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"Don, the Pizza"
By Sam Sommer
From Boy Meets Boy
My therapist insists we size people up -- potential lovers, that is -- and know everything we need to know about them in the first few minutes -- the psychosexual components, at least. Perhaps that's true. He's the one with all the degrees. I've always believed it's chemical. I can feel something begin to percolate deep down inside almost immediately. Something akin to the reaction some animals have to pheromones. Once they kick in, that's that.
It was definitely chemical the day I met Don. He walked through the door of my local watering hole and -- pow! Chemistry. The fact that we had nothing in common -- that I wrote copy for a living, and Don had a problem putting together a simple sentence; that he was looking for someone to take care of him, and I was already supporting a son and an ex-wife; that he lived in Brooklyn, and I in Queens -- didn't seem to bother either of us. Well, not at the beginning, anyway. What we had, seemed at the time far more important. We had chemistry. Wow! Pow! Holy hormones, Batman!
In the beginning we tried dating in the traditional sense, but it proved to be a disaster. For us communication on any level other than the physical seemed hopeless. Dancing proved to be safe territory. It was like having sex standing up. No need for conversation. Our bodies did all the talking. Movies were nonparticipatory and therefore okay as well -- when we could agree on one we both wanted to see (our tastes, of course, were mutually exclusive) and promised not to discuss it afterwards. You see, the more we talked, the less likely it was we'd end up in bed -- the one place we did get along. The truth was, we didn't really like each other very much. A fact we both tried to overlook for the sake of our raging hormones and overactive libidos. In time the two of us learned to negotiate a minefield of dating do's and don'ts, just so we could end up naked together in bed. Once there, all hostility was set aside, and that unbelievable chemistry took over. We were amazing in bed. Utterly amazing! We could go for hours without uttering a single word, aside from certain sexual directions and the occasional groan of pleasure. In this one way, we were so compatible, so in tune, our sex seemed almost choreographed.
As long as we were naked, we were just fine. Even after sex, we could lie for hours together, hardly saying a word, inhaling each other's odors, caressing, finding new positions that allowed us access to the other's most sensual, erogenous zones. We'd often fall asleep head to foot, a tangle of arms and legs. In the morning we'd have sex again. We'd shower, have coffee and juice, without saying two words to each other. As long as we could fondle, kiss, suck, touch, grope, or caress, there was no need for superfluous conversation. We knew better. Once we were dressed, the date was over. We said good-bye and went our separate ways. It was bizarre, to say the least.
As the weeks went by, we began to see less and less of each other. Who knows why? After all, we didn't talk. Our dates, if you could call them that, now consisted of dinner and sex. Sometimes we'd forgo the dinner part. Don could be in the door and I'd have him undressed and in bed in under five minutes.
I can't remember now who stopped calling whom. I guess it doesn't matter. It was inevitable under the circumstances, even with our kind of chemistry. Once the habit of getting together had ended, the need to get together seemed less and less important. Perhaps it was the fact that we never liked each other to begin with. Had I met Don on the street, something told me we'd end up in bed together again; but we never did.
A few weeks ago my friend Alan called. "How's the pizza?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" I said.
"Don, Don the pizza? You still dating him?"
"No," I said, still confused as to his obscure reference.
"Too bad. He was as close as they come to the perfect date."
"How's that?"
Alan didn't believe in relationships, although he was a good friend. "Great sex, no entanglements... the only thing missing was his ability to turn himself into a pizza."
"Excuse me?" I inquired.
"You know, the way you're always hungry after really good sex?"
"Yes?"
"Well, the perfect date," he said with all candor, "fucks your brains out and then turns into a pizza. That way you don't have to sleep with him or make him breakfast in the morning, and he's solved the problem of what to do with the 'nibbly fits' after sex. I've been searching for this guy my whole adult life. You came pretty close to finding him."
"Alan, you're a sick, sick boy."
"I know, but you love me anyway, don't you?"
"I'll have to think about it."
"Don't think too long. I have a date in a few minutes."
SAM SOMMER is an actor and writer who lives in New York
City. His work also appears in the anthology Queer View Mirror
II.
Copyright ©
1999 Sam Sommer.
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