“What would you be if you were in the Old West?” Taylor asked.
Without looking up from the notebook he was hunched over, Dave said, “By now? Dead.”
“No, but seriously.” Taylor shifted around so that he was looking over the back of the couch, looking over at Dave sitting at the table. “Good guy or bad guy?”
“Um….” Dave crossed out a lyric. That wouldn’t work. Maybe….
“I’d be a marshal maybe,” Taylor said.
“Marshal Hawkins?”
“Yep! Maybe.” He hung his arms over the back of the couch, dropped his chin on it, and watched Dave. “So what would you be?”
“What was the guy who played guitar called?”
“Mariachi, but you can’t be one of them. You’re too tall.”
“Way to go with racial stereotyping.” Dave flipped back a page—maybe there was something there….
Taylor blessed him with a few moments of silence. Pregnant silence—as in an Alien sort of pregnant—but silence nonetheless. Until Taylor birthed, “Maybe you’d be a cowboy, with chaps and a big hat and a lasso.”
“Sure,” Dave said.
He could hear Taylor’s fingers plucking at the back of the couch.
“Or maybe,” Dave said, “I’d go from town to town in a painted wagon, selling medicinal tonics and snake oil.” He dropped his pen on the pad of paper and leaned back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
Taylor propped his elbow on the back of the couch and used his hand as a chin rest. “Maybe I wouldn’t want to be a marshal, though. I mean, everyone wants to be a marshal.”
“Or a gunfighter.”
“Or a cowboy.”
“So, what would you want to be, then?” Dave asked.
“I would want to…live above the saloon annnnnd….” He grinned. “Rent myself out by the half hour.”
“Did they actually rent by the half hour? How many saloon, uh, ‘girls’ had watches? Or clocks in their rooms? And you’d have to give a cut to the saloon owner.”
“Well dur. And maybe my clients have watches. Pocket watches.” Taylor grinned.
“Plus,” Dave said, getting up from the chair with a back-bending stretch, “you’d have to give up your peepee, and—”
“Who says?”
“—how much can you trust the guy that’s paying for the time to keep good track of it? He might be slipping his hand in his pocket every few minutes and turning the time back. Want a Snapple?”
“Sure.” Taylor twisted around and stretched out on the couch, his head on an armrest, his hands one over the other on his belly. He hummed till Dave got back and dropped a cold bottle in his hand. “I guess,” Taylor said, coming up on one elbow to open the bottle, “I could risk being taken advantage of the first few times, until I’ve earned enough money to buy my own pocket watch.”
“You’ll have pockets?”
“Why wouldn’t I? And my penis, too, thank you very much.”
Dave took a seat in a nearby chair. “I don’t think they had male prostitutes in the Old West.”
“What? Of course they did. You’ve watched too many Hollywood movies is what your problem is.”
“I just don’t think—”
“What? That no one in the Old West was gay? That none of them ever had a yearning for a romp in the hay with a hard body instead of a soft, roundy one?”
“Roundy?”
“Roundy,” Taylor said, “and that description includes cows, too.”
“Anyway,” Dave said, “no one needed male prostitutes back then. You’d just go riding the range with the other cowboys. Haven’t you ever seen ‘Red River’?”
“Well not everyone’s a cowboy,” Taylor said. He flipped over so his chin was on the armrest and his eyes were looking up at Dave. “Take for instance snake oil salesmen.”
“What about us?”
“Well you probably travel with a monkey, so you don’t count—”
“Hey!”
“But if you didn’t, you’d have all those long, lonely nights, moving from town to town, no one to seek a little comfort from every now and again. Not even a monkey.”
“Well, there are the girls in the saloons.”
Taylor opened his mouth. Dave cut him off with, “The ones who don’t have penises.”
Taylor closed his mouth, but not for long. “Well, you wouldn’t know.”
“I think I’d know a penis if I saw it.”
“No, I mean you wouldn’t know at first.” He sat up. “Okay, you pull into a town, all dusty from driving your little carnival wagon for two days, your back aching from sleeping on the ground. You’re missing your poor little monkey lots. It’s too bad he got into your snake oil and OD’d on the stuff—you really should have kept that locked up. Or maybe he drank so much of it on purpose—was he very depressed? Don’t answer that. Anyway, is it weird that I keep picturing you as that guy in the beginning of the Wizard of Oz?”
“It’s not the weirdest thing you’ve pictured in the last five minutes.”
“So you pull into Dodge City—”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous? I could get shot. Or worse.”
“Whatever. You pull into Lame-o-ville, South Dakota, and at the top of your list of things to do is find a little entertainment—”
“No, the first thing is to find some dinner. I’m starving.” He drank down a couple swallows of Snapple. “And all this dust is making me thirsty.”
“Fine, fine. You get some buffalo stew at the saloon and drown your loneliness in a bottle of rotgut. And now you’re in the mood for some entertainment.”
“Maybe they have some faro tables at this saloon.”
“That’s not the kind of entertainment you’re looking for,” Taylor said. “Besides, gambling’s illegal in Lame-o-ville, South Dakota.”
“But prostitution’s not.”
“Who do you think pushed for the anti-gambling referendum so hard? The prostitutes.”
“And the saloon owner who gets a cut.”
“He was divided because he got a cut of the faro take as well.”
“Ah.”
With a wink, Taylor said, “But we made his vote worth his while.”
“Right.”
Taylor twisted over onto his back again. “So, you’re full and you’re in your cups and you’re starting to feel a hankering for some intimate company.”
“But if all this place has is penises—”
“That’s not all this place has. In fact, there are five or six really babelicious babes draping themselves all over the player piano, bar and faro tables in the saloon.”
“And I don’t pick any of them—why?”
“You ever watch ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ when you were a kid?”
”What’s this got to do with anything?”
“You did, didn’t you?”
Taylor stared him down until he finally said, “Yeah, okay. Everyone has. What does this have to do with nookie in the Old West?”
“Remember how Monte Hall always said you could keep whatever it was you’d already won—or you could go for what’s behind door number three or whatever?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You always went for door number three.”
“Not always.”
“For the sake of this story, always.”
Dave slouched down in his chair and put a foot on the coffee table. “I think this story’s going to collapse into itself with all this time-warping.”
“So you’re in the saloon and you see door number one, door number two, etc., etc. They’re all wide open, draping themselves over the player piano and the faro tables. You know exactly what you’re getting.”
“Which is probably the sanest way to pick a sex partner.”
“Did I mention you went a little psychotic when the monkey died? Nothing that required a mental ward or anything, but still: ‘sanest’ no longer applies to you.”
“I was fond of that monkey. All his little chirps in the morning….”
“When you were banging his ass, sure.”
“Her, I mean. All her little chirps.”
Taylor rolled his eyes. “Anyway. The barkeep sends you upstairs to see what’s behind door number…whatever door number we’re on. And you climb the stairs, slowly, your hand on the railing. You move down the hall, counting doors. I’d say your boots were thunking on the wood plank floors, but you’re not a cowboy so you have sissy shoes.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You come to the fateful door and rap, softly, on it.”
“And a voice like Popeye the Sailor Man’s calls out, ‘Come on in, honey!’, right?”
“No. No one calls out. You knock a little harder, and still no one calls back—but the door, which wasn’t latched, swings slowly open.”
“Revealing a big, hairy penis?”
“Argh! Shut up and let me tell the story!”
“Like I should trust your story-telling skills. You’ve already killed my monkey.”
“You poke your head in and say, ‘Hello?’. Nothing. So you look down the hall and don’t see anyone—and then you step inside the room and push the door quietly closed.”
“And latched?”
“Yes, and latched. And then you hear a sound like water dropping into water.”
Dave opened his mouth, and Taylor said, “Don’t,” before he could get out a pee reference. “In the room, there’s a bed, a bureau, and a curtain. There’s enough light coming through the window on the other side of the curtain for you to see the shape of a tub, and someone bathing in the tub. You clear your throat.”
“Is this person deaf?” Dave asked.
“What?”
Louder, he said, “I said, ‘Is this person deaf?”
“I heard you. Why—?”
“Because I’ve knocked, I’ve come tromping into the room in my sissy shoes, I’ve said, ‘hello’, and now I’m clearing my throat, and this person doesn’t seem to be aware of any of it.”
“Oh, this person’s aware all right. Anyway. Come on.” Taylor swung his feet to the floor and got up.
“Where?”
Taylor grabbed his arm. “To act this out. Come on. I mean, we’ll have to improvise because I haven’t seen any rooms here that have a tub in them….”
“I’d actually like to get back to—”
“I’ve watched you write and scratch out the same three lines all day. A monkey could do that.”
“If you hadn’t killed him off.” Even as he spoke, Taylor was dragging him by the arm up the stairs.
“Wait here,” Taylor said in the hallway. “Give me like half a minute, then come knocking on the door.”
Dave looked at his watch. “Whatever. Let’s get on with it.”
“Half a minute,” Taylor said, then he shut the door behind him, but not enough for it to latch.
Dave, leaning against a wall in the hallway, whistled for a bit. Eventually, he pushed off of the wall and rapped softly on the door. After three beats, he knocked a little harder. Not hard enough to make the door open, though, so he tried again, much harder. It swung wide open. “Whoops. Uh, hello?”
Nothing. He stepped into the bathroom. Sink, toilet…the shower curtain was drawn. “Hello?” Or was he supposed to clear his throat? He was supposed to hear water, wasn’t he? He cleared his throat.
Obviously, nothing was going to happen if he just stood there throat-clearing himself hoarse. He reached for the shower curtain. Drew in a breath, thinking, Don’t let him be naked…, and then slowly drew the curtain back.
Taylor—sitting in the tub in his jeans and t-shirt and pretending to soap up his leg with a blue poof—grinned up at him. “Well, hello there!”
Dave wrapped a hand around the shower curtain rod. “Hi.”
“Looking for some fun?” Taylor pantomimed lifting bath bubbles in his hand and blowing them at Dave.
“I guess so. Unless you know of a monkey for sale….”
“Pshaw.” Taylor stood up in the tub. Apparently Dave was supposed to imagine warm water and soap bubbles sluicing off Taylor’s bare skin. Which would first require imagining bare skin. Taylor hooked his fingers around the shower curtain rod, too, and smiled at him.
“Well, uh. How much for some fun?” Dave asked.
“I charge by the half hour.”
“Got a watch?”
“Yep!”
“How much for a half hour?”
“Two dollars,” Taylor said, still smiling.
“That’s it?”
“In Old West money. Today that’d be worth, like, two grand.”
“You think that much of yourself, then?”
“Hey, I got it going on.”
“We gonna do it the bathtub?”
“No, this is the point where we have to pretend that this tub is in the same room as the bed across the hall.” Taylor stepped over the side of the tub, onto the floor. Dave figured he was supposed to imagine water pooling in a puddle at Taylor’s bare feet. At least Taylor’s feet were actually bare. “Come on, big spender.” Taylor took him by the hand, interlacing his fingers with Dave’s.
“Uh…”
“Don’t worry. We won’t start the clock till we’re in the other room. Geez. You snake oil salesmen.”
“You get a lot of snake oil salesmen?”
“Some. And some bear skinners.”
“Bear skinners?”
“Have a seat.” Taylor put his hands on Dave’s shoulders and pushed him to sitting on the side of the bed. “First things first.” He held out his palm.
“Uh, let me see if I have a couple of ones….” Dave worked his wallet out of his back pocket. “All I’ve got’s a five.”
“That’ll work.”
“I know it’ll work for you, but—”
“You were gonna leave me a tip anyway, after.”
“I was?”
“Yep!” Taylor folded the five dollar bill and pushed it down the collar of his t-shirt.
Dave leaned back a little and tilted his head—and sure enough watched the folded bill drop out the bottom of Taylor’s shirt.
“Shh,” Taylor said and toed the bill under the bed.
Dave smiled.
“All right.” Taylor crawled past Dave and spread himself out on the other side of the bed. He patted the bedspread. “Come on, lie down. Get comfy. Take off your sissy shoes.”
“I’m not wearing any shoes.”
Taylor sat up and peered over the side of the bed. “Huh. Well lie down and get comfy.” He lay back down and patted the bed again.
In for a penny—or in this case, a sawbuck—in for a pound. He stretched out on the near side of the bed like he was lying in a coffin—legs straight and together, hands folded on his chest.
“It’s not a funeral, you know,” Taylor said, also lying on his back, looking up at the same ceiling as Dave. His feet waved back and forth.
Dave turned his face toward Taylor. “What is it, then?”
Taylor shifted onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow. “It’s supposed to be kind of enjoyable, you know?” Then he dropped back onto his back. “Come on. Let’s see what you can do.”
“I gotta pay and do all the work?” Dave asked, shifting onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow.
Taylor kind of shrugged.
“The bear skinners don’t skin you when they come up here and find out that behind door number whatever’s a guy?”
“Sixty-nine.”
Dave didn’t say anything back. It could be any lazy afternoon. They’ve been this close before, on tour busses, in green rooms, hotel rooms. Proximity wasn’t an issue. They might have even spent a long stretch of seconds like this one just looking at each other silently before. It’s just that usually the long stare ends with both of them cracking up.
But this was the first time Taylor’d ever picked up Dave’s hand and set it on his chest. While they were still looking at each other. While Dave was wondering what was really going on behind Taylor’s role playing—and wondering what was going on inside his own head. He moved his thumb, lightly, just drawing it over half an inch, feeling the rasp of Taylor’s t-shirt against the side of it.
His thumb came to a rest, and he watched Taylor swallow.
Without taking his eyes from Dave, Taylor lifted his hand and closed fingers around Dave’s wrist, loosely. Then a bit more tightly. Then he moved Dave’s wrist—and hand—to the bed, on the far side of him.
Taylor lifted his chin, just the slightest.
Dave didn’t do anything.
“Hey, it’s your five bucks, bucko,” Taylor said.
Dave shifted his body, under the pretext of getting more comfortable, but it took him closer to Taylor’s body, took him to leaning against, at some points, Taylor’s body. He rested his elbow on Taylor’s hip.
Taylor lifted his chin again, just the slightest, his eyes never leaving Dave’s face.
Was there a better way to spend a lazy, writer’s-blocked afternoon than with paid entertainment?
Taylor’s fingers, loose around his wrist again, moved higher, up his forearm, past his elbow, till they held on around his bicep. And then there was the slightest pull, like the lifting of Taylor’s chin, like the quiet encouragement in the brown eyes looking up at him.
“How much time’s left on the clock?” Dave asked.
“Uh, maybe twenty minutes?”
“You’d better make it worth that hundred and fifty percent tip I’m leaving.”
“Heh.” Taylor smiled, showing his teeth.
And Dave still wasn’t sure. He touched his forehead to Taylor’s and felt/heard Taylor’s hips shift somewhere down below. He was up close to Taylor’s grin. Up close to his eyes. His ribs were pressing down on Taylor’s. Taylor wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t telling him don’t take it too fucking far, dude.
Dave closed his eyes.
Taylor’s hand moved from Dave’s bicep to the back of his shoulder.
His fingers gave a gentle squeeze.
Dave tilted his head and put his mouth within millimeter’s of Taylor’s. Through half-open eyes, Dave saw that Taylor wasn’t smiling anymore. He could feel Taylor’s breath, soft, warm whispers moving against his lip.
Taylor’s hand moved up the back of his neck, into his hair.
“Can we just kiss?” Dave asked. “I mean, for the five dollars. I don’t really want to go any farther than kissing.”
“Hey, like I said,” Taylor said, sliding his hand down to the small of Dave’s back, “it’s your five bucks, bucko.”
“What’s it, like, seventeen, eighteen minutes left?”
When Taylor nodded, his nose bumped Dave’s.
“Okay.” Dave closed his eyes. Then he let Taylor’s breath guide him into it.
Afterward, they lay on the bed, each on his own side, their jeans tighter than when they’d started, their lips swollen and tingly from stubble.
Dave said, “Without a monkey, it’s not a whole lot of fun traveling from town to town selling elixirs.”
“Hey, don’t look in my direction,” Taylor said. “I’m nobody’s monkey.”
“Where I was going with that was, to answer your question, if I were in the old west I think I’d own a saloon.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’d be mostly ladies I’d have working for me, but I could probably be talked into installing someone to serve some, uh, different tastes in one of the rooms upstairs.”
“The saloon owner gets a pretty good discount on services, you know.”
“Let me guess. I don’t have to pay my part of the take, right?”
“Yep.” Taylor, his arm poked behind his head, his feet waving back and forth, grinned.
“Deal,” Dave said. Then: “But only for kissing.”
“The kissing’s good.”
“Yeah,” Dave said. “The kissing’s good.” After another minute, he sat up and set his feet on the floor.
“Taking off?”
“Back to work. I think I actually might have a few ideas now.”
“Awesome.”
As Dave headed out of the room, Taylor called out one more thing:
“I bet your monkey didn’t help you over writer’s block!”
Dave couldn’t help smiling.
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