18. Night Swim
18
NIGHT SWIM
T he club wasn’t a fancy affair. There wasn’t even a line to get in, at least not at this hour. Alberto glanced at the bouncer, who gave him a once over — as he should — and let him in without a smile. Fuck you, too, Alberto thought. He could do better than an overweight thirty-something old man. He was irresistible, he’d been told; he could get anyone he wanted.
Inside, everything looked cheap and tacky, from the flashing strobe lights to the thin crowd of pickled men letting themselves loose at the end of the week — all of them, on parole until Monday. Nothing sadder than this bunch , Alberto lamented. Himself included .
Turning up his nose at the stench of sweat permeating the air, Alberto went to the bar, because that’s what people did. He slid a sideways glance at a tragic patron who jumped clumsily to his feet at the sight of him.
“What?” Alberto sneered. “Do I look like jailbait?”
He was always rude when he was high, and his latest encounter with Kayvin had him popping Diazepam like they were effing Tic Tacs. He almost missed the stool when he heavily lowered himself on it and snorted.
The generous patron got the right idea and fled, but the young bartender with the stupid haircut laughed at Alberto’s words. “You kinda do, pretty boy,” he said, pushing a pink shot toward him .
“Never stopped anyone before,” Alberto grumbled, throwing back the shot. It tasted like strawberry cum. Or how he imagined it, anyway.
The bartender snapped his fingers playfully. “All right. Show me some ID.” Alberto did so with a fake smile, and the young man returned his wallet with a seductive twinkle in his eye. “Freshly eighteen.”
“Let me guess: suddenly not so pretty anymore.”
“You’re joking, right?” The young man leaned forward. “How’s your night been so far?”
Let’s see, “pretty boy.” Alberto went to a party to seduce this werewolf he was obsessed with, but that beast had no intention of returning to him, and he had to admit defeat. He did cause a bit of trouble at least, because fuck everyone , why should they be happy when he was so miserable? But as he was attempting to leave, this brutish football player ambushed him. He slammed into him and threatened him with all kinds of niceties if he ever approached his best friend again.
Alberto kept telling him, “Xavier’s not gay, Kayvin, I promise you that, nothing ever happened between us,” but that bully wasn’t having it, his eyes all bloodshot like Papà’s, his hand already snaking up his throat. If Joy hadn’t showed up and asked what they were doing in a small voice, Alberto would probably have another scar on the back of his head. He bolted out of there as fast as he could, and he only realised some time later, he’d made it all the way back to Mathias’s place. He only dragged himself to this club because it was nearby, and he felt he couldn’t walk anymore. Rainbow lights usually meant it was safe from the Kayvins of the world, right?
So, yes, his night could have gone better, but at least he was still alive — for now. He asked the bartender, “Am I irresistible?”
The other smiled. “Irresistible? I don’t know about that, but you’re cute. Your ID says you’re Italian?”
“ Sì. ”
“Cool! I’m actually Spanish.”
Alberto’s heart lurched hopefully. “Really? Do you speak Spanish?”
The bartender’s confident grin turned bashful. “Uh… no. Actually, it was my grandparents who were Spa?—”
“Yeah, okay,” Alberto cut in, turning his head.
You’re not Spanish, you liar . You know who wasn’t either? Mathias. But he could jump start a sentence in English then finish it with a little Pollito this or Pollito that, and Alberto was aware that it meant chicken and that it was another insult — one day a demon, another day a coward, why the hell not — but he kind of liked being Pollito until he became nothing at all.
Alberto blinked and gave the bartender a thorough look. He was nothing special. In fact, he was barely cute. Alberto wasn’t cute, he was deadly, and with any luck, by the time he was done tonight, everybody would lie at his feet, and he would be celebrated king of the world, of Hell, of chickens …
God, what was he thinking…
“Give me another,” he said, pointing at the bottle in the bartender’s hands.
“I’m gonna be honest with you.” The young man turned serious as he poured him his drink. “I lied, earlier. You’re definitely irresistible.”
“Right.” Alberto gave an exaggerated shrug. “What’s in that thing, anyway?”
“Vodka.” The bartender put his hand on top of his. “Hey, my break’s in half an hour, do you?—”
“Too late,” Alberto said, and he walked away.
Sucker , a nasty voice added in the confines of his mind. Standing up so fast made him feel really strange, and he thought, with his luck, he’d probably get murdered tonight. He vaguely hoped not to be found in a dumpster or Mamma would have a proper heart attack.
One step after another, he found the dance floor, and he pushed his tired shape into the crowd. Imitating the others, he flung his arms in the air toward the pulsing strobe lights, thinking with a half-smile, Drenched in sweat, no one can see you cry .
And then, it all went dark.
He felt the heat of Mathias’s body first, inching closer and closer until he pressed his hips into him, and his lips fluttered across his neck. Then, his hands, rough and tender at once, slid up his neck to grip his hair, and Alberto’s mouth opened in delight…
“Did you just moan?”
Alberto forced his eyes to open. Under the lights, his feet moving in rhythm with the pounding music, a tall stranger was looking at him, standing so close, they could almost kiss. Alberto blinked at him indifferently.
“Maybe. I was thinking of something nice.”
The man laughed, joined by the friend at his side. “Are you for real?”
“Yes…” Alberto swayed on his feet. “No?”
“Thirsty? ”
“Yes!” He smirked, almost adding, “The first one to dare touch me will get me. How about that?”
“Here. Take my drink.”
Alberto did so without hesitation. “What is it?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“Whatever.” He jerked his head back and emptied the glass in one gulp, enjoying the feeling of the ice cubes on his tongue. The two friends made an appreciative sound.
“You really were thirsty!” The tall one kept staring at his lips. Alberto wiped them with the back of his hand.
“Sorry. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get more. Just don’t move, okay? Stay right here.”
He was gone in a blink. Alberto hesitated. The guy dressed like a trader or a realtor; Alberto wasn’t that desperate, was he?
But of course he was, or he wouldn’t be here. He craned his neck in the dark, trying to find one of his peers. Anyone here is a nine out of ten and feeling like a bag of soft shit? We should get together, we should, we should. Funny how Alberto’s dad had not even possessed one tenth of Mamma’s beauty and yet he’d snatched her away with a few smiles. The key to the Gazzas’ hearts might really be a punch in the gut after all.
In an instant, Gin and Tonic returned, slightly glaring at his friend, who’d been dancing glued to Alberto’s back the whole time. They argued in each other’s ears as Alberto gulped down his cocktail and complained to himself about the spirit/ice ratio.
“I think I’m pretty fucked,” he mumbled.
Gin and Tonic pulled him close. “Don’t worry, I’m here.”
“What did you take?” his friend asked, his brow lightly furrowed.
“Huh… Vodka. Some wine.”
“Did you take any drugs?”
“Some pills.”
“You have pills?”
Honey, I have pills for days , Alberto thought, and he started spinning in place. One for the morning, one for the night. One for the good times, one for the bad times, and another for forgetting the good and the bad times alike. Pills? He was full of them. And he kept spinning and spinning, and the more he did, the more his brain started lying to him, showing him both pretty pictures and terrifying scenes. He bumped against familiar and monstrous faces among the crowd, covered his ears to muffle Stasia’s laughter, avoided his father’s jeers, and winced at the unrelenting flash of the camera.
When he saw his mother standing only a few feet away, he stretched out a hand toward her, fingers clawing at the leathery fabric of her top. She turned around; it wasn’t her who stared back, but his own face instead. Frightened, Alberto wrenched his gaze away, only to be blinded by another flash.
Some of the men surrounding him were talking to him, but he couldn’t hear their voices anymore. The floor under his feet turned black and tumultuous, pulling him down like a tidal wave. The camera kept flashing and flashing, and he kept sinking and sinking, until the water swallowed him whole.
When he reached the bottom of the pool, he mechanically performed the moves he and Mamma had come up with so many years before, and he felt vaguely that everyone around him, the entire dancefloor, was imitating him. He let out a chilling laugh. Who else came here tonight, led by an irrepressible fear? Who here was better than him? Who was worse? What would they have done? Huh? What would they have done?
Exhausted, Alberto waved his hands, hoping to resurface, to fill his lungs with air. He re-emerged sandwiched between the same two men in the heart of the dance floor.
Who else… in here… had made a terrible mistake…
He glimpsed them in the distance: two little boys who looked strangely like him. One really young, one not so much, watching him with eyes full of silent judgement. With a surge of panic, Alberto stumbled forward.
“Where are you going?” Gin and Tonic protested. “Stay!”
“ Al buio, tutti i ragazzi sono brutti! ? 1 ”
“What? What did you say?”
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Alberto said. Despite the friends’ protests, he slipped away and laboriously trudged his way toward the creepy little neon light that said “Gents.”
The club’s lavatories were all red and black. Black tiles, black sinks, black stalls, and ominous red lights. A suffocating womb. A sensory nightmare.
What was happening to him? How come he was so destroyed? And where was his coat? He patted himself; at least he still had his phone and his wallet. He felt tempted to slump onto the floor and sleep it off, right there in the dirt, just like that time Mathias had pushed him into the trash and he just couldn’t think of a reason to get up.
Alberto closed his eyes, only to reopen them with a start. Someone was standing behind him and talking to him. He met eyes with him in the mirror. “I don’t speak French,” he said in an unwelcoming tone.
The young man mimed drinking from a bottle, then switched to a clumsy English. “Too much drink?”
“Mm. Too much.”
"That's okay! Me drunk, you drunk, everyone drunk."
Alberto watched him with uncertainty long enough for this new guy to approach. There was someone else with them, but he quickly finished his business and flashed them an odd look on his way out, shaking his head as he left.
“You need help?” the stranger asked.
Heavens. If there was one guy on this planet who needed help, it was definitely him.
“Mathias,” he mumbled.
“Hello Mathias, I’m Patrick. Put water on your face.” He opened the faucet for him. Alberto bent over and shoved his entire head under the water jet. He felt a hand rubbing his waist, then his back. When he looked up, his hair and face dripping, the man was gazing at him with a smile. Instinctively, Alberto moved away from him and backed straight into the hand dryer.
The other burst into a laugh; Alberto now felt stupid, on top of feeling drunk.
“Better?”
"Mm."
"Come here, you are sick?" He stuck out his tongue and pretended to throw up.
“No, don't think so.”
"Come here."
Alberto came closer, drawn by his cooing tone. He had to relax; not everyone was a creep. His new friend used a paper towel to dry his face, his movements careful and gentle. He was older than him, but still young. Midtwenties, maybe — maybe not — but he certainly was blurry. Not a nice face, but a nice body. He kept muttering about how handsome Alberto was as he wiped his face down, his hand gradually journeying down to his neck, to his chest, to his stomach. Alberto stared down blearily at him without paying attention, busy trying to swallow the lump stuck in his throat. Was it him? Was he the one he would sleep with tonight? This guy wore an awful shirt and even worse aftershave. But he was here, helping him, and he had already closed his fist around Alberto's wrist. So, you know.
“How old are you?” the stranger asked.
How old are you, Alberto?
“Fou—” He staggered backwards. “Eighteen.”
“Good!” the stranger said. “You are alone?”
Do you like boys or do you like girls?
Alberto winced and held his own forehead. “I… I like Mathias.”
“Woah, you don’t make no sense.” Laughing to himself, the other started leading him toward the back. “You’re very, very beautiful.”
Say thank you.
“Thank you.” Alberto pouted, and the guy pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Okay then, they were doing this.
“You are nervous?” The other ushered him into a stall. “First time?”
Alberto’s brain was nothing but mud at this point; all he could think was nonsense. Third time’s the charm, the friendly voice last whispered in his ear. Panic rose within him; he called out, gripping the other guy’s arms with both hands.
“My name’s Patrick ,” the other said. “ Pa-trick . You are trying to drive me crazy?”
“I really…” Alberto turned his face away. “I really don’t care.”
Patrick tilted his head. “ T’es un vilain, toi .? 2 ” He was smiling from ear to ear, but the unyielding grip around his wrist suggested he had another side to him as well. Drunk people usually did. Alberto's father was a warm family man who enjoyed endless parties, dances, and games with his friends. He was also the sort to bash his mum's head against the wall for wearing the wrong dress. You never knew with people.
Closing the door to the stall behind them, Patrick brought their lips together. Alberto didn't react at first. That was what he came for, right? To shag the first stranger who'd look good enough to pass for Mathias. This one didn't look that great, but he got the advantage of being here right now when Alberto was fucked up enough to no longer discern right from wrong. So, dazed but still resolute about getting what he came for, Alberto tentatively returned the kiss.
Proof of his perpetual bad luck, his sad hook-up wouldn’t stop chattering, and he started to dirty-talk him like in a cheap porno. Alberto snorted as the other spun him around and pushed him against the wall, but his laughter stopped abruptly when he noticed how dirty the stall was up close. That didn't feel right. Alberto pushed away from the wall with his palms, and the guy grabbed him and swallowed half his face, his hands sliding under his shirt. And still, he wouldn’t shut up.
“I can’t believe it. You're so hot, I can’t believe it,” he kept repeating, while Alberto kissed back without enthusiasm, trying to force thoughts of Mathias out the secret door in his mind.
From the other side of the door came the sound of countless men coming in and out of the lavatories. Bursts of laughter, faucets opening and shutting, water gushing, hand dryers whooshing… Alberto started thinking he should be out there, too… Mercifully, the horrible kisses ended then. Patrick had a better idea, which he conveyed to Alberto by exerting strength over his shoulders.
Alberto’s knees hit the red tiles hard enough for him to give a grunt of pain. That arsehole wasted no time and shoved his face into his crotch. Alberto always fantasised about being dominated like in the dirty movies he watched, but right now, with his knees stuck to pissed-stained tiles and an unfamiliar dick pushed into his face, he found he wasn't in the mood after all.
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis as he attempted to get up.
"You're something," Patrick said, frowning at him.
What he meant was “ You’re annoying. ” Alberto laughed. Oh, he knew. He had all the appearance of fun, and yet, he was nothing but trouble. But he was such a sight, rarely seen in this place—and he was drunk, or high, or both—and if he didn't want quick and dirty sex in the toilet, then maybe he'd want to go home with him, and that would be just the thing, wouldn't it? Going home with a nine . Once home and with enough tequila, there's no way he would say no — or no way he could. Alberto saw all of that and more in his eyes, or maybe he imagined it. And maybe not . From a young age, Alberto had taught himself how to read the intricacies of people's expressions, if only to accommodate the dangerous ones; he usually knew.
Patrick seemed perplexed by Alberto’s sudden reluctance, and his subsequent silence. He hesitated before he asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
His gaze unfocused, Alberto looked right through him. “I feel small...” he murmured.
“What?”
“I feel small.” With a sigh on his lips, he lurched forward and leaned against the grimy wall, painstakingly pushing himself to his feet. “I’ve always felt small… Like a baby bird... people could crush within their fist.” He even mimed the gesture, closing his fist under the other’s nose.
“Oh yeah?” Patrick’s laughter didn't reach his eyes. He snatched Alberto’s hand and redirected it below his belt. “And that? That feels small?”
Alberto decided he didn’t like this guy. "Go down on me," he said, his voice just the right amount of sultry.
“I don’t do that,” Patrick said. “I don’t suck dicks.”
“Excuse me?” Alberto hoped it was a power play move, otherwise he’d have to tell him he was in the wrong place. “Sure you do,” he said instead, imagining it was Mathias he was talking to. Not only did he hold his gaze, but he swiped his tongue over his lip in the way that would usually make Mathias lose his last bit of self-control.
“ Merde ,? 3 ” the other said with a low chuckle. “You always get what you want?”
Shut up and suck my supermodel dick , Alberto thought cruelly. I'm a nine. You're a six, and only because I’m drunk. But even his guilt at acting so savagely couldn't make him like this guy more. In the end, this place felt too sordid, even for him.
“Forget it.” Without warning, Alberto shoved that fool back with both hands and watched him fall on his arse with bewildered eyes. Not waiting for his reaction, he stormed out of the stall and past the sinks, earning some whooping and whistling from floating faces along the way. He was panting now, thinking his brain really was foggy and nothing felt right. At least the thought of getting home was something to look forward to. Lesson learned: this experiment had been a failure. He wasn't ready to whore himself out just yet.
Alberto decided it wasn't even worth getting his coat back after all. He wished he could puke, but he’d settle for a cigarette instead. He felt so dirty, he was desperate to get some air. Even if he could barely make it out, the exit sign was a welcome sight. Alberto gritted his teeth and forced his legs to move forward. He would get out. He’d run to that door. If he couldn’t run, he’d walk. If he couldn’t walk, then he’d crawl. But he’d get there. Keeping his head down as he wobbled past dozens of faceless men, he eventually reached the door...
When he spilled out into the narrow side alley and the bitter cold whipped his face, he almost shed tears of relief. It was drizzling outside. The cobblestones were slick with rain, and the precious drops fell gently on his face, cleaning away the sweat and the spit sticking to his cheeks.
Unfortunately, Alberto’s head was still spinning. He stumbled backwards and squinted at a shape in the distance that reminded him of Mathias. Pfft, he mocked himself. Obsessed much ? Why would Mathias be here? That spineless prick. Why did he abandon him? Wasn’t it clear he didn’t know how to take care of himself?
A hand fell on his shoulder. Alberto whipped around, blurting out, “Mati?”
It wasn’t Mathias, but Gin and Tonic from earlier. He looked older in this light, and even more like a realtor. Where were these bastard football players when you needed them? You could never turn on your TV without seeing them, but they were nowhere to be found when needed. Alberto groaned and shivered under the drizzle, now almost as pissed off as he was miserable.
"Why did you leave?” Gin and Tonic asked. “Don’t you have a coat?” He pulled him to his chest. Alberto felt the heat of his skin through his shirt against his own sweat-soaked back. "Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
Swaying on his feet, Alberto jerked his head, wanting to push him away, but something caught his eye, and his knees gave way. He hadn’t imagined the shape after all: Mathias was standing right in front of him, and his unusual eyes, unmistakable even in Alberto’s state, were burning with rancor.