Part I

It dawns on me somewhere between his third exclamation mark and the second message I get from one of his best friends. I know that the two are “porn buddies,” friends who have a pact that if one dies, the other removes all traces of pornographic material from the former’s life before friends, family and others can find the porn and lose respect for the deceased. I know this about them, because I was dating the former when I met the latter.
And I know that what I am about to do is considered taboo and stupid and maybe even scandalous in some circles. Kind of like owning and admitting to watching porn in polite society. And I’m guilty of having done all of the above before.

“I have some porn of Jay’s. Will you take it to him when you go see him?”
He has been skirting the issue in our last couple of conversations, but now I know that Sean knows that I’m going to go see his friend in a couple of days. I knew, of course, that Sean would be involved in this somehow. Jay did, after all, have to call him to get my number before he called me. I just didn’t know if Jay had happened to tell Sean that he wanted his number because he wanted me, or because he wanted something else.

“Jay liked your blog about Thailand,” Sean had said in that first conversation, that first one we’d had since I returned from Thailand. “Must have been some hot steamy Thai action?”
Sean wouldn’t know if there was hot or cold action if it was in his lap—or maybe only then—and he certainly never would have taken the time to read my blog and find out.
“You could say that,” I said, deferring. “Did you enter the limerick contest?”
We banter about limericks, the way in which he did secure the part of my heart that hadn’t immediately labeled him a sleaze ball. But that was a while ago, last year, in fact, and since then I’ve gotten poetry from other boys, equally empty to me, yet somehow meaningful in its creator’s capacity.
I hadn’t wanted to talk to Sean since I returned, and I hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone, really, since I’d been back. All that had happened to me in Thailand—how could I explain? How could I talk about it, especially with someone like Sean, who never really cared about me in the way I needed him to when things were good, much less falling down around my ears like banana leaves?

When Jay calls me, the first time, I am clearing my apartment, moving things around, trying to say busy and focus the mind that screams and jabbers and jumps through thoughts like chimps above. The number is one I don’t recognize, and the voice is the same, in the immediate moment. But both are a welcome distraction from the boredom that has become my life post-travel.

“Mars? Hey, it’s Jay. What’s going on?”
I am stunned into silence, not really sure why he’s calling me, but assuming it has something to do with my blog. Since January he has been a faithful presence, commenting, critiquing, reading. He seemed especially interested and encouraging of a few of the Thailand blogs, and I’d even received the visual equivalent of schmoopy poetry postings. And I know he had to get my number from Sean. Torn between that interaction and what this one means, I stammer my hellos.
“Eeeah..hey, Jay. Nothin’ much,, man. What’s goin’ on with you?”

With Sean, always on edge to act and behave and look a certain way, I pulled out the dignified salutation of someone greeting a business client. With Jay, the easy slur of someone I used to be slips out. Our conversation is peppered with “dude,” “right on” and several vehement “no ways!”Somewhere around the 75 minute mark I end it and shake my head, laying down to think. There’s nothing to say, and no one to say it to, so I laugh out loud.
“What the hell?” I can’t stifle the laughter inside, any more than I can stifle the smile that is working its way across my face.
“What is going on?”

During our second conversation, sometime between the first exclamation and the last subtly-made point, I understand that Jay wants to see me, even if I’m not exactly sure why. There’s mention of “urgency” and “fun,” promises of calls and sushi in the future.

I lay on my bed and contemplate the hour over and over in my head. At a loss for words and guidance and seeking neither.