Bergdorf Boys

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

His name was Dewalt and he answered his cell phone during s*x. The ring tone chanted ‘come on muthafucka come on’ a lyric edged with a hard rap melody. It rang while he was kissing Neal’s thigh. He answered.

“Sup nigga. Chillin kid. No. I ain’t. Aw, aait. f**k him, na ‘mean? Not yet. No. Call ya at two. Peace.”

Having s*x interrupted by a phone call broke the spell, made everything a bit too real. Listening to Dewalt, lying naked next to him on a cot that belonged in an army barracks, Neal suddenly did not feel sophisticated, or sexy, or anything at all. He felt very, very white, very Midwestern. He thought of Cynthia Jones, the only black person he had seen during his childhood in Missouri. She cleaned the house once a week, ate liverwurst sandwiches, was deaf in one ear, and died in his mother’s bathroom. Neal had found her there, stiff as a board, one day after school. She had a heart attack. His parents had gone to the funeral but he had not been allowed to attend, because the neighborhood was very dangerous, his mother had said.

Dewalt set his cell phone on the plastic table next to the cot, and laid flat on top of Neal, pressing them both deep into the skinny mattress, attacking Neal’s face with his lips. The gold teeth pushed into Neal’s cheek. Dewalt reached back onto the table. He was ripping open a condom, then lassoing it onto himself.

“I don’t get f****d,” Neal said.

Dewalt paused, the condom stretched out to do its work in limbo, then the guy grabbed Neal and began to maneuver the thing over Neal’s c**k.

“Well then f**k me, white boy.”

Dewalt flipped over. It was beautiful, the high curve of it. Neal was nervous, not sure if he could do it well enough, not sure if he even wanted to. Dewalt raised his ass. From his pants pocket lying on the floor, Neal’s cell phone rang. He reached for it, glad to have time to decide if he really wanted to f**k this guy. It was his mother.

An insomniac and first-rate golfer, Catherine Tate always called early, refusing to acknowledge that anyone slept past 6 A.M. She also began her calls as if she were in the midst of a conversation.

“Hi honey, so next week, we have a layover on our way to Dublin, so we’d love to see you, can you hear me?” she said.

Dewalt rolled over to stroke Neal’s condom-clad c**k, which was shriveling.

“Yes. What time?” Neal said.

“Noon. Choose a spot and of course Daddy will treat. I’ll check back with you later this week. We’re so happy you finally got a real job and all the rest, the rehab thing,” she said and hung up abruptly.

Neal set down his phone and sighed a bit too loudly.

“Family or boyfriend?” Dewalt said.

Neal was shocked. This wasn’t part of the routine. He didn’t chat with bathhouse tricks. A grunt after s*x was usually adequate. His image of Dewalt as a big, mean fuckable thug was faltering.

“Lay down kid,” Dewalt said, guiding Neal to lie face down on the cot, then straddling his back. “Don’t worry, I aint gonna f**k you.”

Dewalt pressed his fingers into Neal’s neck. He was strong. He kneaded his shoulders then worked his palms down Neal’s back. He slowly worked up and down Neal’s spine, then gently massaged his neck and scalp. He pressed his lips to Neal’s ear for a second.

“This is what you really want,” Dewalt said. “Let go baby.”

Neal shuddered, feeling his body let go for the first time that night, that week, that month.

* * * *

They were in the booth all morning. Neal fell asleep briefly, something he’d never done at the bathhouse. Standing now, on the sidewalk outside in the morning sun, Dewalt looked younger than he’d imagined him in the dark.

“How old are you?” Neal said.

“Twenty-nine. Look at you, all f*****g sweet and s**t. Let me get them digits. I’ll text you.”

Dewalt’s phone rang.

“What up, nigga. I told you two, so fall back and stop calling me. Two is two is two nigga, learn that shit.”

Dewalt pressed a button on the phone, pulling up a menu.

“You got them digits for me?”

Neal rattled off his phone number and the guy tilted his head back again, smiled that gold mess, and reached for him. He gave Neal a soft, lingering kiss, then looked him dead in the eye.

“You’re sweet. It was really nice, Neal.”

Dewalt headed up the sidewalk. Before he hit the corner, he turned back to Neal and stopped. The two men eyed each other. It was hot and Neal was sweating, blinded for a second by the sun, exhausted and lightheaded, suddenly thinking of tar bubbles on blacktop roads in August in Missouri, squashing them with his toes, going swimming or walking the railroad tracks and a first kiss with…who was it? There was nobody back then. Dewalt slowly walked back and stood close to Neal. He put his hand on the back on Neal’s neck, smiled, then drew him close for a long, gentle kiss.

“I wanna see you this week,” Dewalt said.

Still dazed Neal paused, staring. There was something calming about Dewalt, the way he spoke, walked, stared. He had a steely, steady gaze, and did not look away or drop his eyes. He was also refreshing masculine, unlike most of Neal’s fast-talking, joke-dropping, fashion-loving friends.

“Sure,” Neal said.

Dewalt smiled and headed off. It was late morning, and the temperature was already tipping past 90. Neal was hot and hungry. He went to the Hollywood Diner on the corner and ordered the Oprah special: two eggs, a waffle, pancakes, bacon, sausage, ham and toast and home fries. He sat in the window and had several cups of coffee. He did not want to move. He wanted to spend the day at the diner. He asked the waitress if she could just leave a pot of coffee, he’d pay for it. She smiled and nodded, looking like she’d had less sleep than he had. Reaching into his pocket to see how much cash he had, he pulled out Albert’s glimmering diamond ring. He put it on and held it up to the sunlight.

“Beautiful,” the waitress said.

Neal blushed and looked away.