Page 37 of Rhymes with Metaphor

S hortly after the Flat Mary session, over a long, boozy lunch, one of the faculty from the MFA program asked Reg if he wanted to contribute poems for a mixed-media exhibit of local artists’ work, suggesting he collaborate with a photographer.

Which led to Reg confessing that he’d already done a photo shoot for “Elements,” which led, after more drinks, to Reg showing the faculty member one of the photos from his night with Joel, tastefully cropped to protect the innocent.

“This is what we’re looking for,” said the faculty member. “Are you happy to display your work at the gallery?”

“I’d need to clear it with my model first,” said Reg.

“Do that, and send me the complete set with your poem.”

Joel was more than happy for Reg to display the photographs of his body at the exhibit.

“But perhaps we’ll leave out this last one,” said Reg.

“That was the best part,” said Joel.

“Joel, that’s your... I admire your commitment to the artform, but one has to draw the line somewhere.”

“Are you bothered because you don’t want other people to see me naked?” said Joel. “Because I’m yours?”

“I don’t want you to look back on this part of your life and regret how much of yourself you revealed to the world. Once it’s out there, you can’t take it back.”

“I won’t regret it.”

But in the event, Reg went through the photos and blurred out the critical areas, despite Joel’s protests that it wasn’t necessary as his face wasn’t visible.

Reg submitted the photos along with “Elements,” and they were accepted two days later.

The day after that, Reg got a call from one of his former MFA classmates, who was also attending the mixed-media exhibition, as a local sculptor had created some work inspired by her poetry.

She was expected to recite two of her poems that had inspired the sculptures at the opening, but owing to her debilitating stage fright, she wanted Joel to read the poems for her, as she had “fallen in love” with Joel’s voice at the Old Mill event.

As Joel was attending the event already, he was happy to do it, but Reg proceeded to hardball the poet over Joel’s appearance fee.

She didn’t put up any resistance, as she was terrified of public speaking, and quickly settled on a price.

“A thousand dollars ?” said Joel after Reg told him. “For one evening’s work?”

“You’re worth much more than that, of course. I told her I was giving her a discount.”

“You fleeced her, Reg.”

“She’s living off a trust fund. It’s a trivial amount of money for her. And she could have asked any number of other people who would have done it for less. But she wanted you, so I made her pay.”

The opening was on a Saturday, on what would normally have been one of Joel’s days off.

“How formal is it?” said Joel as he was deciding what to wear.

“Ish,” said Reg.

“Shoes?” said Joel.

“Yes, Joel, you will need to wear shoes.”

Of late, Joel had been swanning about their loft in bare feet, and Reg wondered whether the reason was to show off his tattoo. He would often position himself on the settee or on a chair or their bed in a way that Reg couldn’t not see it.

“People who hear my voice before they meet me in person look disappointed,” said Joel. “One of my clients told me I had an enchanting voice in a disenchanting face.”

“There’s something wrong with their eyes, then. Would you like me to dress you?”

“Please,” said Joel, and he stood compliantly while Reg selected his clothes and buttoned and zipped him into them.

A package had duly arrived in the mail from Martin shortly after their meeting at the coffee shop. It contained Reg’s best grey silk tie, his diamond cufflinks, and nothing else. Not a note of regret or even a letter of petty resentments. Nothing.

Reg got the tie and cufflinks out now and put them on Joel, but the grey didn’t suit Joel’s brown eyes as it had Martin’s hazel ones.

“What’s wrong?” said Joel.

“I think that something else would suit you better.”

Reg put Joel in a white suit with an apricot tie, and they looked so much better on him. “You look remarkable in that.”

As they drove to the venue, Reg said, “You’re looking peaky. Have you been giving yourself enough time off?”

“I don’t want to turn down work.”

“Being selective makes you look more appealing, not less. Are there any books you don’t like narrating?”

“I don’t have a genre preference, if that’s what you mean.

I like well written books. Like when the writer knows when I need to breathe.

The badly written ones always take longer to get through.

Some have really long sentences, and I run out of air before I can get to the end.

I’d say I have a preference for certain authors. ”

“And is there anything that makes you uncomfortable to read?” said Reg.

“Scientific inaccuracy. I pointed out a medical error to an author once, and all he said was ‘It’s fiction.’ He didn’t fix the mistake. I hope no one thinks I endorse the content I’m reading.”

“What about reading other material? Explicit sex, for example.”

“We’re attending a gallery exhibiting pictures of me naked,” said Joel. “That doesn’t bother me. After a summer of exposure therapy with you, I’m incapable of feeling embarrassed. I could read an entire page of Nobbly Bobblys without blushing.”

“I’m sorry I put you through anything, cariad.”

“I didn’t mean I wasn’t grateful,” said Joel.

As they walked to the venue, Joel said, “How safe is it to come out to these people as a former pre-med student?”

“Safe?”

“I told my castmates in the audio play that I used to be in pre-med, and they started acting like I was going to perform physical exams on them. They were already weirded out by how young I was. I’m only one year off from needing my mother to sign my contracts for me.”

“Have ‘intriguing’ be your default bearing,” said Reg. “Say nothing. Imply everything. Sip your wine pensively. Nibble the sandwiches. Look at the sculptures. Pretend to be bored. You’ll go down a treat.”

Joel took Reg’s hand as they reached the entrance.

Reg suspected he was seeking reassurance rather than affection, but he still felt chuffed.

They were met by the flustered poet, who handed Joel a sheaf of marked-up pages (“Some notes you should see.”) and after getting settled, the poet was introduced, followed by Joel.

Reg was again struck by how self-assured Joel seemed in front of an audience.

He read flawlessly, with precisely timed dramatic pauses.

Afterwards, he suffered the ensuing applause before bowing to the poet and exiting the stage.

The crowd dispersed to wander through the exhibits. Reg went over to the drinks table.

“I can’t drink,” said Joel. “I’m still eighteen.”

“When do you turn nineteen?”

“November eleventh.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Reg handed Joel a glass of sparkling water, choosing champagne for himself. “Do you feel like you’re regressing, being denied alcohol? We can go home and get drunk if you like.”

“I want to see your poem first.”

Reg’s “Elements” had a small room to itself.

The photos had been enlarged to fill the walls.

In the cold, white light, Joel’s body looked haunting and uncanny.

Joel peered at the photos as though he had never seen them before.

Other people filtered through the room. Some stopped, absorbed in voyeuristic admiration.

Reg put a protective arm around Joel, and Joel leaned against him subtly.

They stayed until the exhibit closed, though that hadn’t been their plan. The poet Joel had read for introduced them to the sculptor she had collaborated with, a sharp-edged man named Silas, dressed in white, whose grasp and gaze lingered on Joel when they shook hands.

“And who is your friend?” said Silas, giving Reg an appraising look.

“His name’s Reg,” said Joel. “And he’s not my friend. We’re lovers.”

“What an extraordinary boy,” said Silas to Reg. “Wherever did you find him?”

“By a refrigerator,” said Joel.

“How fortuitous.”

“Why are you talking like that?” said Joel.

“It’s called wit,” said Silas.

“Maybe you should fire whoever’s writing your dialog,” said Joel.

Reg laughed, in spite of himself.

“ Someone needs to be sent to his room,” said Silas. “How deep is your entanglement, little boy? Are you open to dalliances?”

Without breaking eye contact with Silas, Joel took Reg’s hand and pulled him away to a quiet part of the gallery.

“Fucking asshole,” said Joel quietly.

“You meet assholes occasionally in this community. They’re part of its bone structure.”

Reg introduced Joel to the few fellow poets he knew at the event, then he excused himself and went to the bathroom.

While he was there, gazing into the mirror, noticing how tired he looked, he had a sudden vision of a white lizard with a golden tongue, scales shining in the sun, and had to have a whip-round through his pockets for his notebook, which, of course, he had left at home.

Joel would have provided him one, but he wasn’t here.

Reg did have a black pen in his pocket and plenty of paper towels in the dispenser, and one word led to another, and when he’d finished, he had a poem, spilling across five sheets.

Usually, finishing a poem felt satisfying, but this one left him keyed up, as though he were running late for something, though he didn’t know what. He folded the paper towels and tucked them into his jacket pocket.

Reg kept getting waylaid by people he knew vaguely, who complimented him on his exhibit and asked him what else he was working on and whether he was planning to be at convocation.

Reg found Joel in a quiet corner, talking to Silas. Silas had a predilectory gleam in his eyes and was leaning into Joel’s personal space. Joel looked guarded. Reg approached and put his arm around Joel’s shoulders, glanced at him with an All right? implicit. Joel’s shoulders felt tense.

“Shall we retire for the evening?” said Reg to Joel.

“Sure,” said Joel.

“Is it your bedtime?” said Silas.

“Good evening,” said Reg to Silas.

“My invitation still stands, Joel,” said Silas as Reg led him away.

Reg and Joel got their coats from the coat check, and Joel hurried out. Reg found him waiting by the entrance, his coat still unbuttoned. The air was clean and sharp.

“Aren’t you cold?” said Reg.

“Yes,” said Joel, but he made no move to close his coat.

Reg fastened the buttons on Joel’s coat. “Where do you want to go?”

“Home.”

Joel squeezed Reg’s hand as they went to the car park.

“What did Silas mean about an invitation?” said Reg.

“He wants me to come to a party at his place.”

Reg was very attuned to Joel’s body language, and he could tell something wasn’t right. Joel was walking closer to him than could be accounted for solely by their joined hands.

“You must have made an impression,” said Reg. “Do you want to go?”

“I’ll go if you come with me.”

“Of course, but why do you want to go? I gathered you don’t like him.”

“I don’t. He says he auditioned for Juilliard thirteen years ago and got in, but he rejected their offer. He said he could give me tips for my audition.”

“He got a lot of information out of you in such a short time.”

“You were gone for twenty minutes,” said Joel reproachfully. “Where were you?”

“I was waylaid by a poem,” said Reg. “About a golden-tongued lizard.”

“Was it about me?”

“Obliquely.”

“Can I read it?”

“Once it’s finished.”

At the car, Joel reluctantly released Reg’s hand so he could get in.

On the way home, Joel said, “Thanks for being with me.”

“I had to come cariad. It was my exhibit.”

“I meant,” said Joel, “thanks for being in my life. For taking care of me.”

Reg parked the car in the underground car park. “Something’s got under your skin tonight.”

Joel pulled Reg into a cinch and kissed him hungrily, trying to clamber into Reg’s seat.

Reg eased him off. “We’re in a car park.”

“Didn’t stop you at the Old Mill.”

“We’re almost home,” said Reg, getting out of the car.

But as soon as they were in the elevator, Joel started kissing him again, opening his own coat with one hand and guiding Reg’s hand down with the other. Joel’s arousal startled Reg, surging up into his hand. A moment later, he made a sudden, choked-off sound and sighed.

“Did you...?” said Reg.

“Sorry,” said Joel. “I’m sorry.”

Reg had never seen him so flustered. “Have I ever minded that?”

Joel looked uncomfortable. “It’s just...I’m really angry.”

“At me?”

“At Silas. He reminds me of Flip.”

“Of Flip?” said Reg in disbelief.

“The way he’s so angry at us.”

“You don’t have to go to his party.”

“I want to,” said Joel. “That’s why I’m angry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.”

“Let’s go to bed. To sleep. You’ve been overworking yourself.”

Joel didn’t contradict him, and he allowed Reg to lead him upstairs, arm around his shoulders, Joel leaning into him, up to the loft and into the bathroom.

“There you are,” said Reg.

“Reg? Would you take my clothes off? Please?”

“What?”

“You dressed me,” said Joel. “It’s only fair you undress me.”

Reg unbuttoned Joel’s jacket and shirt while Joel stood there with a face like he was being prepared for execution.

Reg finished stripping him and got him into the shower.

He looked strange to Reg in the dim light of the bathroom, his dark patches of body hair like handprints, darker under the water, staring back at Reg. He was getting hard again.

“Do you remember that time in the kitchen in Wales?” said Joel.

“How could I forget?”

“You looked after me then,” said Joel. “Will you, now?”

So, Reg took his clothes off and joined Joel in the shower.

Afterwards, Reg dressed Joel in a pair of white silk pyjamas he’d bought him.

He looked so vulnerable in the moonlight flooding the loft.

In bed, Joel bundled himself against Reg before falling asleep, his head tucked into the hollow of Reg’s shoulder.