The Little Death by Michael Nava Read Free Book Online Page A

him
since.”
    “Why
have you come back?”
    “I’m
living on my anger, Henry. It’s the only life I’ve got left in me, and I’ve
come back to confront him. But I need to be strong when I see him, and I’m not
strong yet.”
    “In
the meantime, you brood and destroy yourself.”
    “I
thought, in the meantime, you and I could become friends.” I heard the ghost of
seduction in his voice, yet it was not meant seductively. It was a plea for
help. “If only I had met you — even five years ago.”
    “What’s
wrong with now?” I asked and drew him close.
     
    *
* * * *
     
    The
next morning I woke to find Hugh standing perfectly still in a wide sunny space
near the window, facing the wall above my head, wearing only a pair of faded
red sweatpants. He held his hands at his side, fingers splayed, but not
stiffly. He breathed, slowly, deeply. His breath filled his entire torso with
quivery tension as he inhaled, bringing his chest and abdominal muscles into
sharp relief. As he exhaled, his chest fell with delicate control. The color
of his skin darkened as the blood rushed in a torrent beneath the skin. Each
muscle of his body was elegantly delineated, like an ancient statue that time
had rendered human.
    He
lifted his chin a little, drew his shoulders even straighter and parted his
legs, one forward and one back. I watched as he sank to the floor, raising his
arms at his side until he was fully extended in a split. There was the
slightest tremor in his fingertips giving away the effort but no other part of
his body moved. He pulled his back straighter, closed his eyes and held the
position until the tremor in his fingers died. Then, he carefully brought his
back leg forward in a wide arc, lowering his arms at the same time, until he
was sitting. He opened his eyes.
    “That
was amazing,” I said.
    “I
was so much better once,” he replied, shaking his head vigorously, scattering
drops of sweat from his hair. “I studied dance in college.”
    “Where?”
    “Where?”
he repeated, smiling. “I was at Yale for a couple of years, and N.Y.U. for a
semester or two and Vanderbilt for a few months. I moved around.”
    “Without
ever graduating?”
    “I
never did, no.” He stood up, crossed over to the bed, a mattress laid against
a corner, and extended his hand. “Get up and I’ll take you to breakfast.”
    I
let him pull me out of bed and our bodies tangled. He was flushed and a little
sweaty and his hair brushed against the side of my face like a warm wind as we
drew each other close.
    An
hour later we were sitting at a table in a dark, smoky corner of a coffeehouse
on Castro. The waiter cleared our breakfast plates and poured more coffee.
    “So
you still consider yourself a hype?” I asked, pursuing our conversation.
    “Of
course. I’m addicted whether I use or not because being high is normal for me
and how I function best. When I’m not using, I’m anxious.”
    “I’m
pretty anxious myself, sometimes, but I’ve never felt the desire to obliterate
myself.”
    “It’s
not just the sedative effect a hype craves. It’s also the rush, and the rush is
so intense, like coming without sex.”
    “I’ve
heard that before from my clients. One of them said it was like a little death.”
    Hugh
looked at me curiously and asked, “Do you know what that means?”
    “I
imagine he meant you lose yourself.”
    “Exactly.
La petite mort — that’s what the French called orgasm. They believed that semen
is sort of concentrated blood so that each time a man came he shortened his
life a little by spilling blood that couldn’t be replenished.”
    “And
women?”
    “Then,
as now, men didn’t much concern themselves with how women felt.” He finished
his coffee. “Let’s go for a walk.”
    Walking
down Castro toward Market, Hugh reached over and took my hand.
Self-consciously, I left it there. It perplexed me how sex with other men
seemed natural to me but not the small physical gestures of affection