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Fucking Paterson, fucking New Jersey.
Area: 8.71 square miles. Population: 159,732. Current weather: mostly cloudy, isolated drizzle, feels like God decided to piss on humanity but doesn’t even have the heart to do it properly because he’s so fucking disappointed in all of us.
Henry stares at the gray sky above him. What the fuck is he doing here?
There’s an easy answer, of course: his agent booked him a gig, so he packed his shit and went. Upside: he’s the headliner. Downside: Paterson, New Jersey.
This agent thing is still pretty new, so he isn’t quite sure if he’s doing it right. For now, he follows her lead, and he’s had more work in the past few months than ever before, mostly because he’s accepting every offer he gets. That may not be the best strategy, though he doesn’t really know what else to do. He should ask someone for advice, but that would mean admitting he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, and he’d rather pull out every one of his teeth with his own fingers.
He’s a bit of a late-bloomer when it comes to stand-up careers. But hey, not everyone can know what they want to do while still in their diapers, can they? At least he’s found his calling. Eventually.
Walking inside the bar, he goes straight for the back room, which doubles as his green room for the moment. It’s not a very large bar, capable of sitting maybe thirty guests, but then again, where do you even find thirty people interested in stand-up comedy in fucking Paterson, New Jersey?
“Christ,” Henry mutters to himself, unsure again as to how his agent persuaded him to take this god-pissed gig.
This is going to be a disaster; well, more of a disaster than his usual shows.
He catches the first person he sees—a bartender, he hopes—and demands a scotch.
“Bar’s closed,” the person grumbles without looking at Henry.
“I’m performing here, you fuck.” Henry shakes his bag in front of the supposed bartender as proof.
“Not my problem.” The person shrugs. “I’m just a janitor.”
“Fuck.”
Apparently, he’d have to kill someone to get a drink around here.
If this trip goes on like this, he just might.
With nothing else to do, he strips down to his black shorts and dons his green robe. It’s an experiment, this daringly revealing combo, but fuck it, right? He’s at the ass-end of the country, might as well try new things. If it doesn’t work, then no one has to know.
He chugs some water, smokes a couple of cigarettes. Skipping rope is out of the question; there isn’t enough room for that in this cramped bar. He manages to shadow box a bit, but that’s about all the prep he can do, barring some vocal exercises. Finding a small dirty mirror, he gives himself a cursory once-over.
“Nice-looking fucker,” he tells his reflection, even though he doesn’t believe that. He’s not handsome; he’s well aware of that. Maybe somewhat charming. Mostly, just an ape.
Slowly, the bar starts to fill up. Henry peeks out of the back room to see patrons sitting down with their drinks, most of them heavy-set and dressed like truckers. Plaid shirts abound. Henry scoffs.
This isn’t his public, which should dishearten him. Instead, it’s an absolution. He can do whatever the fuck he wants tonight. No one will notice. No one will remember. No one will clap, obviously, but Henry isn’t doing this for an ego boost.
If he valued his ego at all, he wouldn’t be a comedian, would he now?
A short man in, surprisingly, a single-color red shirt approaches Henry, sticking his hand out for a greeting.
“You’re our tonight’s act, right?” he asks, all business.
“And you’re the owner?” Henry assumes. No reason for anyone else to talk to him.
The man nods without giving his name. Henry doesn’t ask for it. He’ll be out of this town before he can blink twice, he doesn’t need any new acquaintances weighing him down.
“I’ll announce you,” the owner says, wiping his hand on his chest when Henry doesn’t take it. He rushes away on his stubby legs, and Henry doesn’t miss him.
He isn’t going to miss anything about fucking Paterson, New Jersey.
The owner introduces him to the public as Harry McHenry, and Henry wants to punch a bloody hole in something. The least this stupid town could do is remember his fucking name.
“Henry,” he roars into his mic as soon as he takes the stage. “It’s Henry McHenry.”
The owner, scuttling away, glances over his shoulder and shrugs. He doesn’t look apologetic at all.
Henry hates everything about this night already.
“Now, who do I have to fuck to get a drink here?”
It’s an honest question, but it elicits a few laughs for some reason. Maybe they think he’s joking. That’s the problem sometimes when you’re a professional comedian. People never treat you seriously ever again.
As he glances wildly around, the bartender takes pity on him and brings him a beer. It’s not his first choice, but apparently, it’s the best this town can offer him. He accepts the bottle and takes a sip, almost spitting it out immediately.
“It’s fucking warm!”
The audience laughs again. They must take it as a part of his program. Well, then. Why not humor them. It’s his job, isn’t it?
“The piss of God,” he mutters, nodding at the bottle, and gulps down half its contents. The audience makes a noise of awe mixed with disgust. It’s okay. Henry’s had worse. Both in terms of drinks and in terms of audiences.
He tries to walk around the tiny stage, mic in hand, but the space is too narrow for his usual twirls and jumps. Feeling stuck in a tiny steel box with no air holes, he contemplates just mooning the public and running away. It would hardly hinder his future career, but his agent definitely won’t like it, and he’d rather not ruin his relationship with her this soon.
Setting the bottle down, he fixes the mic back on the stand and wraps his hands around it.
“Being a comedian is a shit job,” he announces, voice low and flat.
Immediately, someone in the room decides to heckle him.
“Why you doing it then?” a half-drunk voice yells.
Henry zeroes in on the source of the sound. Don’t tell anyone, but Henry loves hecklers. It feels nice to murder someone specific, not just a sea of nameless heads.
“Because I’m a shit person, Dylan!” he yells back, face contorting into an angry grimace.
“I’m not Dylan!” the person returns, still unaware of what’s coming.
Inwardly, Henry grins.
“You are now!” He points in the direction of the heckler. “Everyone will remember you as Dylan. Everyone will call you Dylan.” People start turning toward his opponent and muttering the new name with amusement. The guy shrugs uncomfortably.
Henry continues, unstoppable.
“You will have no choice but to accept it or leave the fucking town!” His voice rings deep and cruel in the hushed bar. “But you aren’t brave enough for that, are you, Dylan? You’re only brave enough for yelling shit at honest people trying to do their job.” The crowd murmurs in agreement. “I have more power than you, Dylan. I’m a fucking clown, and I have more power than you will ever have. And you know why? You know why, Dylan?”
He spreads his arms wide, leaning down to bring his lips to the mic. His robe falls open; he doesn’t fix it.
“Because I don’t hide!” He gets scattered nods in the audience. “I don’t lurk in the back, tucked safely in the darkness, protected by other bodies smushed all around me. I go right into the spotlight!” He raises his eyes to squint at the projector, then drops his gaze back to the heckler. “Like a stupid ant crawling right under the magnifying glass. That’s what power is, Dylan. Marching to your death with a smile on your lips and a banana down your underwear.”
The last bit elicits an eruption of murmuring.
“Yes, folks, it’s been a banana this whole time, and what the fuck did you think it was, huh?”
He plunges his hand below the waistband of his shorts and tugs the banana out.
“Y’all are sick.”
The audience laughs nervously. Good.
He peels the banana and bites a bit. It’s unpleasantly warm from its time downstairs, but he perseveres. He’ll probably drop this shtick soon. It always gets a good reaction, but it’s just damn uncomfortable.
The audience watches him as he finishes the banana. The moment stretches somewhat longer than it should, but Henry doesn’t care. Fuck comedic timing. He throws the peel into the crowd and someone catches it, making the people around clap in appreciation. Whatever. Let them entertain themselves if they want to.
“I researched your little town, you know.” He looks at the mic as if it’s way more interesting than anyone else in the room.
That might actually be true.
“Well, I opened the Wikipedia article,” he amends. “I fell asleep six times. Six!” He raises his palms with six outstretched fingers to drive the point home. “Your town is fucking boring!” He yells the last word, makes it ring.
“Fuck you!” someone yells back. Excellent. They’re engaging.
He lets the hush wash over the room. As he waits for the audience to calm down into dissatisfied glares, he shakes his head in an exaggerated motion, projecting all the distaste he feels for this stupid town.
“A poem,” he announces, articulating every sound. “A fucking whole-ass five-book epic poem about this place. Who would even read five fucking books of fucking poetry? Who has the time? The patience? The sheer pretense?”
His questions fall flat, but that’s intentional. He doesn’t need their laughter. What he wants tonight is their fury, and he’s getting it.
As he surveys the room, he notices a pair of eyes that bear neither joy nor anger. In fact, they’re the calmest eyes he’s ever seen. The man to whom the eyes belong is sitting alone at the bar, sipping a pint, and looking serene.
Who looks fucking serene in the middle of an irreverent stand-up show?
Henry doesn’t have time for this. Not now, at least.
“Poetry is the biggest fraud your teachers ever taught you,” he continues. “Bigger even than history, and that’s saying something.”
He gets one single bark of laughter for that. Fuck them all.
The man with the serene eyes does a thing with his mouth that looks like he’s both smiling and pursing his lips. It irritates Henry. He needs to get to the bottom of that weird expression. He needs to know what this man thinks about him.
That becomes his new purpose in life as he rattles out the rest of his show without much care. Some people clap. Some boo. He wiggles his bare ass at them as he leaves the stage. One woman whistles; the men make confused noises, like they aren’t sure whether they’re supposed to be aroused or outraged.
All in all, it’s as much of a success as Henry cares to acknowledge.
He dresses back into his day clothes in the back room. He’ll probably keep the robe and the shorts for future shows. They’re comfortable, if nothing else.
Emerging into the bar, as a client now, he looks for the strange man with the calm eyes. He’s still sitting at the bar, nursing his beer. He’s wearing a simple dark-blue checkered shirt with a white T-shirt showing from underneath it. His hair is long enough to cover his ears but not nearly as long as Henry’s unruly mane. It’s neatly combed, with an elegant wave over the man’s high forehead.
“I watched you,” Henry says without preamble, sitting down next to the man. “You didn’t laugh at any of my jokes.”
The man gives him a complacent shrug.
“I’m just here for a beer.”
He takes a sip as if to prove his point.
Not very talkative, then. It’s no problem.
Henry motions for the bartender to bring him a drink.
“You come here often? To listen to comedians and then not laugh at them?”
“No, actually.” The man’s tone is pleasant enough, almost friendly. “I usually go to another bar.”
It’s not much of a conversation opener, but Henry sticks to it like a piece of wet toilet paper.
“Why are you here today?”
The man looks into his pint as if it can supply answers better than questions.
“Trying out new things. Changing my routines.”
It sounds dangerously close to what Henry has been thinking about himself lately. He takes in the man’s face again, realizing with chilling certainty how much alike they look. It can’t be possible.
Threatened, he lashes out.
“Is that some self-help bullshit?” he asks archly, expecting the man to take offense.
“Sort of,” the man says instead, chuckling lightly, as if the idea is amusing to him as well.
The bartender slides a glass of scotch toward Henry and he gulps the drink down. He wants to keep antagonizing the man, but it proves to be a difficult task.
“You depressed?” He makes it sound like an accusation.
The man shakes his head thoughtfully.
“Divorced,” he explains. “Recently.”
“Huh. What happened?”
He’s prying. It’s his job. Dragging people’s insides out of them so he can turn them into his material. He isn’t feeling ashamed. He doesn’t really know how.
“She wanted more from life.”
It sounds like a boring story, but what else could he expect from fucking Paterson, New Jersey?
“And you?” he presses on, not yet ready to let the man go.
The man smiles. It’s suddenly beautiful.
“I’m happy here.”
“Are you?” Henry asks quickly. “Happy?”
The man drinks his beer. As he puts the glass down, he gives his hand to Henry to shake.
“Paterson,” he introduces himself.
It’s not funny. Henry should know. He’s the expert.
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No,” the man says, a bit taken aback. “That’s my name.”
“First or last?”
“Just Paterson.” His hand is still waiting in the air.
Henry glances at it. It’s a big hand with long, thick fingers. In a flash, he imagines sucking on them, and his stomach warms up.
“Henry,” he grumbles, taking the hand and shaking it.
“Yeah, I got that,” Paterson says, a twinkle in his eyes. The man has a sense of humor, after all.
Henry signals the bartender for another drink. Paterson is still sipping his beer. The night better be a long one.
He needs new material. Freshen up his routine. That’s what he tells himself when he asks the stupidest question he can think of.
“So, what do you do, just Paterson?”
“I drive a bus.”
There’s a calm sense of pride behind Paterson’s words. What kind of fucking nonsense is that?
“No shit,” Henry mutters, convinced that he’s being played.
“Yeah, I do.” Paterson gives a surprised chuckle, as if he can't believe Henry is doubting him. “Really.”
“And you like it?”
“I see a lot of people.”
“But they don’t see you,” Henry points out.
“No, I don’t think so.” Paterson doesn’t sound perturbed by the thought.
“You’re practically invisible.”
The opposite of him. Henry can’t imagine a life like that. He had to be the center of attention ever since he was a child. Being ignored has always been his worst nightmare, and now this man is sitting in front of him, telling him his worst nightmare is someone’s happy life.
Paterson drains his beer and gives Henry a crooked smile.
“Better than having the entire world stare at you, eh?”
He isn’t joking either. He sincerely thinks that. Henry is fascinated.
This is when the realization seeps in completely: Paterson looks just like him. Neater, more subdued, but otherwise, they could’ve been brothers. Maybe even twins, Henry the evil one. He didn’t notice at first in the dim light of the bar, and yet the more he stares at the man opposite him, the more similarities he finds. Hell, they even got the same moles on their cheeks.
Henry shifts closer, peering into Paterson’s face. There can’t be any mistake. They’re complete opposites; they’re also uncannily alike.
“What?” Paterson asks, his cheeks dimpling as he smiles nervously.
It’s adorable, that’s what it is.
Henry licks his lips.
“It’s like looking into a mirror,” he mutters, wondering whether Paterson has noticed, too.
Judging by the look Paterson gives him, he has.
“You like what you see, then?” It’s a clumsy move, but also endearing.
Henry keeps his face serious.
“Immensely.”
Paterson snorts.
“Are you that narcissistic?”
It’s not the first time someone throws that particular accusation at Henry McHenry.
“What if I am?”
“I don’t mind.”
It’s acceptance, that’s what does it for Henry. Three simple words that aren’t rejection, and he’s gone. He dives forward, pressing his lips to Paterson’s, no warning, no doubt, pure instinct. Paterson doesn’t lean away, which is already a win, as far as Henry’s concerned.
Pulling back, he keeps his face close, staring right into Paterson’s eyes, so familiar and yet so strange.
“How’s this for trying out new things?” he asks, dropping his voice to a dangerous growl.
Paterson’s face remains serene, with just his eyes going a shade darker.
“Fine by me.”
Henry puts his hands on Paterson’s cheeks and smothers his mouth with his. Paterson kisses back, but gently, a cool breeze to Henry’s wildfire, and they meet each other halfway, Henry pulling his teeth away, Paterson bringing his tongue forward.
It’s not what Henry expected of this evening, but he’s eager to see where it can go.
Perhaps he can still have a good time in this fucking town.
Needing air, he breaks the kiss and settles back in his seat, eyes never leaving Paterson. The man keeps his calm, his dilated pupils the only sign of anything close to arousal. It makes his eyes look darker, more mysterious, and Henry wonders if that’s what he could look like were he a gentler, lighter person.
Except he isn’t, and he isn’t going to be.
“You fuck strangers often?” he asks, jutting out his chin. It’s a challenge, and he doesn’t disguise it as anything but.
“No,” Paterson answers easily, not at all surprised by the question. “You aren’t a stranger, though,” he points out, and there’s a hint of mischief behind his serenity.
Now, now. Henry is starting to genuinely like this man.
He slaps too many bills on the counter and stands up.
“Take me home, just Paterson,” he orders, walking past the man toward the exit and not looking back to see if he follows.
He lights a cigarette as soon as he’s outside, deciding that he’s going to wait for ten minutes and then disappear from this town forever. The night air washes over his face, calming him down a bit, and he considers what he’s getting himself into.
Going home with a man he’s just met isn’t a new thing; going home with a man who has the same face as his is, at the very least, unorthodox. Even for Henry.
Before he can psychoanalyze himself out of this situation, Paterson appears beside him, waiting patiently until he’s finished smoking.
An adventure it is, then.
“You alright to walk?” Paterson asks, an exhibit of care that Henry isn’t used to.
He puts out his cigarette on his shoe and flicks the stub away.
“Sure.”
“It’s not far,” Paterson adds, sounding apologetic as he starts walking along the road.
“Nothing’s far in this stupid town,” Henry mutters, more out of habit than any lingering disgust.
Paterson doesn’t say anything for a few steps. Henry finds himself worrying whether he’s offended the man. Uncharacteristic, that. Usually, he doesn’t have two shits to give about anyone else’s feelings.
“It’s cozy,” Paterson says at length. “When you can walk everywhere you need.”
“You wouldn’t need bus drivers then, would you?”
“No,” Paterson agrees, brows furrowing. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
He doesn’t look like someone who thinks a lot; more accurately, he doesn’t look like someone who broods, which grates at Henry. Living a life where you just move through the air, enjoying the particles dancing aside to make way for you? That’s some new age bullshit, and Henry doesn’t want any of it.
What he wants is a few hours of being transported out of his own mind, and maybe he’s made the right choice, going with a bus driver for that.
He sticks another cigarette into his mouth, but before he can do anything else, Paterson produces a box of matches and cradles a flickering light behind his palm, offering it to Henry.
“Thanks,” Henry mumbles, inhaling the hot smoke.
“No problem.”
That’s what’s so irritating about Paterson, Henry thinks. He doesn’t have a problem with anything, this serene fucking man. If Henry had to put up with this wall of calmness on a regular basis, he’d probably have drowned the man in the bathtub. No wonder his wife left him.
Venom spreads through Henry’s system, feverish and familiar. He wants to kick this man walking beside him with a benign expression on Henry’s own face. Anger boils inside him, coming out of nowhere, just a knot of unrealized dreams and repressed feelings, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. Were he anywhere else, he’d go off on a tangent, produce a scathing tirade, perform a one-man show right there on the sidewalk, but he’s in fucking Paterson, New Jersey, and something about this town seeps into him as well, diluting the dark, vicious thing in his veins.
Shaking his head, he takes a drag on his cigarette, relishing the bitter taste in his mouth.
“Are we there yet?” he asks uselessly, petulantly.
“Five more minutes,” Paterson responds with a patient smile.
Henry wants to punch it off his face. Then he wants to kiss it into a smooth, round oh.
He sucks on his cigarette and says nothing at all.
Soon enough, they reach a small reddish house with a pink door. Henry almost bursts out laughing. It doesn’t look real; more like a set from some mumblecore movie, too neat to be true, too confectionary to belong to an actual person.
“You live here?” Henry asks, clearing out the embers off the tip of his cigarette with the tip of his nail.
Paterson either misses the mocking in his tone or prefers not to acknowledge it.
“Most of my life.”
A pathetic life, sounds like. Henry can’t understand how Paterson can be so stoic about it. If it were him, he’d have carved expletives into the walls of the tiny house, anything to make it known how cramped he felt there.
Inside, the situation isn’t much better. The walls are bare, the furniture is sparse, there aren’t even any curtains on the windows. Like someone has just moved in and haven’t yet had the time to make the place a home. Or like someone has just moved out and taken all the stuff making it a home with them.
Maybe Henry should have gone to his hotel, called it a night. But then he wouldn’t get to look into his own eyes reflecting himself back at him. That, if nothing else, is worth the discomfort.
“Can I offer you anything?” Paterson asks politely, but Henry’s hands are already grabbing at his shoulders, tugging him forward.
The kiss is messy, Henry pushing too hard, Paterson more reacting than responding. He tastes like beer and waterfalls, and Henry wants to drink him whole, wants to imbibe this ridiculous man, absorb his strange ways, so maybe he, too, can experience a bit of that supernatural calm that Paterson still exudes.
Dropping his hands to work on the buttons of Paterson’s shirt, Henry glances around the room where he finds himself. It’s a sitting room, with a couch and everything, but that’s not what interests him at the moment.
“You got a bed?”
Paterson’s eyes flicker.
“Sure.”
He doesn’t want to waste time either, apparently. Good.
Paterson leads Henry further into the house until they reach a bedroom, which barely has enough space for a double bed. It doesn’t matter. Henry isn’t here to admire interior design.
They’re the same height—obviously—which is a new experience for Henry. As a rule, everyone is shorter than him, women and men alike, but not Paterson. No, this man is intent on being his reflection in everything but his personality.
Whatever magic has made him in Henry’s shape and form, Henry intends to make full use of it tonight, whether he’ll be damned for it or not.
He stares into Paterson’s eyes, right on the level of his own, neither higher nor lower. As serene as they are, there’s an intensity bursting forward from their depths, a furious focus that makes Henry’s neck grow hot.
A thought flashes through his mind: what if he could be the object of this attention forever? How would that change his ignominious life? Would he finally find peace?
What nonsense; and bad timing, too. Shaking the thoughts out of his head, he pulls Paterson’s shirt open and glides his hands up the soft fabric of his white T-shirt.
“You work out, huh?” The feel of those pectorals is unmistakable, and if he’s right, those abs must be insane.
Paterson chuckles shyly, and Henry realizes he’s unaccustomed to shameless appreciation. His mild edges prickle under it, like he wants to continue his life unperceived, just a leaf on the wind, a raindrop in the vast immensity of open air.
It should horrify Henry. Instead, it makes his dick harden in his jeans.
He wants to plunge right into this unfamiliar territory, as if doing so will make him a part of it, too. As if that’s how he’ll be able to escape himself, if only for one surreal night in fucking Paterson, New Jersey.
Not waiting for a response, he snatches at the hem of Paterson’s T-shirt and tugs it off over his head, revealing a body that makes him salivate. Soft, full pectorals and a veritable six-pack, not something he’d expect from a small-town bus driver, but he isn’t going to complain. Diving down, he wraps his lips around a nipple, making Paterson yelp in surprise.
“What are you doing?” Paterson asks, with telltale pauses between words.
Henry squeezes his sides without looking up.
“Sucking your nipple,” he says bluntly, punctuating each word with a flick of his tongue.
Paterson huffs a laugh.
“It tickles.”
Affronted, Henry straightens up. So, this man didn’t laugh at any of his jokes but he laughs at his foreplay? Henry is going to fuck him so hard.
“Get your pants off,” he growls, removing his own shirt and shimmying out of his jeans.
Paterson complies easily, his movements just a little bit on the clumsy side. It should irritate Henry; instead, it’s endearing. It almost makes Henry want to kiss Paterson sweetly, tenderly, sentimentally.
Shuddering, he grabs Paterson by the biceps and throws him on the bed. Paterson is not a slender man, but Henry’s determination and his rabid fury give him strength.
“I’m gonna fuck you, Paterson,” he threatens, his cock already full and heavy between his legs.
Paterson has the audacity to smile at him.
“Be my guest.”
Henry wants to rip something apart, wipe that smile off that face that’s too much like his own. He crashes his mouth into Paterson’s, biting the curve out of his lips, teeth sinking into the soft, supple flesh. He expects Paterson to throw him off, to at least mumble a protest, but Paterson only moans against him, hands landing on his shoulders, pulling him closer.
Paterson isn’t supposed to like it. Hell, Henry isn’t supposed to like it.
And yet.
He pulls away, hair flying wildly around his face. His eyes must shine with a mad glare, and he knows his face is splotched red. He can’t be attractive, he never was, but Paterson is looking at him with wonder in his eyes, and Henry almost breaks.
Opening his mouth wide, he drags it down Paterson’s body until he reaches the waistband of his white underwear. He picks it with his teeth, tugging it down, but it snags on Paterson’s thighs. Growling impatiently, he slides it down Paterson’s legs with his hands, then freezes for a moment, exposed to the full glory of Paterson’s naked body.
He knows this cock intimately; it’s the exact same size and girth as his own. It probably likes the same things as his does. As it stands proudly in the air, glistening with precome, Henry’s mind floods with the need to find out everything about it.
Pouncing, he swallows it down to the root in one smooth move, and Paterson’s hips buck up. He makes a protracted moan, his hands grabbing at the white sheets. Henry doesn’t wait for him to say anything, just starts bobbing his head up and down, vicious and merciless.
Paterson tastes like salt and banked fire, hot on the back of Henry’s tongue, and Henry wants to suck him forever, to press the flat of his tongue against his hard cock, to pop his lips around his swollen head.
“Wait,” Paterson mutters, his first word since Henry started working on him in earnest. “Henry, wait.”
The sound of his name in Paterson’s cozy voice gets to Henry like nothing ever has. It tugs on something inside his chest, a recognition of the man he could be. A man who doesn’t smash everything around him. A man who listens. A man who exists.
He lets Paterson’s cock out of his mouth and looks up at him. Paterson’s eyes are boring into him, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his lips open around panting breaths.
“You said you were going to fuck me,” he reminds Henry and moves his legs further apart.
Henry’s cock jumps in his shorts.
“So you do listen to what I say, huh.”
It doesn’t take him long to remove the rest of his clothes, and then he’s kneeling over Paterson spread out in front of him, taking in his beautiful body, so much like his own and so different all at once.
Wordlessly, Paterson leans to the side, produces a white plastic tube out of his night table, and throws it at Henry.
Lube. Coconut-scented. Nice.
Henry squeezes the sweet gel on his fingers and starts thrusting them into Paterson’s body, not bothering to ask questions or give warnings. He wants only the bare minimum. He wants this to hurt—just enough to make Paterson hate him.
Soon, maybe too soon, he removes his fingers and spreads a new helping of lube over his cock, lining himself up. The sole courtesy he gives Paterson is to meet his eyes steadily before shoving inside him.
Paterson doesn’t cry out. He makes a strained sound, his lips thinning and his eyelids dropping. Henry doesn’t know if he’s doing something right; in fact, he doesn’t even know what right means in this situation.
For better or for worse, he thrusts into Paterson, hands pressing his legs to his chest. It’s magnificent, how Paterson’s large body folds in two and shakes under Henry’s onslaught, his hair a black halo against his white pillow.
The air fills with the smell of sweat and coconut, and Henry imagines telling about this encounter at his next show. How a one-night stand in Paterson, New Jersey, smelled like fucking Hawaii.
Good material, that.
He picks up his rhythm, fucking Paterson relentlessly, feeling his skin heat up to the boiling point. He watches Paterson’s face go through a range of expressions, but there’s always the lingering serenity underneath, and Henry wants to slap him out of it. Enraged, he digs his fingers into Paterson’s thighs, leaving nail marks on the pale flesh, wanting to break skin.
What he can’t deny is that Paterson feels fucking good. The tight heat, the little noises he makes, the sheer unbelievability of being inside a body almost identical to his own. Like that pesky party question, would you fuck your own clone? Henry would lie if he said he’d never thought about it. His answer has always been yes.
He wonders if the same is true for Paterson.
“You like this, huh?” he asks, his voice husky, as he slams into Paterson’s body with renewed vigor.
Paterson’s response is a deep moan that tells Henry everything he wants to know.
Reaching between them, he wraps his hand around Paterson’s gorgeous cock and strokes, making his doppelgänger bite his lip. Does Henry look like this in the throes of passion, too? Or is his face too used to grimacing for that?
He brushes the thoughts aside. That’s not what he’s come here for. He doesn’t want to learn more about himself, and neither does he want to learn more about Paterson. This, right here, is not an exercise in self-reflection; on the contrary, it’s an attempt at self-erasure, a desperate move to disappear in someone else’s world.
“Come for me, Paterson,” Henry orders, his thumb brushing over the tip of Paterson’s cock.
His own orgasm is roiling deep inside his belly, ready to bust him open, bring forth his bliss and his vulnerability. Henry moves his hips in time with his hand, making them both breathe heavily in maddening anticipation.
Paterson arches his back under him, biting on his fist as his cock spurts out jets of come, painting his stomach in white stripes. His chest gets some, too, and a drop reaches as high as his chin. Bending down, Henry licks it off and the tangy taste of it throws him over the edge. He explodes inside Paterson, strobing lights flashing before his closed eyes, a relief and a revelation.
Slumping over Paterson’s bent legs, he takes a few deep breaths, momentarily forgetting where and who he is. His body expands into a limitless spirit, his edges softening until a sense of calm descends on him, not unlike the one he’s been seeing in Paterson’s eyes the entire night.
As he blinks back into the corporeal world, he focuses on Paterson’s face, slack with satisfaction. His lips are curled in a small smile, his hair sticks to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed. He’s beautiful, and for a moment, Henry wonders if he’s beautiful, too.
He slips out of Paterson’s body and stretches on the bed next to him, their sides touching.
“So, what’s it like, fucking a mirror?” he asks, breaking the comfortable silence between them.
Paterson chuckles and turns on his side to look at Henry.
“Pretty damn nice.”
“Ha.” Henry tilts his head toward Paterson, watching him. “You have such a way with words.”
Paterson gives another chuckle, and it sounds embarrassed now, like Henry has unwittingly poked at some deep secret of his. Interesting. Whatever it is, Henry needs to know. He needs to know everything about this man.
“What did I say?” he demands, grabbing Paterson’s wrist.
“It’s nothing,” Paterson says quickly. His eyes drop to where Henry is holding him.
Henry isn’t letting go so easily.
“Tell me.”
His own face looks back at him, expression closing.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Henry wants to press, to squeeze the words out of this man’s mouth, to wring him dry. Instead, he brings Paterson’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. He’s never been tender, but perhaps it’s never too late to start. Slowly, he takes Paterson’s index finger into his mouth and starts to suck.
“Did you mean what you said?” Paterson asks, his face inscrutable. “About poetry.”
“Hm?” Henry traces the outline of Paterson’s nail with his tongue. “I always mean what I say.”
“You don’t think poetry is… beautiful?”
Henry licks the pad of Paterson’s finger, his eyes never leaving Paterson’s.
“Beauty is overrated.” He doesn’t like pretty things, unless they are the face of his lover, and even in that case, his fascination never lasts long. He’ll forget Paterson, too, soon enough. For some reason, the thought makes him sad. “Why?” he asks, not wanting to end the conversation just yet. “What do you think about poetry?”
“I think it’s necessary,” Paterson answers readily. “It’s a path for connection between souls. We’d be devastatingly lonely creatures without it.”
Henry lets Paterson’s finger out of his mouth, his hand still curled around Paterson’s wrist.
“You sound like a poet,” he says accusingly.
“I’m not,” Paterson reassures him. “But I think poetry is the best gift we can give to each other.”
Something sharp lances through Henry’s chest and he drops Paterson’s hand.
“I’ve got no one to give gifts to.” He’s not complaining; just stating a fact.
Paterson’s face clouds.
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes are full of tranquil compassion, and Henry can’t bear it. Someone treating him like a human being? No, thanks.
“I should get going.” He doesn’t move.
“You can stay,” Paterson says quickly. “If you want to.”
It’s just exhaustion, Henry tells himself. He’s had a vigorous night, and now he’s too tired to cross half the town to his hotel, even if the journey would only take about ten minutes.
“Fine,” he says, making sure to sound reluctant. “Don’t snore.”
“I promise.”
Henry is a gorilla; Paterson is a teddy bear. And yet they fit, Paterson’s warm body wrapping around the wreck that is Henry McHenry, lulling his restless mind into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
As Henry waits for the bus that will finally take him out of fucking Paterson, New Jersey, he puts a cigarette into his mouth and reaches into his jacket pocket for a lighter. His fingers touch something else.
“What the fuck?”
He fishes the strange object out. It turns to be a neatly folded piece of paper, signed For Henry in curling cursive. The only person who’s had access to Henry’s jacket since the last time he checked his pockets is Paterson. Henry hopes it isn’t a phone number; he also hopes it is.
Carefully, he unfolds the paper. It’s filled with words.
Laugh, Laugh, Laugh
laughter
is a journey
over a cold summer stream
over a hot morning coffee
over the road rolling straight out of your chest
to the tiny nook in the wrinkles
around your eyes
by the way
you have beautiful eyes
I don’t think I’ve told you
it can take you high
or it can take you low
it can take you to a place where you didn’t realize you could be
where being you is simple and not painful at all
it can take you out of yourself
or right into your own soul
with your heart beating along the way
tuh-dum
tuh-dum
like the person who checks your ticket on a bus
and wishes you a pleasant journey
it can be short or long
a protracted bray or a snappy chuckle
a shot in the darkness
a step to the light
don’t go alone
“So you are a poet, after all,” Henry mutters, re-reading the letter for the fifth time.
He imagines Paterson putting on his uniform, sitting down in his bus driver’s seat, and glowing with that light of his that nothing in the world can extinguish. Maybe Henry can carry a piece of that light with him, too.
Folding the paper back into a square, he puts it carefully into his pocket, right over his heart, which beats steadily, echoing the rhythm of another, somewhere on the other side of this little town.
At a bus stop in Paterson, New Jersey, with the sun climbing high in the sky and the trees rustling under a gentle breeze, Henry McHenry smiles his first calm, quiet smile.