out of embarrassment at how my hand must feel to him, but I also don’t want to let go of him, I don’t want to end our physicality. In this brief moment, Max is the only thing anchoring me to the planet. I’m terrified that if I let go of his hand, there’ll be nothing to stop me from drifting off. Back to my home planet? You tell me. Perhaps it’s my drunken state, my intoxicated brain making connections that aren’t there, but did I feel something between us? Not quite an electricity, but a spark, something at the beginning of that long and winding, and hopefully not too lonely, road?
When Max eventually replies it’s with a slight lisp, and a definite glottal stop, but even as I register these imperfections in his speech I realise I find them endearing, rather than discouraging. They serve to form his character, they’re the foundations upon which I build my image of Max. There’s the Max standing in front of me, like a dam, a well of information being carefully held back, and then there’s the Max in my head, the one I slowly piece together as I gain more information about him. It’s like an hour glass; I’m at the bottom, empty, and each grain of sand is a fact about Max, a facet of his personality. Eventuality, hopefully, I’ll have it all; he’ll have given himself over to me totally, and I’ll be full of him, and he’ll have emptied himself into me. His lisp and glottal stopping are the first two parts of what I hope will eventually become a whole; I hope Max will become fully formed in my head, because that’ll mean I know enough about him.
“We’re old friends,” he says, the wording flowing perfectly as expected until the climax of his response, at which point the word ‘friends’ becomes ‘friendth’. A tiny imperfection in what has so far been a perfect man, an Adonis, a titan of masculinity. “How do you know Anna?”
“We work together. Not on the same team,” I elaborate, my words rushing out in a torrent of nerves as I realise with a start that I am, in fact, not too drunk to fear rejection. But it is, in fact, too late to back out of this conversation. Not that I’d have been able to if I’d tried; we’ve exchanged somewhere in the area of 20 words, and Max already has a hold on me. I remember a line from a book that has haunted me ever since I read it: he’s going to break my heart, and I’m going to let him. “We’re not on the same team, but same department. We’re not close,” I finish with, in my nervous state adding extra, unnecessary information, just saying whatever words form in my mouth and roll off my tongue and past my lips.
“That’s cool,” Max says, clearly already losing interest in me, the weird drunk loner approaching him at this weird office party full of strangers. For the second time. I don’t blame him. What am I even saying?
“So how’d she drag you along here?”
“The promise of free booze,” he says, laughing to himself. I laugh too, though I’m not sure why.
“Wait,” I say, confused, stopping laughing, looking around to see if there are any signs I’ve missed, any indicators that what I’ve been handing money over for should in fact have been free, the financial side of the transaction removed, changing the receiving of each drink from a transaction down to a gift. “Is it a free bar? I’ve been paying for my drinks all night.”
Max is looking at me, a glint in his soft brown eyes. It’s a look I can’t read.
“No no, no free bar. Anna is paying for my drinks.” Drinkth. As he says this he holds up his nearly empty glass, as if it offers some sort of proof of Anna’s fiduciary generosity.
I laugh, hoping the sound will cover my nervous excitement, my embarrassment at having misinterpreted his words. Max seems nonplussed; he’s looking around the club, perhaps looking for Anna, perhaps wanting to be rescued from this conversation, from the strange man saying strange words to him. No, not strange; much, much worse than strange: mundane.
The drinks situation worms away at me as well; I hadn’t considered it previously, but now I do think about it, there should be a free bar. This company makes hundreds of millions and pays us little people a big old slice of fuck all. The least they could do is give us some free booze. But then again, if the top bosses get smaller bonuses, however will they afford to support all their mistresses and coke habits? Oh woe is them. I’ll keep paying for beer if it allows them to keep ruining the world. After all, the CEO definitely works so hard he deserves millions, where the rest of us do so little, we deserve what little we get.
“Fair enough,” I say, knowing I have to reply but struggling to find the right words. I’m about to say something, say anything, when Anna appears. She hooks her arm through Max’s and smiles a polite but blank smile at me, the smile you give to strangers in the street, to people you recognise but can’t place. To people you don’t know, and don’t care to.
Anna says something to Max, something I can’t hear over the music, and he smiles, laughs, bends down to her level and says something back. She laughs too, and before I know it they both shout a goodbye at me that feels incredibly abrupt, before turning and exiting the scene. I’m left standing there, suddenly and irreparably alone, my new and instant love taken from me, my heart left bereft. I order and drink another beer, and the feeling soon passes. It’s amazing what a bit of alcohol, plus years of low-grade mental health problems, can do to a person’s ability to not care. It’d be wonderful, if I could in any way control it.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I’ve said perhaps ten sentences to Max, probably even fewer, and yet once he’s gone there’s a hole in my life, a hole in me. I get attached to people far too easily, and I curse myself when I realise it’s happened again. I realise I’ll have to speak to Anna in the office on Monday, try and find out more about Max. Namely his sexual preference, and his dating status. If he’s gay, or at least bi, and single, then I’ll be happy. Any other response, I’ll deal with when I get it. I don’t want to think about that right now. My therapist says I need to focus less on the past and the future and spend more time living in the present. It’s something I have to do consciously, it isn’t my natural state, and so standing alone in the club, in the early hours of the morning, I resolve to do what she says.
I buy another beer, still not free, to replace the one I’ve just imbibed, and make my way to the dance floor. Soon someone starts dancing with me; in the flashing of the disco lights I can’t make out many details of them except that they’re human and upright, i.e. not too drunk to make it non-consensual, so they’ll do. It turns out that the mysterious person is male, and I take him home and we writhe around with each other for several hours, a pile of flesh, sweaty limbs thrusting this way and that, movement crescendoing in his ejaculating inside me, and me ejaculating on the sheets in front of us. I collapse, spent, and before I know it I’m waking up, it’s Saturday morning, and he’s gone. Once again, I am alone.
Belonging – Robert Welbourn
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