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I. Family Man
It’s the mid-nineties, and a terrible time for men who like to have sex with men. Numbers knows this - he is reminded of it every time he opens a newspaper - but celibacy is simply not an option.
Temptation is all around him. When he turns on his TV, there are half-naked wrestlers manhandling each other. As he crosses the street, he’ll catch a glimpse of the ripped, glistening torso of a sweaty construction worker taking off his shirt. In the local supermarket there are stacks upon stacks of magazines with front pages showcasing the absolute finest specimen of the male body - and those are just the fitness magazines on the bottom shelf. The frustration is too much to bear.
Goddammit, just fucking leave me alone.
From the corner of his eye Numbers notices someone standing to his left, looking right at him, and for a split second he's worried that he might have voiced that thought out loud. But then the man smiles at him, looks him up and down, and his intentions are glaringly obvious. Numbers is reminded of some study he'd read that claimed most people meet their future partners while grocery shopping. He wonders if that applies to one night stands as well.
“My house,” the man whispers, before walking up to the register, paying for his groceries, and heading out the door.
Numbers follows.
He won't run the risk of getting himself murdered by some wacko, so he usually stays in safe, public spaces. But this guy looks harmless enough, he thinks. And either way, he never leaves the house without protection - of the lethal kind as well as rubbers.
There are hardly any words exchanged between meeting at the store and getting to the stranger's house, but Numbers knows it'll be a good fuck; the guy is hotter than the core of the sun and, more importantly, enthusiastic. Numbers has been with some cold fishes in his time and it's annoying, demotivating, and just a complete waste of time. This guy is anything but; he seems to be insanely turned on by the sheer seediness of having picked up a total stranger to have a torrid fling with. And in a grocery store, too, the most family-friendly of places.
Walking up to the house, Numbers can see a clear outline of an erection in those tight jeans. That ass isn't hard on the eyes either, he thinks to himself. It's all he can do not to jump the guy's bones right there on the front steps of his house.
Once inside, the stranger slams the door behind him and promptly drops the bags of groceries, grabbing Numbers by the back of his neck and going in for the kill.
“Woah, hey,” Numbers objects, pulling away. “No kissing.”
“Oh, sorry… I'm, uh, a bit rusty. I haven't been with a guy in ages.”
A handsome fella like that? Numbers finds that hard to believe, but he won't question it out loud. He of all people should know what shame feels like.
“Just take me to your bedroom.”
The room in question is not what he expected: It's very feminine, all pink and lace and flowers, and it’s too frumpy and old-fashioned to be the work of an effeminate gay man. Something's definitely fishy here, Numbers thinks, but the guy distracts him by latching onto his neck.
“You’ve got me so darn horny,” he purrs in Numbers' ear as he works on his belt. “I love hairy guys, ya know…”
His string of polite, Midwestern filthy nothings is interrupted by the slamming of a car door, and the chirpy voices of children.
“Aw, shoot. They're home early.”
“Who?”
“My kids,” the man whispers. “And... my wife.”
“You're married?!” Numbers hisses, hastily buckling his belt. “With kids?”
“Shhh! You have to go. Now.”
“Where, asshole?! There's nowhere to go!”
“That way,” the stranger suggests, pointing to the bedroom window.
Oh, hell no.
The woman standing in the doorway looks utterly confounded as she sees a swarthy, sharply dressed stranger come strolling down the stairs of her house, skillfully dodging the two little kids bounding up the stairs.
“Oh, the wife's home, I see,” Numbers says with an awkward smile. “Guess she caught us red handed, huh?”
He turns to the husband, whose face is now gray and mortified, and winks at him before walking up to the poor dupe and extending his hand to her.
“Malachy,” Numbers lies as the befuddled woman takes his hand. “I'm here about your bed.”
He loves this bit, coming up with a fake identity on the spot, and he always chooses a completely ludicrous name. Sometimes he’ll blurt out a name so corny that he’s not even sure if it’s real or if he just made it up himself.
“Cathy,” the wife replies absentmindedly as she greets him with the limp handshake of someone who’s not really sure what’s going on. “Danny, hon, what's this about the bed?”
Danny, for his part, is not rising to the occasion. He just stands there at the top of the stairs, frozen solid and gaping like a fish.
“Uhh…”
“I was looking to buy it,” Numbers cuts in, taking back the reins from the stupefied adulterer. “Said he wanted to get rid of it and get a bigger, better one… maybe a water bed, didn't you say, Danny? Oh, man, I'm sorry. Was it supposed to be a surprise?”
Cathy is still making gleeful, chirpy noises when her husband shows Numbers out.
“Thanks a lot, ya jerk,” Danny hisses under his breath. “Now I’ll have to get her a new bed!”
“That’s the least you could do,” Numbers says in a hushed voice. “Since you're screwing around on her, I mean. Anyway, I wasn't about to jump out a fucking window, y'know.”
The man is rendered speechless, but he somehow still retains enough stubborn pride to manage a scowl.
“Don't worry, Danny Boy,” Numbers says as he walks over to his car. “I'm sure the new bed will see many of your... adventures.”
---
II. Waterboy
After the fiasco with the cheating husband, Numbers decides it just wasn’t meant to be. It was only a slip-up, he convinces himself. A test of my character.
He doesn’t really believe in God, not since that day in '84, when he ran crying from temple, never to return again. But religion is something he just can't seem to shake, and every now and then God will creep into his thoughts - epecially when the motherfucker seems to be thwarting his attempts at getting some.
Maybe it's a good thing, though, he ponders. If someone from work were to find out... who the fuck knows. Maybe God's just looking out for my sorry ass.
Trying to keep his sexual frustration contained, he chooses to take it out on random strangers, guys who are for some reason or other at the end of their tether and just as willing to start a bar brawl as he is. Usually he gets his ass handed to him in the process, and more often than not he finds that his peace of mind only lasts about as long as the cuts and bruises.
I could get out of Fargo, he tells himself in a moment of weakness. Just to stave off the demons for a while. Go to one of the clubs in Minneapolis. Not a lot of married men and familiar faces in that crowd, I imagine.
The drive to the Twin Cities is long, almost too long to be worth the bother, and more than once he contemplates turning around and going back. And when he finally arrives in Minneapolis, it takes him another forty-five minutes of driving around downtown before he finds a club where the clientele is mainly male and whose outfits leave little to the imagination. He could have asked around for a gay bar, certainly, but that would be begging for a good asskicking, even in the big city.
The queue to get in is also long, almost as long as the drive from Fargo, it seems, and when he’s at the front of the line he is so gruff and agitated that the bouncers stop him at the door - that is, until a young and fashionable club kid in a sequined mini dress grabs him by the arm and orders the bouncers to “Let in more otters,” whatever that means. Numbers allows himself to be dragged through the club by this overbearing young man, mesmerized by his spunky attitude and quirky, androgynous manner of dress. This boy is not his type at all, far too petite and effeminate, but Numbers is nevertheless intrigued.
As it turns out, the club kid and his friends just want to take a ton of molly and dance all night. Numbers doesn't dance. I almost forgot what I came here for, he thinks to himself and slinks off when the club kids aren't looking.
He orders an Old Fashioned from the bartender and stays at the bar, perfectly happy to sit there and do some people-watching. Perhaps being moody and passive isn't the best tactic when you’re looking to get laid, but Numbers isn't quite ready yet to go forth and charm the pants off some random guy. He needs to get drunk first, or at the very least tipsy.
But before he gets a chance to loosen up, someone approaches him. It’s another young guy; tall, muscular. Numbers had seen him looking, but he hadn't given him a second glance. Make no mistake, the guy is gorgeous, and he's almost as big as the guys Numbers usually goes for - but he's too polished, too hairless, too flawless. More than anything he looks like he belongs in a dance troupe. He is, in a word, forgettable.
"What's your name, babe?” the guy shouts over the music as he sidles up to Numbers, leaning on the bar.
“Fiore,” Numbers lies. He doesn't even know where he got that name from.
“I’m Jack,” the guy says. Forgettable face, forgettable name. “You look dangerous. Are you?"
"Not to you."
"That's a shame.”
“Is it?” Numbers asks and takes a sip of his drink, not even looking at him.
“No,” Jack says, a bit thrown. “I, uh... I guess not.”
Numbers was well aware that it was just a flippant, flirty remark, nothing more - but he just can't help wondering how long this guy will stay alive if he keeps going after men who "look dangerous", and saying dumb shit like that. For all he knows, Numbers could be the next Jeffrey Dahmer. Stupid fucking kid.
“Come on,” Jack says, linking his arm with Numbers’. “Let's go outside."
Numbers obeys, crossing his fingers that this dude isn't a taker and that he doesn't have a pencil dick. And if he tries to rob me, I'll just blow his brains out.
The alley behind the club isn't his idea of a good place for a fuck, but Numbers will take what he can get. Kneeling on a piece of cardboard, the only remotely clean surface in a ten mile radius, he undoes Jack's pants and goes to town. Sucking dick only comes second to being fucked, of course, but Numbers is not a man to deny the virtue of a selfless act, as long as he gets what he needs at the end of it. And he's really fucking good at dicksucking, too - if Jack's gasps and moans are anything to go by, anyway.
"Are you into watersports?"
The question comes out of left field, and for a moment Numbers is certain he misheard him. He carefully extracts Jack's dick from of his mouth and peers up at him. This motherfucker had better not be asking what I think he's asking.
"What, like windsurfing and shit?"
Jack laughs, shaking his head.
"No…”
Sighing, Numbers stands up and brushes the dirt off his knees.
"Well, that was fun while it lasted,” he says. “Goodbye forever.”
---
III. He-Wolf of the SS
A visit to the toilets at the club inspires Numbers to call one of the many phone numbers covering the wall. They all look more or less the same; 'For a good time, call Mario' 'Looking for a fuck?' 'Brandon is waiting 4 U, xoxo' and so on and so forth. He picks one at random by closing his eyes and letting his index finger land wherever. It lands on a number with the tagline 'Want it hot'n'hard? Call Andy'.
Why yes, Andy, I do want it hot and hard, as it happens. Numbers finds a pen and scrawls it down on his arm. It might be a disaster, but there's no harm in trying.
The next day, after shotting some liquid courage, he calls Andy. The voice on the other line is nice; soft, yet masculine. Reassuring. That certainly helps. They arrange a time to meet at his apartment, which is a bit out of the way for Numbers and it’s all a bit risky because he knows virtually nothing about this guy - but at this point he's determined to finish what he started. Let's just hope this one isn't a piss lover, like the last guy.
When he finally arrives and rings the doorbell, the person answering the door is a far cry from what he'd expected.
“Who are you?” asks the squat, older woman standing in the doorway.
“I'm Brenton,” he quickly lies, surprising himself at the waspiness of that name and wondering if he's really heard it before somewhere or if he's just pioneered an entirely new name. He is about to deliver some fantastical fable about this alter ego of his, when the old lady rudely interrupts him.
“Sorry, I'm not buying anything,” she says with a vigorous shake of her head, trying to close the door on him.
“No, Ma'am, I'm not selling anything,” he says, swiftly slipping his foot in the door. “Is Andy there?”
“Oh, you're one of Andy's friends! I'm sorry, hon.”
The old crone turns around and leans on the railing of the stairs leading down to the level below.
“Andy!” She shrieks. “You got a fella here to see ya! Andyyyyyyy!”
Her shrill voice is like a thousand fingernails on a chalkboard, and suddenly Numbers has a good mind to push her down those stairs. Thankfully she stops before it comes to that, turning back to him with a smile.
“He'll be right up,” she says and hobbles back upstairs on shaky legs, making Numbers feel ashamed for entertaining that particular murder fantasy.
A few seconds later a man appears. He's around Numbers' age, or maybe a couple of years younger. Not big, not small. Not hot, not ugly. Caucasian, blue eyes, brown hair. No distinguishing features. Just wholly unremarkable.
“Oh, hey there,” he says, gesturing for Numbers to join him downstairs. “Come on down to Casa Andy. Heh.”
“You live with your grandmother?” Numbers asks as he descends the stairs.
“I rent from my grandmother,” Andy corrects. “I've got this entire floor to myself, dontcha know.”
“Impressive,” Numbers replies, the expression on his face indicating that it's anything but.
The apartment itself is cramped, dark and dank. Really nothing to write home about. Andy's bedroom, on the other hand, leaves quite the impression on Numbers.
“Make yourself at home,” Andy says, gesturing to what can only be described as a torture chair. “I'm going to, uh… freshen up. Be right back.”
While Andy is in the bathroom, doing whatever “freshen up” means to a man who lives with his grandmother and has got in his bedroom not only a torture chair, but also a sex swing and what looks to be some sort of waterboarding bench, Numbers decides to inspect the room further.
The vintage movie posters on his wall - Salo, Cannibal Holocaust, and Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS - speak volumes, and Numbers isn't sure if he should laugh or cry.
On a shelf sitting in the far right corner, there's a collection of toys. A few of them are fairly commonplace, like dildos, buttplugs and anal beads, but there's also some very unsettling items: A silicone head - genderless, open-mouthed and eerily lifelike. Several nightmarish devices in stainless steel, looking like something out of a Cronenberg film, and apparently designed to keep orifices open. Nipple clamps hooked up to a car battery. Metal masks, vaguely reminiscent of the works of Hieronymous Bosch. An inflatable pig called Porky, still in it's original packaging. Waiting for a special occasion? Numbers muses as he considers the PVC hog.
“The fuck..?” he mutters under his breath when something else catches his eye.
Grabbing a couple of tissues from a nearby box of Kleenex, he uses them to pick up a long, slim metal rod. The intented purpose of this contraption mystifies him.
“It's gives you electric shocks,” Andy says as he comes up behind him, making Numbers jump right out of his skin. “It goes up your urethra.”
When Numbers turns, he finds his host standing there in full SS uniform, jackboots and all.
“Are you ready to kneel?” Andy asks in an exaggerated Germanic accent as he slaps a riding crop into his leather-clad palm.
Numbers' eyes just about pop right out of his skull.
“What in the everloving Hell is this?” he hisses, spitting venom with every syllable.
“Rough play?” Andy says in his pleasant Midwestern cadence, breaking character. “I, uh… I thought we agreed to that on the phone?”
“Yeah, like fuck-me-hard-up-against-a-wall kinda rough, not getting off to the genocide of my family, you sick freak!”
“Your… what?” Andy stutters, scratching his head like some dumb kid.
“I'm Jewish, asshole!” Numbers yells. “Show some goddamn respect!”
“Aw jeez, I’m sorry… I really didn't think-”
“I don't give a single solitary fuck what you thought.” Numbers pulls out his gun, cocks it, and lines the barrel up with Andy's terrified face. "Now, you're gonna burn that fucking thing you're wearing and I'm gonna watch you do it. Verstehen Sie, Schweinhund?!"
The uniform burns well in the bathtub. Andy, now stark naked, cupping his nether regions with his hands and looking on in sorrow as the crown jewel in his collection, an authentic SS uniform that cost him a small fortune, goes up in flames. This, along with the fear of being shot and the painful humiliation of being dominated so utterly and completely, has left him on the verge of tears. Numbers notices this, and shoots him a look of disgust.
“The smoke stings my eyes,” is Andy's pitiful excuse.
“Well then crack a fucking window, ya big Nazi baby.”
---
IV. One Minute Man
Numbers knows about a secluded alley in downtown Fargo that only deeply closeted guys frequent. You're spoilt for choice there, and you don’t have to wait for long, but you have to know the right signals. And you have to have somewhere to sneak off to, because cops trawl that area like it's South Central. Numbers does worry about the pigs sometimes, but at this point he’s just too desperate. One of these pricks is going to plow my ass tonight, so help me God.
It doesn't take long for a man to approach him. He's an older guy, maybe late forties. Balding, kind of mousy, and certainly not Numbers' type, but nevertheless handsome. Tall, lean. Good bone structure. Kind eyes. Seems pretty harmless. He looks like his mom still dresses him, and he's got one of those fish bumper stickers on his car.
He goes by the name of Stephen, as Numbers finds out when he invites him to join him in his car, and he's looking really fucking nervous. Letting out a long, shaky breath as he parks his car in an empty parking lot behind a 7-Eleven, he flicks on the lights to get a good look at Numbers.
"Oh my,” he says. “You're a real handsome man, ya know that?"
"I'm alright," Numbers says, forgetting his manners momentarily. "I mean, thanks."
They sit there for a while in an awkward, heavy silence, until Numbers realizes that he has to be the one to make the first move. Leaning over, he starts working on Stephen's belt - but before he can even get the buckle undone, Stephen is in the violent throes of orgasm, groaning and squirming in his seat.
"What…” Numbers says, flummoxed. “ Did you just..?”
"Oh my gosh,” Stephen whispers, blushing violently as he looks down and notices the wet stain on the front of his khakis. “Aw, jeez, I'm so sorry... I-"
“Did you really just come?” Numbers asks, incredulous.
“Yeah…”
"I barely even touched you!"
"This is my first time with a guy, ya know, I-"
"Jesus fucking Christ,” Numbers says, tugging at his hair. “And you didn't think to rub one out before you came here? Huh?”
"I didn't wanna risk not getting it up... Just gimme ten minutes, okay?"
Numbers gives him a hard stare.
“I'll be good to go in ten minutes,” Stephen promises. “Just ten minutes. Please.”
“Fine,” Numbers sighs.
Stepping out of the car to go and have a smoke, he allows Stephen to have a few minutes to himself, to psyche himself up. Numbers strolls around the parking lot for a little while, lighting up another cigarette, asking himself what the fuck he's doing out here with this quivering, pathetic mess of a person.
When he returns to the car, Stephen has somehow managed to reboot.
“Maybe you can… take your penis out?” His tone is tentative, as though he's afraid to ask. “Touch yourself?”
“Sure,” Numbers says, shrugging.
When he undoes his belt and his fly, finally revealing his cock, he can hear a tiny gasp coming from his left. Man alive, is this guy for real?
Stroking himself to an erection, Numbers watches Stephen freeing his own dick. For a while it's actually going really well, the two of them engaged in tandem masturbation, and Numbers is genuinely starting to enjoy himself, getting all worked up - but then he gets impatient, like he always does, and he makes a terrible mistake.
“Touch me,” he purrs and grabs Stephen's hand, putting it on his own cock.
And once again Stephen is overcome.
Numbers jumps back in his seat when a few pearly white droplets hit the front of his shirt and pants.
"God- twice?! Really?!"
"Aw jeez, I'm so, so sorry... Here, lemme get you some tissues."
Numbers puts his hands up, palms bared.
"No. Thank you. I'm fine.”
“We can try again, if y-”
“Nope!” Numbers interrupts. “No, I believe I've seen enough premature ejaculations for several lifetimes, thank you.”
“But-”
“Goodnight, Stephen.”
---
V. Gunslinger
The rest stop toilets off the interstate are definitely not clean, but they do offer a wide variety of cruisers. Numbers goes there in the hopes of finding some butch trucker, and he is not disappointed: he only does the signal - tapping his foot, running his hand underneath the door - for maybe a few seconds before a massive hulk of a teamster opens the door to his stall.
“Not here,” the man says in a gruff voice. “My truck.”
Numbers is hesitant. If anyone would take me away to a remote location and carve me up, it's this guy.
“Why?” he asks.
“It's filthy here.”
“What we’re about to do is filthy. We do it here, or we don't do it at all.”
“Okay, then,” the trucker says, starting to walk off. “See ya.”
“No, wait,” Numbers calls after him. “I’ll come. But no bullshit, alright?”
He is immediately filled with shame at the sound of his own voice pleading like that, ashamed to realize what a desperate fool he's become, but at the same time he's too fucking horny to think rationally. As he follows the potential psychopath, Numbers makes sure the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants is in full view, thinking it might inspire some fear in the man - but the teamster just smiles softly, still completely unfazed, and leads the way to his truck.
“Take out your gun,” the man says, once they're both inside the vehicle.
“What?”
“Point it at me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want ya to threaten me with it. Put it to my head while I suck ya off.”
Numbers is left speechless for a hot second, unable to produce much more of a reaction than a slack jaw.
“You do realize this is a loaded firearm, right?” he finally asks.
“Ya," the trucker says with a quick, determinded nod.
"And you want me to threaten you with it."
"Yup."
"While you suck my dick.”
“Yessir.”
“What is wrong with you?” Numbers asks. “Are you completely touched in the head, man?”
“No," the teamster says, shrugging. "Gunplay just gets me off, is all.”
Numbers drags his hands over his face, groaning. He feels like he's being slowly driven to madness by all these perverts and their outlandish sexual requests. He's sure now: The Heavenly Father, that homophobic son if a bitch, is actively trying to prevent him from having great sex.
“I get enough of this sorta shit at work, you know."
“You a cop?” the teamster asks, finally sounding fazed.
“Yeah,” Numbers lies.
“Are ya gonna bust me?”
“No. But you won't be getting your dangerous weirdo fantasy acted out tonight. Not with me, anyway.”
Numbers opens the door to the truck and hops out.
“Where ya going?”
“Back to the toilets, to find someone who isn't a total freak.”
---
VI. Baby
Returning to the bathroom stall, Numbers slumps down on the toilet seat and waits. He hears a few guys coming in but it seems like they're only there to use the facilities for their intended purpose, as they don't seem to be responding to the signals. Go figure.
An hour later, he's beginning to feel drowsy. Soon he is resting his head on the wall, struggling to keep his eyes open. But then there's a sound from the next cubicle over: the gentle tap-tap-tap of a foot.
Numbers leans down and sees fingers running along the underside of the wall separating their two stalls. He shoots up from his toilet seat, exits his stall, and opens the door to the one on the left. The man sitting on the toilet seat is young and handsome. He's got a chiseled jaw, dark, curly hair and a healthy tan that contrasts beautifully with the white T-shirt riding up his toned stomach. Numbers almost salivates at the sight of him.
“Wanna see what's in my pants?” the young man asks in a voice smooth as butter, palming his dick through his baggy jeans.
Numbers nods as he steps into the stall and closes the door behind him. Standing up, the guy pops the top button of his pants and opens his zipper, painfully slow. Numbers is expecting to see a huge, uncut dick - but what is revealed when the jeans finally come off is something entirely different: a pair of adult diapers.
“Goo goo gah,” the guy says, sticking his thumb in his mouth and sucking on it.
And that's when Numbers finally sees red.
Grabbing the other man by the front of his shirt, Numbers hurls him against the door with all the force he can muster. The door bursts open and the guy staggers backwards, getting good mileage out of his ultra-absorbent diapers by falling ass first into the urinal. He's scrambling to stand up when his assailant comes at him for a second time and throws him to the floor.
Numbers proceeds to literally kick his diaper-clad ass until the poor wretch finally manages to crawl away on all fours over to the exit and make his escape.
---
VII. Midnight Cowboy
The door slams shut and Numbers whirls around to find a tall guy standing at the other end of the urinal, staring back at him.
“Did you see that guy?!” Numbers all but yells, gesturing to the door behind him. “Fucking diapers, man! What the hell is wrong with people nowadays?! I swear to god. I mean, if it's not a married man or a premature ejaculator, it's a Nazi bondage psycho or some fucking freakshow in a diaper. Jesus wept... I’m a traditional guy, you know? Or, I mean, as closeted guys go, I’m traditional. I just wanna get fucked in the ass! None of this kinky shit - just a good, hard assfucking. I mean... for god's sake, is that too much to fucking ask?!”
He stops ranting only to catch his breath. The other man says nothing, he doesn't even move a muscle. Unnerved by his continued silence, Numbers figures he must have offended him in some way, and he's quick to apologize.
“I'm sorry, uh, I can see that you're not… you're just here to have a piss. I'm sorry. I'll go now.”
But before he gets a chance to leave, the tall man turns around, and the sight of his massive, hardening dick makes it glaringly obvious to Numbers that he was not, in fact, there only to relieve himself.
Pursing his lips, Numbers looks the guy up and down. This dude is like some kind of off-brand Marlboro Man; tall, hunky and all-American, dressed in cowboy boots and a fringe jacket so ridiculously over the top that Numbers almost has to admire him for it. Pretty ballsy, to look this fucking ridiculous, he thinks to himself. All that's missing is a Stetson, really, and maybe a piece of straw dangling from the corner of his mouth. But if Numbers were to say that he hasn't been cultivating a rather tenacious fetish for cowboys since the first time he saw a Tom of Finland drawing... well, then he'd be a filthy rotten liar.
The cowboy seems to take notice of how the front of Number's pants are filling out, and, with a sideways smirk, he starts stroking his dick.
“Fuck,” Numbers gasps, biting his bottom lip, his face suddenly feeling very hot.
Not taking his eyes off Numbers for a second, the cowboy starts walking toward him, slowly, licking his lips as he fists his huge cock. When he's close enough for Numbers to reach out and touch him, he turns to the mirror over the sink and breathes on it. With his fingertip, he writes out a single word:
‘MOTEL?’
“Yeah,” Numbers says, breathless.
---
Flopping down on the mattress, Numbers stretches and sighs blissfully, feeling like the cat who got the cream.
“Man, that was perfect. Just what I needed.”
The cowboy - whose name is still a mystery to him - doesn't respond. He just lies there on his back, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath. I guess he doesn't wanna talk. Hell, that suits me just fine. They lie there for a while, side by side, in silence, both trying to recuperate. When Numbers catches himself falling asleep, he decides it's probably time to go.
“Hey, um, listen,” he starts as he buttons his shirt. “Do you wanna maybe do this again sometime?”
The cowboy stays silent and motionless, staring back at him like a wax figure.
“Alright then, nevermind,” Numbers grumbles, throwing his coat on.
I didn't think I was that shit. He's just about to storm out the door in a rejection-fuelled fury when he feels a finger tapping on his shoulder. Numbers turns around and finds the cowboy standing behind him, holding up a notepad with a message.
‘Sorry, I'm deaf' it says.
A lightbulb goes off in Numbers’ head then; The writing on the mirror. The silence in the car ride over there, which Numbers had welcomed and chalked up to stoicism. The passionate kisses that he'd eventually given up on fighting against, they were meant to shut down any attempt at conversation. The way he'd sounded in bed, not self-conscious in the slightest. Numbers hadn't thought much of all this at the time, of course, but he now realizes that, from the toilets to the motel room, they had hardly communicated a single word with each other.
He reaches out for the pad and pen, gesturing for the other man to let him write something. The cowboy hesitates at first, but eventually hands them over.
‘Why didn't you just say so?’ Numbers writes.
When presented with the question, the cowboy frowns, looking a bit pained.
‘Was afraid you didn't wanna come with me if you knew,’ he writes back. ‘A lot of guys don't, once they find out.'
"Really?" Numbers asks. Shaking his head, he grabs the pen and paper.
‘You're hot, you're hung and you fuck like a jackhammer,’ he writes. ‘Why would I give two shits whether you're deaf or not? Those other guys are idiots who don't know what they're missing out on.’
That makes the cowboy crack a tiny smile - which must be an extraordinary feat for him, considering that he's hardly moved a muscle in his face up until this point.
‘Can we do this again sometime?’ he asks.
“Yeah,” Numbers says, nodding and grinning like an idiot. “Yeah, I'd like that.”