Chapter 14
Fourteen
Asher
The movie is good. It’s only like the third movie I’ve seen in a theatre ever, so the experience for me still feels new and a little surreal.
(We were prevented from watching movies back in HHM—cultural propaganda, according to Jeremiah—so we never went to the theatre).
We didn’t go to the fairground, to carnivals, water parks, or sports games either.
Even bookshops were banned. But this third outing to the movies was definitely my favourite: sitting in the dark holding Christian’s hand and watching a ten-foot shark rip people to shreds was a great fucking time.
I’ve had a good birthday so far. I got up late, did a home workout, had a DoorDash breakfast, jerked off in the shower (it was work since I filmed it for the channel), and painted a little before Christian sent a message asking me out on a ‘kind-of date’.
Since the guy can’t have sex, I guess I’m surprised he wants to hang out with me at all.
I can still make you feel very good without exerting myself too much. I have absolutely no doubt that he can.
He already is.
Sitting here with him, two of only six people in the entire theatre for this anniversary re-release, feels…
nice. Wholesome and nice and sort of perfect.
He might have some kind of idea that I should be doing something spectacular for my birthday, but it is still kind of spectacular to be doing anything at all.
For eighteen years, my birthday had passed with barely an acknowledgement whatsoever. So this is spectacular for me.
I’ve been trying to think of what we could do next since I have him for the entire day, but I’m sort of restricted by the circumstances.
There are a lot of things that I’d like to do, for example: go to the beach.
But there isn’t one in DC, so we’d have to drive out of state to Maryland.
Which is fine, but not for a random Tuesday afternoon without making plans first. I’d like to just take a long drive with him somewhere, anywhere.
But we’d hit commuter traffic and be sitting on the I-495 moving at a crawl, which isn’t wholesome or sexy.
I’d like to take a casual bike ride through the park, but would this count as exertion?
Probably. The idea I settle on floats into my head fully formed.
Probably since it’s not a new one; it’s one I had pretty much the first time I set eyes on him.
Side profile lowered, eyes skimming the back of a book, jaw angular and strong, lips full and kissable.
After the movie ends, we make our way outside into the early evening, the sun is heavy and orange and sinking slowly into the Potomac behind us.
“You know, that was just as terrifying as I remember it,” he says, scratching the back of his head.
“I loved it. It was actually more realistic than I was expecting it to be. Can’t believe that wasn’t a real shark.”
He turns to me, eyes glittering with humour. “So, what now, birthday boy?” His mouth curves into a smile. “Are you hungry?”
“Um, not really? All the sugar, I think. You?”
He shrugs. “I could eat, but then I never ate a bag of cinnamon hearts and a kilo of butter popcorn in 124 minutes.”
“Are you… fat shaming me?”
His eyes turn very serious. “Christ no, absolutely not, not at all. It was a stupid comment to make. I’m sorry, I—”
“Christian, I was kidding.”
“Uh. You were?”
“Yeah, totally.”
His shoulders drop with relief. “Right. Good. It’s just… well, I know it can be sort of a sensitive topic for some people. I’d never want you to think I was making any kind of statement about your eating.”
“I didn’t.”
“Sorry. Good. I’m glad.”
I study him. “Is eating something you have… an issue with or…?” I’d never picked up on anything like that with him, but I still don’t know much about him beyond some very intimate basics.
Despite feeling insanely connected to him.
I suppose disordered eating could be something he struggled with.
Though I doubt he’d make an offhand remark like that if it was.
“Ah, no. Not at all. I just knew someone who did. He was extremely disciplined; it bordered on obsession. Calorie counting, shaming himself if he ate something he enjoyed. He got better, but it would still creep in sometimes.” His eyes round with tenderness, and coupled with the sensitivity in his voice, I know it has to be someone he cares about.
I guess he could be talking about his son, but I don’t think he is.
“Your ballet dancer,” I say.
There’s a flash of something in his eyes as they meet mine, like he’s been caught doing something shameful, before they soften again. “He’s very much not mine. Not anymore.”
“Do you wish he was?” It’s out before I even have time to think about it. It sounds pathetic. I shake my head and force out a stilted laugh. “Shit, forget I said that. I have no idea why I did.”
“No,” says Christian. “I don’t wish that. He’s very happy now, and I’m very happy for him. We had a lovely time together, but he needed something I couldn’t give him.” Something I can’t give you either, is what the look in his eyes is saying.
I nod and turn to look out across the river. “So, how about we go grab something to eat and then go to my place.” I’m actually feeling a little hungry now. “You said whatever I wanted to do, we could do, right?”
“Within reason, yes.” Christian smiles indulgently.
“So, I’d really like to paint you. Like properly. Not from memory or whatever, but properly. You sitting right in front of me, maybe naked, while I do my thing.”
One dark eyebrow raises. “You want to paint me like one of your French girls?”
I blink, giving him a confused look. “I don’t… what French girl?”
He sobers, looking a little embarrassed. “Oh, it’s a movie reference. Quite a famous one. But it makes sense you wouldn’t have… never mind.”
I nudge him with my shoulder, playfully.
“You’re really gonna have to get better at working out when I’m messing with you.
Of course I know that reference: our cult wasn’t on the fucking moon.
Yeah, I want you to be the Rose to my Jack.
” I wink and start down the stairs. “Come on, I know this cool little Vietnamese place a few blocks over.”
??
The place is tiny, with four wooden tables, lanterns on the ceiling, and a couple old bicycles affixed to the wall.
He orders the black pepper chicken with coconut rice and a side of noodle salad.
I order the tofu and mushroom pho, which I’m fully expecting to have to ask them to bag up and let me take home.
But I don’t. I finish the lot. I even have some of his noodle salad.
He tells me a little about his job, this one and the previous one, and it becomes clear pretty fast that the previous one is most likely the cause of his heart attack.
Negotiating the extradition of terrorists, peace treaties between warring nations, meeting with world leaders about foreign and diplomatic policies: it’s a lot to get my head around.
But he explains it all well, and never once talks at me as though I might not understand.
He’s articulate and intelligent and extremely diplomatic (ha ha) and reasoned even when talking about things which make my eyes pop.
I imagine he got a lot of shit done in government.
He has a really charming and persuasive way about him and comes off like he cares about people.
He certainly seems to still care about the country he left behind, the politics of it all, the people, the way his country and his party seem to be shifting dangerously toward the right.
It makes me wonder why he’s here at all, why he left.
I can’t help but think of the ballet dancer.
Did he leave England because of him? He’s very happy now, and I’m very happy for him.
It had sounded like the truth when he said it. But maybe their break-up had been devastating to Christian, just like losing his wife had been, and he couldn’t stand being in the same country watching him make a life with someone else. Why am I even thinking about this? This isn’t—
“What do you think?” Christian asks, cutting through the spiral.
“Huh? What? Sorry?”
“You were miles away.” He smiles fondly.
“Sorry, I was listening. Mainly.” He waits. “I mean, I didn’t hear that last part. What do I think about what?”
“About this weekend. I was thinking perhaps I could manufacture some reason to take a trip out of state. Somewhere quiet. To rest.” He gives me a meaningful look. A look that means we’d be doing a very specific sort of resting. “We’d be able to be alone, together.”
My heart leaps giddily. “You wanna take me out of state?”
“Well, not against your will. But if you don’t have plans.” He brings his head a little closer and lowers his voice. “I’d love to be alone with you somewhere.”
Fuck, his voice. When he lowers it like that and looks at me like that, I don’t even know what ballet dancing is. Double fuck.
“Shit. I can’t. I can’t do this weekend.
I’m going to New Jersey on Friday. I have a shoot, and I can’t cancel.
I really can’t.” If I cancelled on Cole again, I wouldn’t blame him for refusing to ever work with me again.
I don’t want the reputation that I’m a flake, that I cancel constantly and fuck up everyone’s plans.
Plus, this is my job, and I need to pay rent.
Some interesting expression has come over Christian’s face. It’s not disappointment, it’s closer to consideration, even calculation.
“A shoot? I assume you mean…”
“Yeah, I mean.”
I see his eyes spark with something, and I know—I think—he’s imagining it. He’s into this kind of thing; he liked watching me get fucked, so yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening. I meet his eyes and flick my tongue over my straw.
“He’s older, has a huge dick, and honestly, I’ve been wanting it inside me for so long, but our schedules never line up.” I don’t bother mentioning that I cancelled our last shoot because I wanted to visit him in the hospital instead. “Should be really fun.”
“Fun.”
The spark in his eye transforms into something a little darker. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it had a hint of jealousy to it, but I do know better. He’s turned on, is what it is. And that turns me on.
“Yeah, extremely fun.”
“How much older?” Christian asks.
“Dunno, like forty something?”
“I noticed that a lot of the guys you shoot with are a little older. Is that your type?”
I give him a pointed look. “I mean, yeah. But also, they tend to know what they’re doing on the whole.
Fuck, ha, on the ‘hole.’ But like, they’re not just good-looking guys out to make an easy buck who’ve not got the first clue how to make someone feel good.
I mean, some of these guys are straight, and it shows.
” I laugh. “Don’t get me wrong, lying back and getting pounded can be a good time, but a guy who knows how to work it?
I’m choosing that over a twenty-two-year-old gym bro every time.
But yeah, it helps that they’re also the sort of guy I’m generally attracted to. ”
“Is that important?” he asks. “That you’re attracted to them?”
“In porn, no. It’s not that important. You can have great chemistry on screen with a guy that you have no chemistry with off, and vice versa.
It’s happened to me. Fuck, one of my most liked scenes is with a guy I literally could not get out of my apartment fast enough.
So I can and have been with guys I’m not attracted to, but it definitely helps if you are.
I mean, I certainly enjoy those scenes more. ”
“Have you ever wanted more from someone you’ve filmed with?
Wanted to spend time with them after the cameras stopped?
” He gives me a thoughtful look as he lifts his water.
“You said that the human connection you get by doing this job is one of the main reasons you do it. Have you ever wanted to pursue more with someone you’ve been with for work? ”
Though this sounds a lot like the kinds of questions I’m asked when people think they might want to date a porn star, that’s not what this is.
Because Christian has already implied that it’s impossible, and I’m not delusional.
I’m not sure how to answer it, because I don’t know how he might respond to the answer.
And I don’t want to lie because 1) I’m not a good liar, and 2) What sort of basis is that for anything?
“Yeah,” I admit. “A couple of times. But if they felt the same, then they didn’t think to mention it to me.
” I’d had a couple guys want to meet me for a hookup after a shoot, without the cameras, but no one had ever reached out and asked me to the movies and dinner.
Older guys like fucking me, younger guys like fucking, so usually it’s just that.
I guess I’m just not ‘let’s move in together and get a dog’ sort of material.
Christian has an expectant look on his face, like he’s waiting for me to expand.
“It’s a strange situation. Sex and intimacy are closely linked for a lot of people, but so many people who do this job are able to—and aim to—keep them very separate.
I suppose I’m different in that I don’t really want to.
I love being intimate with another person, whether it’s for an hour or a week or whatever.
You could say I’m a bit of a slut for it. ”
Christian gives me a tender look. “I think what you said in the hospital was extremely insightful. Intimacy is a basic human need, affection and love, too, and given it sounds like you had very little of it as a child, it makes sense that you would seek it out in whatever way you can now as an adult.”
It’s so fucking on point that there’s no use denying it. “Yeah. You’re right.”
A more serious look moves into his eyes. “I can offer you intimacy, Asher, lots of it, but love…” He shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Love is not something I can give to you, or anyone else. I’m just not… I’m sorry.”
I feel some thick emotion rise up in my chest, to my throat. I clear it and make a weird dismissive noise. “Yeah, well, right now I just need you to hold up your end of the bargain and let me paint you. You still down?”
He straightens and gives me what must be his political smile, businesslike and earnest. “I am.” He nods.
“Okay, then let’s go.”