Cleopatra and Frankenstein(20)

He put her down and she skittered at their heels. Quentin tried to push her away with his foot but lost his balance, stumbling against the counter.

“You have some vodka?” Alex asked.

“Of course. There’s soda water and I think—”

“Just the vodka,” said Alex. “As long as it’s cold.”

“I have this too,” said Quentin, removing his other two vials from their hiding place inside the cutlery drawer. “If you want.”

Alex’s eyes snapped toward his outstretched hand. In the kitchen light Quentin could see they were eerily pale, with glossy black pupils the size of dimes.

“And ice?” Alex asked quietly.

“Um, sure.” Quentin turned toward the freezer, but Alex grabbed his forearm.

“No,” he said impatiently. “Ice. Crystal.”

Quentin looked at him in alarm.

“You mean meth? God, no.”

“Have you tried it?” asked Alex, dropping his arm.

“Well, no,” said Quentin. “But why do that when you can do this?”

“Because is like this,” said Alex, nodding toward the vials. “Times everything.”

Quentin looked at him skeptically. He’d seen what happened to men who got hooked on crystal. Their faces ended up looking like one of Lulu’s chew toys.

“It’s really that good?” he asked.

“In Russia we have a saying. ‘If you are going to drown, drown in deep water.’”

Quentin shook his head, unsure what that meant.

“Okay.” Alex smiled his sharp-toothed smile. “Tonight, we do it your way.”

Then he dropped to his knees, as though offering himself as a gift at Quentin’s feet.

An hour later, and Quentin was teetering around the living room in thigh-high boots and a silk slip dress, singing along to a glittering disco track while Alex watched from the floor. Strewn around them were half the contents of Quentin’s secret wardrobe: an assortment of plunging satin and velvet dresses, mismatched stiletto heels, and real hair wigs. Alex was lopsidedly wearing a platinum-blond bob and cutting them more lines on a plate, laughing as Quentin attempted to dance on top of the plump sofa, his ankles buckling beneath him. Quentin dropped to his knees, still singing, and shimmied his dress up to reveal the strip of thigh between the top of his boots and his boxer briefs. He felt lithe and sexy, feminine and free. Alex grabbed his wrist and tugged him, a tumble of legs and heels, down to the floor.

He pulled the wig from his head and rolled on top of Quentin, so they were face to face, his hands on either side of Quentin’s head. Alex was breathing hard; Quentin could see white clumps of powder clinging to his nostril hairs as he exhaled. Quentin turned his face to the side and threw his arms above his head. He didn’t want to see anymore, he just wanted to feel and be felt, texture on texture. Alex reached a hand down and worked Quentin’s legs apart, sliding the dress up his thighs. He yanked down Quentin’s underwear and slipped a hand between his buttocks to caress him, circling with the tips of two fingers, working him open.

“Your pussy is so wet,” Alex murmured into the air above Quentin’s face.

“It is?” said Quentin. He had meant it to sound teasing, but instead the question came out as genuine, his voice earnestly high-pitched.

“Mm,” Alex said. “It’s hungry for me.” He fumbled to unbutton his jeans and released his cock between Quentin’s legs. He held himself straight as he began to push inside Quentin.

“Wait,” said Quentin, louder than he’d intended. He brought his hands to Alex’s chest. “I need something. There’s olive oil in the kitchen.”

“No, no,” murmured Alex, taking Quentin’s arms and pinning them back above his head. “Girls don’t need that stuff. You’re wet, you’re wet already for me.”

He let Alex spit on his palm and push inside him, and the pain mingled with that word, girl.



Quentin woke on his back with the light in his eyes. They had made a bed on the living room floor using the sofa cushions and two of Quentin’s fur coats. They were both naked, Alex’s back curved to Quentin’s side. Quentin turned and very gently cupped the back of Alex’s head with his hand. Alex stirred immediately, turning onto his back and shielding his eyes with the crook of his arm. A sunbeam striped his face.

“Did we sleep?” he asked.

“A little,” said Quentin.

“Water,” he said.

Alex stood up stiffly, scooping his underwear off the floor with his foot and flicking it into his hand. He pulled it on and walked to the kitchen. Quentin balanced himself on his elbows and watched Alex turn the tap on, leaning to drink straight from the faucet like a cat. He splashed the water over his face and neck.

Alex returned from the kitchen and began plucking his clothes from the pile on the floor without looking at Quentin.

“You have to go?” Quentin asked.

“Yes, I should work today.”

Quentin stood up and cast around for his own underwear. As he slid them on, the day, with its acid-mouthed hangover and hollow comedown, felt like an unbearable debt to pay. He moved behind Alex and rested his cheek against the back of his shoulder, feeling the rough denim of his jacket against his skin.

“You could stay,” he said into Alex’s back. “If you want. Stay.”