Chapter 4

Your name is James, and you’re dead. In the first week after your death, your brother once again contacted your last boyfriend—your Anthony. Now, your death has briefly connected these two previously unrelated people, their only commonality being the guilt they feel over your passing. Your brother sees Anthony as a fragment of your memory left behind in this desolate world, while Anthony views your brother as the other half of your soul remaining on earth. Now, they need each other, using one another to compensate for the void left by your abrupt departure. You loved the Yankees so much that you couldn’t possibly not understand the concept of a “substitute.” And when Anthony saw your brother, the word that flashed through his mind was “compensation.”

Your brother doesn’t have a driver’s license. His wife dropped him off at the entrance of the fast-food restaurant where you often met. Now, sitting in your usual spot is your ex-boyfriend. They’ve agreed to spend Christmas together, your shared birthday with your brother, Anthony’s birthday, and the anniversary of your death.

Your brother carries a large cardboard box filled with scattered mementos related to your ex-boyfriend. He hurriedly prepares to pull open the fast-food restaurant’s door when he hears a voice and pauses. The stranger calls out your name—your stage name in the gay porn industry.

Your identical twin brother, Jon, instinctively lowers his head and tightens his grip on the box.

The stranger calls out again: “James?” Your real name. The name that flooded LGBT magazines and online news a week ago with the announcement of your death. The stranger steps forward excitedly, asking in an astonished tone, “You’re not dead? Oh my God, that’s amazing. I’m a huge fan of yours. The news of your death was everywhere a few days ago, and we were all devastated.” He insists you faked your death to escape the troubles of real life, to break free from the constraints of the porn industry and the torment of selling your body for eight years. You—pretending you were dead.

So your brother has no choice but to explain to this intrusive stranger his relationship with you—that the reason they look so alike is because you’re identical twins. He repeats over and over that you’re dead, that you died at 5 a.m. a week ago from a sudden heart attack. Fuck your sudden heart attack.

This is the kind of encounter you always despised when you were alive—strangers who recognized you from porn and treated you like a sexual fantasy, pretending familiarity as they struck up conversations. Usually, they’d declare themselves your “biggest fans,” worshipping your body, your cock, and your ass. You were their god only when you were being fucked or fucking other men. And then—

They’d blurt out loudly, regardless of the setting: “I just watched your porn last night.”

Their bodies would inch closer to you, their mouthwash scent making you grimace. They’d continue: “Just seeing you get pounded hard makes me lose control and get hard.” They’d ask about the size of your cock, whether you were naturally gifted or if you’d secretly visited some doctor to artificially enhance that magnificent part of you. They’d want to know if you’d had work done on your nose or lips. Maybe they’d even ask how you thoroughly douched or which brand of lube you preferred.

Their faces, flushed with some uncontrollable frenzy, disgusted you. They’d go on: “I’d jerk off thinking about your dick and asshole, at least three times a night.”

Occasionally, this would make you think of your “fake cock-induced triple orgasms.” You’d think of Mercury’s gaping craters of despair, the Rocky Mountains stretching across North America, and the shattered Lighthouse of Pharos forever submerged beneath the sea.

The strangers around you would stare, their gazes piercing through your clothes to touch your naked body.

Usually, you’d pretend not to be embarrassed, forcing a reluctant smile and feigning surprise: “Really?”

The stranger would then say: “You’re exactly my ideal boyfriend.”

And you, like a seasoned whore, would reply: “You can find my escort info on the rentboy website. If you’re interested, feel free to email me—just don’t call. If you’re only into my genitals, you can buy my cock mold and fleshlight on my porn company’s official site. Use my name as the discount code.” Then, you’d pretend to receive an urgent text or a sudden phone call before coldly walking away from this place that forced you to stand naked in public.

But if you were still alive and knew your twin brother had endured the same humiliation you’d suffered countless times, you’d probably have killed someone.

The stranger says to your brother: “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He doesn’t seem all that sorry—his expression suggests he’ll turn around and post on some social media site: “Oh my God, I just ran into James’ twin brother on the street. They look exactly alike. Yeah, that beefy gay porn star who died of a sudden heart attack a week ago. What? You don’t remember him anymore?”

Just one week is enough for most people to forget your death. The biggest spectacle of your life isn’t enough for them to remember you for longer.

Then, the stranger asks your brother: “Are you gay too?”

“No, I have a wife.”

The stranger presses on: “Really? I noticed you shave the hair on your arms and chest. Most straight guys don’t do that.”

The Ark needed to abandon the wicked and let them drown in the flood to sail safely. Since you’ve already been pruned from this world, why not drag some of these people down to hell with you?

Your ex-boyfriend sits silently in your usual seat. Even though countless asses have occupied that spot, he stubbornly believes it still carries your scent. His eyes have been red these past few days—the kind of red where peeling back the eyelids reveals dense blood vessels and congested conjunctiva beneath the lower lids. The aftermath of excessive crying.

When your brother finally walks into the bustling, noisy fast-food restaurant with the box, your ex-boyfriend looks up. The way he gazes at your brother is the same way he once looked at you. You always loved that look—gentle and full of dependence, making others feel needed.

Do you remember your first meeting with your boyfriend?

That afternoon, you’d been hired to service a patron in his home. Dealing with these wealthy “buyers” in upscale neighborhoods usually required some extra finesse. When they asked about your hourly rate, you had to act indifferent to the amount, countering in a tone reserved for intimate whispers: “What do you think I’m worth?” Usually, these refined, affluent clients would pay you triple your usual rate, plus tips generous enough to keep you grinning all day.

This patron was a doctor in his early forties. He had dyed golden-brown hair, wavy blue eyes, and smooth, exfoliated skin. An oddity, his physique hadn’t yet gone to ruin. He spoke elegantly, and even his physical contact was gentlemanly.

Under his guidance, you entered his guest room and stripped under his gaze. Even in this transactional moment, you couldn’t help but feel pleased by the admiration from another man.

The doctor praised your ass in a serpentine voice, saying its shape resembled a ripe peach about to burst with sweet juice. He stepped closer, his cold, nimble fingers—accustomed to holding scalpels—kneading your warm cheeks. Your drug-induced erection pressed boldly against his suit pants.

He smiled and said, “Looks like you’re ready.” Then he unbuckled his belt and sat on the bed, gesturing for you to service him with your mouth. As you did, two strands of his gelled golden-brown hair fell loose, disrupting his meticulously crafted image of a perfect, successful man. His blue eyes, brimming with desire, studied you, making you uneasy.

After you struggled to swallow his release, he gave you a charming smile. Still wearing his dress shirt, he patted his bare thighs, signaling for you to lie face-down across them. Your stomach pressed against his legs, your abdomen compressed.

Then, the doctor slipped on black leather gloves and began methodically spanking you. Each strike was forceful, the pain radiating to your nerve endings. After about ten minutes, your muscular body began to convulse uncontrollably. You begged, promising to do anything if he’d just stop hitting your ass.

The doctor leaned down to kiss your sweaty back, whispering apologies into your ear. Less than thirty seconds later, he resumed spanking your already reddened cheeks. You tried to get up, but he pinned your waist forcefully. You warned him that if he didn’t want a fist to the face, he’d better stop.

Again, he nuzzled your neck apologetically, his hand gently massaging the abused area—each tender touch sending fresh waves of pain and shivers through you.

Thirty seconds later, he started slapping your ass again. Three minutes in, you lost control of your bladder, wetting his bare thighs and the carpet. He didn’t stop.

Your male escort professionalism finally failed you. You struggled to your feet, grabbed his collar, and hauled him up, snarling that he’d better pay you and let you leave immediately.

Even though you’d always known your cock, your asshole, your body—they were your livelihood. In that moment, you couldn’t help but feel like a worthless, dignity-less piece of trash. On your way to the gay bar, you finally broke down and cried like a coward. Your jeans pockets bulged with cash, the folded bills pressing against your inner thigh, leaching warmth from your body. But the foreign, grating sensation made your stomach churn.

The gay bar you frequented had recently seen an influx of nearby college freshmen. One shy, nervous young man kept glancing at you. From his gaze—free of lechery—you guessed he wasn’t one of those “obsessed fans” who saw you as a sexual fantasy. While still lucid, you gave him a bitter smile.

It gave him courage. He approached cautiously, striking up a conversation. The way he looked at you was gentle and slightly dependent.

This long-lost feeling of being needed revived your numb senses. Starved for affection, you eagerly invited this nervous young man to your home, hinting that you could spend a good night together.

Aside from sneaking a peek at his body while he showered (discovering he had a beautifully straight erection), you didn’t engage in any other sexually charged activities. You lay side by side on the couch you’d bought with the money earned from selling your body, watching old movies you’d seen countless times but still loved. The next morning, sunlight streaming through the window woke you. The young man had his arms around your waist, his warm cheek pressed against your chest—right over your beating heart.

You studied his youthful, almost innocent face, waiting for your morning erection to fade. You began to want to grasp the lifelines life occasionally threw your way.

You thought, when he wakes up, you’ll solemnly ask his name.

And he—he’ll tell you his name is Anthony.