A siren screams in the night. My eyes cut to the window. An eerie wild-woman stares back. I click off the light and she's gone. As the siren fades, my eyes shift back to the blood-splattered floor.

I know this isn't me. I'm only watching this shit. Your sexy ass lying on my kitchen floor is not my doing. It couldn't be. The slow rise and fall of your chest tells me that you're not dead.

Exhaling, I thank God for this tiny favor and my hand returns the gun to the belt cinched around my waist. An old Daily News, now filthy and illegible, litters the floor.

Can you hear me, Romeo? You know how sorry I am about all this . . . don't you?

Still gripped by that same feeling of unreality, I feel like a svelte Rambo, dragging you across the green linoleum past the others. You're heavy as hell, boy. What a man you've become. I can hear the newspaper crackle, can feel your boots against my palms, can see the white dust. But this still isn't me.

You have tiny feet for a guy, as small as mine.

The basement door closes with a weighty metallic clunk and a chorus of slam locks after you come down, feet first, head lolling and thudding against each step. My poor baby.

It's dark here with the windows boarded up. Where sun and air once entered, now layers of wood are drilled over the barred windows, leaving the space airless and devoid of light. The dandelions that used to stand sentry and provide the only view from this low vantage are dead anyway. An ugly old lamp in the corner illuminates a heavy chain hanging from the ceiling with a sickly yellow glow. Dust particles float past it.

Cases of canned vegetables and stew are piled in the corner and also cases of bottled water . . . Evian. An old tweed sofa sits on the floor half in shadow, listing forward and to the left. It's been riddled by time, its cottony innards spilling from everywhere at once. If it were ever alive, it's dead now. A soft hum seeps through a rickety old door toward the rear of the basement. Inside the tiny anti-room next to the washer, a gasoline generator efficiently does its job, its fumes safely piped outside. I kick one of the empty water bottles. It rolls . . . making a hollow sound . . . toward the TV—which is the only other light, its broadcast of pure static providing additional white noise. Every now and then I change the channel.

You'll be comfortable here . . . for now at least.

You look so peaceful with all you're fire extinguished. The only thing fiery now is your hair. You always kept it in those tight silky cornrows, but now it's more like the real you . . . wild. I can't believe how long it's gotten. I almost didn't recognize you, kid; you don't know how close you came. But I like the crazy hair though. You always were a little savage, tearing through these streets as if they belonged to you. But where is the cocky young thug whose gray eyes were usually too busy lusting after some young piece of ass to linger for a second in my direction? Huh, Romeo? Now you're just an innocent . . . helpless . . . little boy lying on my cold concrete floor.

I lean close enough to breathe your exhalation. Then you inhale, sucking me closer. I see you've aged a bit, but it only makes you sexier. You're at the age when a few additional years just add a dash of seasoning ... they make you finer. You just wait.

I kiss you. A sharp pain pinches my gut. They're softer than I remember . . . those lips . . . they're not as tense. They're salty and taste like that awful cloud . . . but still alluring, and surprisingly sweet. It's so good to see you again, my little bad-ass savage. I thought I'd lost you. Thanks for coming back to me.

After much pulling and dragging, I put you on the sofa—which sighs under your weight—and prop your head carefully on a pillow so that you won't have a crick in your neck when you wake up. Don't you hate that shit? My eyes trail down to your belt buckle. Should I undress you? I've waited so long to see that body again—to feel you inside me. Would you be angry if you woke up and I was riding it? I shake my head, but my hand is already on the buckle, pulling the thick leather through the loop and disengaging the pin.

This is bad. I'm going to Hell for this. But then again, this is Hell.

I watch my trembling fingers undo the top button of your jeans. You lay there seductively, silently willing me to go further. The next button pops free, and then the next. I peel the material away slowly and carefully, savoring the moment, enjoying the thumping in my chest and growing pressure in my head. I exhale as I see once-white boxer-briefs with a puff of red hair peering over the waistband. A natural redhead . . . and Puerto Rican . . . Romeo, you are special, baby.

A familiar feeling sweeps past-that warm breeze that always follows you around—leaving me moist and disoriented. My eyes close and I feel my face dip to your groin, inhaling a spicy scent of youthful masculinity mingled with a stronger, pungent, musky odor. Considering the circumstances, I forgive you. I'll take you, funky or not. Turning my head back and forth, my lips graze the softness of the briefs and the coarseness of the denim. I exhale again and lay my head on your lap. I can almost hear your heart beating through your manhood. Opening my eyes I stare over the terrain of your body, past the thin line of nearly invisible hairs that march up your abdomen, past the barren freckled chest which moves . . . breathes . . . soundlessly. A trickle of blood marks your temple.

What have I done? Can you hear me? You need to hear this.

"Uuuhhrrrrmmmm."

What was that? You can hear me, can't you? Are you coming to?

Liquid ice pours down my spine. I stand up. You probably won't be in a great mood when you remember how I clocked you. I grab the chain and wrap it around your ankle. I'm about to click the padlock when I stop.

I should strip you first. Yeah, it'll be difficult with the chain attached. Removing your sneakers and socks first and then the jeans, I pause, savoring the sight of those soft transparent hairs that begin on your upper thighs and end just above your ankles. I peel the briefs down. Your pinkish dick is sleeping beneath its thick red bush. I love that bush. I feel dizzy. Wrapping the chain around again, I pull it tight and padlock it in place. I hope it won't bruise your cute little ankle. I kiss it before I can stop myself.

With you laying there looking so . . . so Romeo . . . I stare and imagine: The two of us in a passionate embrace, hands fondling, tongues probing . . . tasting . . . sweating and thrusting until we can't breath. You feel good on me; so strong and male slipping around between my thighs. You promise not to cringe at my touch this time. You promise not to leave me . . . ever.

My fingers spread across your chest and they look even older and darker against the pale background. An explosion ripples . . . a distant but powerful one. My nails remind me of a crack 'ho. Your nipple feels like a tiny berry . . . or huge booger. I roll it slowly between my thumb and forefinger. How horrified would I be if it fell off? Maybe I would just take it all in stride . . . and flick it. You'd still be my Romeo . . . just with one less item to suck on.

I remember when I first realized how badly I wanted you. I'd found myself following you around four summers ago, feeling like an obsessed fan or deranged stalker. I couldn't help myself, and what were you . . . sixteen then? I kept circling the spot where you and your boys hung out, the basketball court in the park—youth and testosterone rose like steam from the sun baked concrete. I've always had a thing for basketball . . . and young men. I guess that makes me shallow, caring about youth and beauty more than brains. Must be my masculine side making a rare appearance. That was cool when I was in my twenties, but it's sad to admit that at forty I still love 'em that way. 'Young, dumb and fulla cum' is what my mother used to say. She was a little too hot for her own good too, exhausting her share of young men. At least I know where I get it from; men my own age just don't jiggle my Jell-O . . . you know.

Anyway, I'd walk my dog Taco searching for you. You'd be doing your thing, the king of the court, oblivious to my stare and Taco's watery brown eyes. When you'd leave, we'd follow . . . discretely . . . and each time you looked over your freckled and sun-reddened shoulder I'd stoop to admonish Taco for some breach of Chihuahua etiquette. We'd go blocks out of our way just to scope you out and count the number of times you'd spit and readjust your crotch.

Taco seemed to like our game. She never blew our cover. She'd happily run ahead with that cocky strut that little dogs have, turning where you turned, occasionally pausing to poop when you looked back as if she sensed the prudence of keeping a low profile. In winter, Taco was on point with her fur coat and little galoshes following you in that yellow goose-down you used to wear. You looked so hot in that. Although in the rain, despite her slicker, she would lose interest in our game refusing to be out in such conditions. I would drag my now unwilling accomplice along anyway, ignoring her pleading eyes, refusing to accept the obvious fact that I was slipping over the line.

But you knew I was there all along, didn't you?

I'd fantasize that the world had turned upside-down and humans were like canines. I could walk up to you with a menacing stare. We'd circle and then sniff each other's butt to gather information. Having established your dominance as the 'alpha-male', you'd mount me and I'd glance over my shoulder with submissive eyes. When you finished, you'd walk away unashamed by our impromptu freaky-deek—a few remaining pelvic spasms marking your departure—only to return because there was a bitch in heat who needed to be fucked again. What sort of top -dog would you be if you didn't comply?

But this shit wasn't a game anymore or a fantasy, if it ever was. This obsessive behavior of mine was unacceptable for someone like me, someone who had become accustomed to getting things through beauty and a wily charm. Stalking a man was not the way to his heart, and yet knowing all of this, I still couldn't stop myself.

Imagine my surprise when you turned up on my doorstep. You looked so adorable saying that you were going around asking the neighbors if they had any odd jobs that you could do. When you licked your lips and stressed that you would do anything, I knew that you'd been up on our little game all along. I remember thinking as I invited you in, 'You've got balls boy, confronting your stalker'. Of course I've got an odd job for you.

My yard, among other things, was in need of some TLC. No sooner than you began did I realize that trimming my hedges was not what you had in mind. You wanted to seduce me, not work. Unfortunately, you still wanted to get paid.

This was a high and a low period for me. I had a yard man/lover but my yard still looked like shit. I didn't care though. I guess I don't ask for much because your weekly late night visits made me happier than I'd been in years. I knew you didn't love me, but I had faith that one day ... maybe ... you would see past the outer shell. Maybe you'd see that I'm just like you, Romeo, and you ... you're just like me.

I'd just turned forty for the fifth time when the Towers fell and you vanished. And as the world began its sudden downward spiral, I sank even further and began to build my bunker. The third world was suddenly a very real threat to the American way of life. We wanted that bastard's toweled head on a platter, but at the time we had no idea that he was the least of our problems. We would learn, though I instantly suspected, that 9/11 was only the prelude, the real nightmares were coming.

I stopped walking Taco, preferring to let her do her business in the backyard. I quit bartending and refused to leave the house. When I did venture out for needed supplies—scanning the streets for suspicious characters and the skies for unruly aircraft—all I could see was the terrorist-redesigned Manhattan skyline. And for a few desperate weeks, I even forgot about you, Romeo. I stopped envisioning you under the rumble as if you had a reason to be there . . . as if you'd taken my advice for once and got a real job. I stopped looking for your name to appear amongst the missing as I turned my basement into as near a bomb shelter as my means would allow. I drained my savings to have a reinforced steel doorway and a generator installed. I bought a gun, a crateful of ammo and that food and water over there. Anything of reasonable value, like my jewelry, was moved down here and, almost as an after thought, I added a case of Scotch. Steeling ones nerves for an apocalypse would require a shot every now and again.

I was ready for a siege and I stationed myself in here, my bunker-ette, watching CNN in the dark and documenting the world's slow roll into Hell. My protection was minimal at best and laughable at worst. Any nuclear device worth its plutonium if detonated over New York would also flatten Jersey City directly across the Hudson. But news reports began to surface about smaller devices, personal ones, carried by a new breed of suicide bomber and that it was "only a matter of time." I think it was Allen Keyes who said that. No one listened. No one listens to him. I sent him an email telling him about my bunker and inviting him to ride out the inevitable with me but he didn't respond. I guess he has his own.

I couldn't believe how easily everyone slipped back into normal life. All that people talked about was rebuilding. With all the focus on airport security and much later, Irag, we were caught with our drawers around our ankles again. This time it was Washington, DC. No hijacked planes though. Just a simple man, I assume, with an insane glint in his eye, a smirk and a portable nuke. In a blink, Capital Hill was gone. The terrorists had struck a blow right in the eye of the Cyclops; all global alliances crumbled. Then began the nuclear tit for tat game, cities around the world fell in under a month: among them, Baghdad, London, Tokyo and then finally, Tel Aviv. Rumors said that we were behind that one, as if the Jews had been the cause of all this mess in the first place. Blaming the Jews, I never understood that logic. No one is to blame for this, except maybe, if you believe in such things, the Devil. While I was curled up in a ball in my bunker, wishing you were with me, watching the powers that be desperately trying to save civilization but succeeding only in pointing fingers at each other, all my contact with the outside world ended with a simultaneous rush and rumble.

CNN became static for a second before the power went out.

Romeo? Wake up, I didn't hit you that hard . . . did I? Romeo? I guess maybe I did. After being alone down here all this time, hearing the three of you ransacking my kitchen freaked me out. I just crept up, threw the door open and started shooting. You can't blame me. You've been gone for so long. You must have been confused; you were home and didn't even know it. At least I didn't shoot you too.

That terrible day, that sound, you must have heard it, was similar to a small tornado I'd experienced once in Tennessee. Then, I heard the wind approaching, sounding like a derailed freight train tearing through a forest, splintering trees and spewing projectiles in all directions. This was similar, only much faster. There was no time for my ears to perk up or to cock my head and listen. There was no warning. It was as if that speeding train had been suddenly beamed into the room with me. In the aftermath and sickening silence, I crept outside.

Fires were everywhere. The quiet was deceptive, a result of sudden auditory overload I guess, because a slow escalation of sounds rose around me. Dust and smoke and car alarms and screams assaulted my senses. People wandered aimlessly, gagging and confused, covered in soot and whatnot, reminiscent of that day a few Septembers ago. Flaming debris dripped through the toxic ash cloud, like a ticker tape parade in Hell. A woman absently clutched her bathrobe, which partially concealed her nudity. I noticed with a dull mind that it was also on fire. With curlers still in her hair, she must have just stepped outside for the morning paper when she was blown off her stoop and down the block. I tried my cell but couldn't get a network as I drifted down the street. The woman must have noticed her burning robe, because she screamed and ran naked past me again. Mr. Gonzalez who runs the corner bodega came out of his store and stared at me like a stranger for a few eerie moments. It was eerie because he too never really looked at me. He looked at my money and my purchases but never at me. I was used to that though. Then he dashed off. I don't know where he was going; I doubt he did either. I thought about you, wondering if you were alive and in all this pandemonium. But only for a second because too many people—friends and loved ones—were flickering through my head ... too many lives in limbo to think about my red-headed prodigal lover.

All we have are each other now, Romeo, those degenerate marauders that you were running wild with are dead now. You came back to me after all this time and that's all that matters. All is forgiven. You can wake up now. I don't wanna be alone. I can't go out like that. I won't.

I must look a mess though. Personal hygiene hasn't been a priority lately. But before you wake up, I promise to pull it together again, somewhat. I promise to be a reasonable facsimile of the tall beauty who stalked you . . . lured you . . . the one who you promised you'd always be there for. For awhile, I thought you'd lied. But now you're finally mine, Romeo . . . as I've always been yours. When you wake up, I'll tell about all the plans I have . . . all the places we'll go . . . oh . . . it'll be sooo grand!

I'll be different though, none of the make-up and oh, this wig, it can go too . . . wow, my head feels so cool without it. It seems ludicrous now . . . considering. You never liked that shit anyway. Stripped of all those layers, bare to the world, not nearly a woman but much more than a man . . . I'll just be me.

It took an apocalypse.

 

©2003 Taylor Siluwé - Contributor's Bio

'When Romeo Wakes' was anthologized in Law of Desire: Tales of Gay Male Lust and Obsession