Indian Summers

It’s hot. 

Condensation slides down the outside of my spicy, skinny margarita, each drop pulling the tajín rim further from where it belongs. I run my thumb along the glass, catching the salty, spicy powder and bringing it to my lips.

El Coyote is one of those classic LA haunts – not remarkable for its food or ambiance but because it was the last place Sharon Tate dined before she was brutally murdered by the Manson family. For me, though, it holds a different significance. It’s where I sat with my parents the one and only time they visited me in Los Angeles, a table steeped in memories of distance, resentment and reunion. It’s where Tony and I clinked margarita glasses after my second COVID vaccination, only for me to discover – after my fourth drink – that alcohol was off-limits for 24 hours post-shot. And it’s where I realized my friendship with Chris had shifted, like an inevitable landslide or earthquake, into something I couldn't stop even if I tried.

I sit alone on the patio, a deep dread looming over me. I finish my margarita and wait. Wait for a conversation that I know I need but somehow would rather retreat into my own head and replay the last six months over and over. A six months of Sundays spent in bed, cocaine fueled pool parties, and conversations that would last well beyond sunrise. 

And then I see him, dressed in his impeccable way, his hair effortlessly quaffed in a way it’d have James Dean envious. He wears a vintage oversized Van Halen tee shirt which pairs well with his dark washed Levi’s 501s. Silver chains hang around his neck and matching rings line his fingers. This is a style I’ve coved and emulated in our time together. It’s become unclear what is my sense of style and what is his.

I can see his eyes light up behind his black framed wayfarers when he sees me the same way mine do when I see him.

Fuck. I hate this.

“Hey,” Chris says, sitting down across from me.

“Hi.” I say, not knowing how to begin, letting the silence that follows our simple greetings say more than I can. 

After ordering a drink identical to mine, Chris looks me over and sighs. He’s just as unsure of what to say as I am.

“What are we going to do with you?” He smiles. His grin layering good humor over what I only assume is deep pain? Is he in pain? Shouldn’t he be? Shouldn’t seeing me put him in some sort of emotional distress? He seems totally fine. Calm. Happy, even. What is this? He should be a total wreck. I’m a total wreck.

“That suggestive statement, mister.” I attempt to match his level of emotional distance. Chris grins at my remark and leans back in his seat.

“I guess it depends on how this goes.” His voice is more serious now.

“I guess so.”

***

It’s hot.

The space around the pool I’ve found myself at has gotten sparse and the 90 degree weather isn’t helping. In need of an escape, I push my way through a crowd of identical torsos till I find a sliding glass door that leads to the house, my current best ‘going out’ friend, Nickky, follows me close behind. I slide the door open, and hurry inside, ready for the escape of – oh my god – air conditioning. 

Thank god.

“Fuck it’s hot!” Nickky almost yells, drawing attention to the two of us. I look up to see three boys standing around a kitchen island, a handle of Tito’s between them. Nickky smiles at them, “hi!” He says with a big smile on his face. 

Nickky is used to getting a lot of attention. He’s a popular spin instructor in West Hollywood and has a snatched tight little body and an angular face. It’s easy when I’m with him to blend into the background, sometimes I prefer that. Nickky can start conversations and I can interject with a quippy remark when I feel comfortable. 

I pour Nickky, myself and the three boys shots. We take a couple shots and Nickky spearheads the conversation, the typical stupid surface level conversation; “Where are you from?” “Where do you live?” “How do you know ‘so and so’?” I can tell that Nickky has his eyes on one of the boys, a tall dark and handsome guy named Bradley. He looks like a hispanic Disney prince, if he told me he just shot a perfume ad for Dior I would believe him without question. 

There’s something about boys like that that detours me. The chiseled, perfect he-god hunks of West Hollywood. Sure, they’re hot, but like… what else? Unless I can have a Gilmore level back and forth with them, then I’m not interested. Sure, I’m attracted to them, who wouldn’t be? But I prefer something a little more elusive.

“Do you…?” The boy to my right who has been quiet during this conversation flashes me a small bag of white powder he has tucked into the waistband of his speedo. I smile slyly up at him. 

“Oh course.”

He takes my hand and gently leads me away from the group, who barely notice as we slip into a bedroom.

“Thank god we’re out of there, right?” He says to me with a smile as he searches the room for a smooth surface.

“What do you mean?” 

“I just mean Bradley can be so drooly when he sees a guy he likes, and he’s obviously interested in your friend, Nick. And Nick! He can go on and on and on!” He says, “and you seem cool.” I pause to really take him in. He’s handsome, though not in the usual way. A black speedo hugs his frame, accented by silver jewelry and black-inked tattoos—a mix of tribal designs and script. His body isn’t sculpted or bulked up like the others, but he’s toned, fit, undeniably hot.

“What was your name again?” 

“Chris.” Chris smiles a sweet, genuine and somehow sexy smile. 

“Sean.”

“Nice to meet you!” Chris claps his hands together, “can we do coke now?”

“Oh my god, of course!”

“You have to do me a favor though,” Chris tells me with an eyebrow raised.

I roll my eyes and try to hold back a smile, “what?”

“Lay down on the bed.” Now I raise my brow.

“You want to use me as a table.”

“I want to use you as a table.” Chris nods, a big smile on his face. “Now you know your true purpose in life.”

“Oh really?” I say laying down on my back. As soon as I’m horizontal Chris knocks a pile of white powder out on my torso just above my speedo line. “You’re my table.” The way his voice dropped when he said this sent half my blood supply rushing south. My heart raced as he lowered his face to my belly button, his breath warm against my skin before he took a deep inhale, catching any trace of powder left on me. I jump as his wet tongue examines the area for any coke left behind.

I look down and watch as he licks once more. He and I both look at the bulge in my speedo meant for him and smile at each other.

“It’s your turn.”

***

It’s hot.

Restful sleep has always been just out of reach. I shift from my side, to my back, to my stomach, then to the other side, sometimes with an arm tucked behind my head—it’s never comfortable. Throw in a 112-degree heat wave, and it’s a million times worse. Throw in a 112-degree heat wave and a twenty-nine-year-old man, and it’s a trillion times worse.

I slowly wake, naked and sweaty, barely covered by a black sheet. Disoriented at first, I gradually recognize Chris's bedroom, reminding myself that I’ve been staying here for the past few nights. I glance over at Chris, sound asleep. Bastard.

For a brief moment, I resent him for sleeping so peacefully, but then I watch his chest rise and fall, I hear the sound of his breath, and I remember I love him. Even without air conditioning, I curl up beside him, resting my head on his chest.

A few moments pass before I feel his arm tighten around me. His lips peck at my forehead. Soon our hands are exploring each other. Our bodies contract and release together. Words are unnecessary. Everything he feels I know by his touch. A few words, as unnecessary as they may be, slip from his lips;

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says to me, desperation and longing in his voice. There are moments where you really see someone. Moments of true vulnerability where you can see another human being offering themselves to you and saying ‘don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me’. I couldn’t help but be scared. I couldn’t help but wonder; ‘why me?’ I couldn’t help but think… this never ends well.

“I would never.”

***

It’s hot.

My second margarita is nowhere near as good as my first. Chris and I sit together in silence, sipping our drinks. Staring each other down. Not sure what else to say besides those basic boring surface level questions we both hate so much. 

“When Slut Pop came out I thought about you,” he says with a smile, as though nothing is wrong.

“That was a big day for me.”

“I thought it would be… this is slut pop, get your dick out” grinning his big special grin he begins to sing.

“This is slut pop, get your tits out” I join him and we laugh together. As our laughter subsides, so does the tension that was once lingering around us.

“I miss you.” He says after an appropriate beat, “I miss my friend.”

“I miss you too.” I say back, knowing it doesn’t change anything. He misses our relationship when we first met, the playful, fun, carefree version of us. The version before we fucked everything up by catching feelings. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if it matters, but I am.”

“For what?”

I think for a second, and I have a couple obvious answers, but I realize that what he’s giving me is forgiveness and decide to say. “I’m not sure.” I wonder what to say next but can’t find the words. “This is it isn’t it?”

“Yeah, man. Sucks.”

“Yeah. Sucks.”

And just like that … the heatwave between us finally broke.