Far From Sunset

The first time I saw Erik I was watching TV. My apartment overlooked the parking lot of his apartment building, and there he was, washing a Ford Explorer. He was big and butch as Hoss Cartwright's left testicle, his rock-hard bulk making the truck look petite. I grabbed a book so I could pretend I was reading and raced out to the balcony. I watched while he scrubbed and dried and waxed, with every muscle of his body getting a vigorous workout. When he finished we were both sweaty and spent.

We repeated the scene the next Saturday and I started to wonder why he didn't notice me. Trucks aren't all that fascinating, plus I'm reasonably hot, so it's not like there wasn't a reason to look. The next week I decided to give him something to look at: I went to May Company and bought myself a pair of little red shorts.

Unfortunately, by the time I came home he was nearly finished. I threw on the shorts, raced out onto the balcony, and casually flexed. That did the trick. He looked up at me and squinted as he surreptitiously checked out my package. "Don't know why I bother washing it," he declared, tilting his head toward his truck. "I give it such a workout it's hard to keep it clean."

It seems like that's a game that attractive people play: making perfectly innocent lines sound erotic.

"I hear ya," I said as I casually draped across the railing. "Sometimes I wish mine was black so I wouldn't see how filthy it gets."

I've never been good at games.

He tossed his sponge into the bucket and waved goodbye, dimples appearing that could have sheltered a Shih Tzu. As he walked away I sighed in appreciation: the man was a perfect V-shape, with huge shoulders, big chest, medium waist, small hips. The masochistic side of my brain took a mental picture so I'd have something to compare myself to. It's like saving the photo when you clip a recipe from Bon Appetit.

I didn't have to wait long before I saw him again. I was at work, tending bar at a dive on Ventura Boulevard, when he strolled in. The crowd went silent, hands flew up to mouths, hundreds of cellphones came out.

Evidently he wasn't just the boy next door.

"What's up?" I whispered to a regular. "I know he's gorgeous, but this is crazy."

"Riiiight," he replied. "Like you don't know. That's Erik Daniels, the porn star. But you don't watch dirty movies."

Actually, I didn't. A producer asked me to be in a film once, but it turned out to be a secondary role. Instead of being the star, or even doing the star, I'd be watching from the sidelines. I'd be some random voyeur standing there masturbating while muttering inane things like, "Man, that's so freakin' hot!"

Naturally I was insulted. I was young, fit, attractive. There was no reason I couldn't have been front and center. It was like asking Angelina Jolie to be Mrs. Caveman in a Geico commercial. I said "No, thanks" with all the sarcasm I could muster, and ever since I've had a vineyard full of sour grapes.

Erik sidled up to the bar and ordered a Bud, and we exchanged smoldering glances. Then somebody asked me for a drink, somebody asked him for an autograph, and that was it. We never reconnected. An hour or so later he disappeared and so did most of the crowd.

The bar emptied out completely around midnight, so I closed up and went home. Deep inside a dream I heard knocking that quickly turned into a pound. It continued after I woke up, and I realized somebody was at my front door. I threw on a robe, stumbled over to it and opened it just a crack.

There, right in front of me, was every gay man's fantasy: a half-naked porn star wearing a come-hither look. He had on a vest over his bare chest, leather cuffs on both arms, chaps over levis, and motorcycle boots. "Hey," he said, exhaling liquored breath that could have caught fire, "are you busy?"

Busy? BUSY? I was doing what everybody does at that time of the morning: dreaming a chicken burrito was chasing me in a big foil car. Now, maybe I'm weird, but I'm not horny when I'm asleep. I'm totally, perfectly content. Chicken burritos don't give me raging hardons, so when I wake up I'm not exactly lusting after men.

"Yeah," I replied. "I am. It's not a very good time."

"Oh," he said, his face falling. Then "Oh! You already got somebody in there?"

"Yup," I said, grabbing at the excuse. He gave me a half-hearted thumb's up, then retreated down the hall.

Now, as I lay there trying to get back to sleep, it suddenly hit me how egotistical he was. Sure, he was a porn star, but even they got turned down by lines other than "Of course I'd do you, but I've already got a dick on hand, thanks!" Then my eyes flew open. Wait, I thought -- it's two-fifteen. The bars close at two and they're fifteen minutes away -- meaning he struck out and then thought, "Hey, I can always have sex with that guy next door."

It wasn't just annoying: it was insulting. I was stuck at second fiddle again. I lay awake for hours, fuming, and when the sun came up I had a plan. I'd see how he liked the shoe on the other foot.

The next night I didn't have to work so I got totally stinking drunk, then I stumbled to his door at two-fifteen. I'd rumpled my shirt and dribbled beer on my pants, so it looked like I'd been to all the bars. I pounded on his door, barely able to stand upright, and when it swung open there he was. Shirtless and pantsless, clad only in a jockstrap.

"Hey, are you busy?" I slurred, suffusing the line with condescension.

Erik missed it, his expression morphing from piqued to prurient. "No, not at all," he said, ushering me inside. I followed him to the bedroom and he introduced me to Stan, a naked, tattooed guy who was tied to the bed.

"Hi," I said. "Hi," Stan said. "Do you want to fuck him?" Erik asked.

Though I was a bit taken aback, I thought it was a really nice offer. It almost made me forget how angry I was: I mean, I'd dropped by people's houses before and rarely even got offered a beer. Could I? I wondered. I shook my head sadly. I could barely handle the pressure when I was alone. "Well, I'm kind of drunk, but maybe later."

Stan's face fell, and Erik looked disappointed.

I swayed. I staggered. I yanked down my pants.

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.