A Horse Named Sorrow by Trebor Healey Page B

sweat of the dance, our cheeks rosy in the cold, the mistiness of the air making us damp and clammy, both of us breathing steam like horses. We were so alive right then, re-found, come to life, that that moment sticks forever in my mind—the wetness of his skin, droplets all beaded up on his chin scruff like dew, the wide-eyed look in the bracing cold, his pronounced Adam’s apple and slightly turned-up nose, what it felt like to stand there next to him—the lucky prizewinner—my calloused toe rubbed raw in my stiff black leather clown shoes, the way my boxer shorts’ sweaty elastic band was sticking to my belly, my toothache and hangnail, my cock coming to life in anticipation, the blinking neon of the Zeitgeist Bar that made rainbows on the damp sidewalk at our feet, and the intermittent voices as the bar’s door opened and closed, the bass thump coming through the walls, the dandelion pod headlights coming toward us on Valencia Street and the fuzzy red balls that slowly receded away from us once they’d passed—his half-cold, half-warm hand in mine, squeezing.
    He kissed me hungrily, his mouth warm and gooey in the cold—like that warm, soft Szechuan tofu I liked so much at Much Luck Express on 17th Street. Then he eyed the hill before us, laughed at it, and ran me south to 15th where we could cut up to Guerrero without ascending 14th Street. That took us past the projects, which I usually avoided since fags had been bashed there a lot—and, well, like any city, it was full of poor young men, emasculated and angry. I guess it helped to be running because we encountered no trouble and arrived at Guerrero without incident, walking the rest of the way until we reached his gate, at which point he smiled—“here we are”—and dragged me, clumping up the stairs, the two of us half-stumbling in the light of a single bare bulb hanging precipitously from what was once probably a legitimate fixture. The walls were a faded glossy cobalt, decorated with wild-colored paisleys and mandalas, an obvious holdover from some San Francisco psychedelic dream of twenty years previous.
    At the door, Jimmy pulled out his single key and turned the deadbolt, then the lock, and, pulling me in, shut the door on what smelled like ginger and bok choy and steamed rice, which permeated his landing like a perfume. It ceased once inside his room and so I figured it was from across the hall.
    â€œTime for another bath, Shame.” And he went into the bathroom, leaving me standing in the single empty room of the studio, staring at the empty fireplace, the mantle where he’d already left change, his wallet, the lease, and matches. In one corner was a kitchen counter built against the wall, with a sink, an oven overhead, and a stove and cupboards. In the corner opposite, his sleeping bag and the two panniers. There was a big bay window that dominated the front of the room, and naturally, like a kid, I was drawn to it. I walked over to look out just as I heard the plumbing roused to life somewhere behind me, and there below was a corner liquor store under a fuzzy befogged streetlight, all of it shrouded by a big acacia tree that was buckling the sidewalk in front, where a young man leaned into a pay phone attached to the wall.
    That’s when I felt him bear-hug me from behind.
    We were a cold, wet mess, and in no time at all, we were naked too, our cocks bobbing in front of us as we slurped at each other’s mouths—and then he pulled me into the bathroom, and into the gray steam rising out of the tub—a whole different kinda fog—and all I could say between kisses was “Jimmy, Jimmy,” keeping to myself the end of that sentence, which rolled on and on into thank God I found you; tell me everything; hold me forever; don’t ever leave again .
    Didn’t dare enunciate that.
    Otherwise, there was just the sound of the choppy back-and-forth waves of the bath, the slurps