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White practically kicks open the door of his Embassy-assigned house, his arms loaded with yellow plastic bags from the grocery store and his feet and eyes aching something fierce. What a week! He had been sent on a last-minute assignment to Blackspyland to retrieve a Top Secret briefcase containing information about an old factory on the outskirts of the enemy nation. Of course, Black had intercepted him and White managed to escape by the skin of his teeth. Now he’s home and ready to cook dinner. Just like he did last week. And the week before that.
It always feels strange, this space between his missions, when everything is soft and still. White is so used to constantly moving, always on the prowl, forever looking over his shoulder to make sure Black isn’t sneaking up on him with a giant wooden club. It’s gotten to the point that he never knows what to do with himself during these rare, quiet times. Sure, he can read or watch TV. But he’s been doing that far too much. He’s beginning to increasingly feel like he’s just wasting his time when he’s not fighting with Black.
White begins to slowly put away his groceries. He didn’t skimp out on this shopping trip: salmon, scallops, Cornish hen, caviar, truffles, saffron, crown melon, even a couple of bottles of merlot and chardonnay. His Faction gives him a great food stipend every month and he doesn’t intend to blow it on banal shit like frozen burgers and chips. That’s more of Black’s thing. The man has no taste or class whatsoever. He’s happiest when he’s at some hole-in-the-wall bar, guzzling lagers and filling his face with stuffed jalapeños while watching a football game with strangers. For some reason, the thought makes White’s chest ache. As lame and lowbrow as it is, Black’s idea of a fun time sounds way more interesting than White’s usual evenings home.
He knows Black is somewhere in the city. And it’s not a very large city when you really think about it. The world is much smaller and more compact than anybody gives it credit for. If White really wanted to, he could go outside and run into his own mother walking down the street. He won’t, of course. Mama is in Paris right now. White has the number for her hotel suite, but she hasn’t returned his calls yet. She’s probably too busy.
But Black…Black is always right where White wants him. Where he needs him. He’s like White’s shadow—he’s always there, even when White doesn’t expect him to be.
White puts the thought out of his head and starts making dinner. He plops butter into a sizzling pan and adds the scallops—he hasn’t had seafood in a while. As the scallops cook, he makes a salad. Something light and leafy with vinaigrette dressing that he splashes onto the lettuce. His mind keeps straying towards the factory, how dark and dank it was, and how Black followed him with White none the wiser. Black watched his every move like a raptor zeroing in on its prey. White should be embarrassed that he wasn’t aware of Black’s presence, but the thought of being stalked like that thrills him. It sends a whole shiver through his body like he just got plunged into an ice-cold pool.
He shouldn’t be feeling this way.
It’s completely unnatural.
He should eat his dinner and read his books and then go to bed like a good boy. Maybe try and call his mother again. She might be waiting for him by the phone, eager to hear his voice.
Instead, White stops cooking. He snaps off the range and impulsively throws the scallops into the trash along with the salad. He will definitely regret it later when he realizes how much money he’s wasted—stipend or no. Then he gets changed into a new shirt and carefully tucks and rearranges a blue silk handkerchief in his front pocket. He wants to look stylish for when he inevitably runs into Black. He wants Black’s jaw to hit the ground. He wants to knock Black’s fucking socks off.
To run into Black, White has to think like Black. He hits up all the cheap bars in the vicinity around his house. White orders a different drink each time—rum and coke, gin and tonic, martinis, Long Island ice teas. He orders the food he knows Black definitely likes. White eats chicken wings, bacon hamburgers, disco fries smothered in gravy and cheese, and lots of complimentary pretzels and peanuts. The bartenders and other patrons give him curious looks. He knows he’s definitely overdressed. It’s a little bit embarrassing.
He’s all kinds of messed up when he leaves the last bar on the block. His mind is swimming from all the booze he drank and his stomach teeter-totters dangerously from all the greasy, cheap food he’s eaten. He leans against a streetlamp and tries to get his bearings. Black wasn’t in any of the bars, and White doesn’t think he has the resolve to drink and eat any more. He’s simply not built for it. How can Black do this at night and still get up in the morning?
His hazy vision focuses on a building that’s all lit up like a circus ride. It’s the Puss in Boots theater. The titles are spelt on the striped marquee in crooked black letters. In the Realm of the Senses. Story of O. Emmanuelle. Blue Velvet. And a whole bunch of other artsy, erotic films that’s he’s already seen. For a moment, he considers just giving up and going home before he gets sick. He can already feel his insides churning from all the overindulgences.
Great spies never, ever give up. They never turn around and run away with their tails tucked firmly between their legs. When they set out to do something, they simply fucking do it. Finger combing his hair, White walks up to the ticket bubble as soberly as he can. He takes out a crisp tenner and slides it towards the girl sitting inside.
“One ticket, please.”
She barely looks up from her Anaïs Nin book. “What movie?”
“Uh…Blue Velvet?”
This earns him a raised eyebrow. “It’s already half-way over.”
“I’ve already seen it.”
She shrugs, takes his money, and gives him a small red ticket. White staggers inside the lobby, where he is immediately greeted by a cold, stale blast from the malfunctioning air conditioner. The walls are pale yellow and covered in faded posters of films, some of which haven’t been played here in years. The air smells faintly like burnt popcorn. He gives his ticket to another employee and makes his way into the theater. It’s vast and dark like the belly of a Biblical whale. Like the girl said, the movie has already started. It’s also completely empty. White makes his way to the dead center aisle and slumps into his seat. His stomach roils dangerously. For a moment, he realizes he made a huge mistake coming here.
A man like White doesn’t get his kicks in crumbling, derelict old theaters that proudly show tits and ass. A man like White doesn’t go into bars and get drunk off of booze and fried, greasy foods. He’s supposed to be picking up a woman in a fancy French restaurant. He’s supposed to be at the opera house, watching La Bohème from his own private box high up above everybody else. This sort of thing is really beneath him. It’s more suited for somebody like—
Black drops in next to White. Just like that. His trench coat settles around him like a pair of great leathery wings. He grins sheepishly in the dark.
"Hey there, mister,” Black says. “Mind if I sit here?”
White glares back at him. “How long have you been following me?”
“Uh, a good half-hour? Maybe?”
“A half-hour? Black, didn’t you know I was looking for you? Why do you think I was going into all those scuzzy bars?”
“Is that why you look so sick?”
“What…?”
"Here.” Black reaches into his coat pockets and pulls out two cans of Coke. “I figured you might be thirsty after all that drinking. Alcohol makes you dehydrated, you know.”
“Thank you, doctor,” White says. He pops open the can with a hiss and takes a hearty, desperate swig. The soda is so cold and refreshing that it burns his throat slightly. Black drinks, too, and peers up at the giant screen in front of them.
“So what’s this about?” he asks.
“Please tell me you’ve seen this before.”
“It doesn’t look familiar…”
White gapes at him in the dark. “Black! It’s only one of the best movies ever made!” He drops his voice to a whisper even though they’re the only ones here besides the lonely, invisible projectionist. It makes the whole thing feel more intimate. “It’s about this beautiful nightclub singer who’s a prisoner of this crazy drug addict who’s holding her husband and son hostage.”
Black narrows his eyes at the movie playing in front of them. “Oh.”
“This addict makes her do horrible things so he doesn’t hurt her family,” White continues. He casually puts an arm around Black’s shoulders and slips his hand inside Black’s shirt. His fingers carefully trail little circles around Black’s nipple. “And the main character eventually falls in love with her, too, because she’s so sad and irresistible.”
Black moves around in his seat, trying to get comfortable. His mouth is slightly parted, his breathing a bit shallower. White gets closer and fondles the various scars and healed wounds littering Black’s chest. His fingers dance down Black’s belly. They get all tangled up in Black’s coarse body hair. Unlike White, Black doesn’t trim his hair or groom it in any way. He’s like a bear that just woke up from hibernation. It’s totally sexy.
White knows he’s only doing this because he’s drunk and lonely. Because his mother isn’t answering his calls. Because he can’t put it out of his head that Black followed him all around that factory and White was none the wiser. White wishes that once, just once, he can get the drop on Black.
Maybe his luck will change tonight.
Black watches Dorothy Vallens appear on the screen with her curly black wig and slinky blue dress. Her eyelids are painted a dreamy sky-blue and her lips are a perfect red O as she sings the film’s namesake song. “Blue Velvet”. Like the men in the club, Black is just as captivated by her beauty. His eyes can’t leave her sad pale face. White feels a surge of jealousy course through him. How can he ever compete with a fantasy?
Impulsively, he leans over and presses his mouth against the underside of Black’s stubbly jaw. He forgot to shave again. It feels amazing against White’s mouth. He inhales Black’s familiar scent of stale cologne and cigarettes. It’s so masculine and musky, a decidedly male and metallic scent that makes White quake in his perfectly-polished boots. It’s a smell that reminds him vaguely of gym locker rooms and the old dormitory where he lived for all four years of high school. Black sits perfectly still as White kisses him all over slowly and teasingly. He pulls away Black’s trench coat so he can reach the other man’s neck. It’s long and pale in the dark, a silver of meat, and it’s all White’s. For this one moment, it all belongs to him.
Black belongs to him. What a thought!
“White.” Black’s voice sounds strange in the dark. It sounds like it belongs to a stranger. “White, what’re you doing?”
“Isn’t this what you want?”
“Yes, but…you’re usually not this bold.” Black swallows hard; his Adam’s apple goes up and down. “I always feel like I’m the one who has to make the first move.”
White moves away, slightly irritated. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve been chasing you for years,” Black says in a soft, scratchy voice. “And you’ve always pushed me away. But now, it’s only where nobody can see us, that you’re finally reciprocating.” Even in the dark, the hurt expression on Black’s face is obvious. “Are you ashamed of me or something?”
Fuck. This is not going the way White anticipated…though he really wasn’t sure what he was going to do once he ran into Black. It’s true that White has only been with women. Until he met Black, he never even considered the possibility of being with another man in such a way. It also doesn’t help that he’s a little drunk. Okay, he’s a lot drunk and the booze is making his brain all slushy and slow. And Black is so pretty with his stubble and feathery eyelashes and pouty lips that are even poutier now that he’s all upset.
White hates himself for thinking this. How can he think about Black in such a way when he’s upset him so much? White tries to remember what he would do whenever one of his girlfriends would get this way. His mind draws a blank. None of his relationships ever reached the point where he felt the need to comfort a partner after an argument or miscommunication. He always broke up with them because it was easier than dealing with their emotions. It was easier to walk away than to admit that he had done something wrong. It was preferable to start over again.
But this…this is different. He can’t start over again. Not with Black. They have been enemies since the whole war started. They have been tricking and deceiving each other for years. Their bodies are identical road maps of scars left by the other man. A part of White hates to admit it, but this thing he has with Black is the most intimate relationship he has ever had. None of those models or actresses or foreign princesses can even compare to his rival.
“I’m not ashamed of you,” White says. He keeps his voice soft, comforting. “I could never be ashamed of you.”
“You clearly don’t like being seen with me in public.”
“That’s because we’re enemy spies, Black. You know we can’t be seen together. Our Factions would have our heads for sure.”
Black smiles a bit. “So we’ll revive with big scars across our necks. We’ll wear matching ascots. It’s no big deal.”
“That’s not what I mean,” White says. “I love my nation. I could never betray it.”
“White…”
“And you could never betray Blackspyland, too…right?”
“Loving you is not a betrayal,” Black says before he can stop himself. His eyes widen in the dark as the confession hangs between them, heavy and warm. White looks away, his face heating up, his heart beating so rapidly that he’s sure he’s going to keel over any minute now.
Loving you is not a betrayal…loving you is not a betrayal…
“White? What’re you thinking about?”
“Black, you don’t love me.” White’s voice sounds harsh even to his own ears. “You only think you do.”
“I’m old enough to know how it feels. We both are.”
“You’re the enemy.”
“I’m just a person and so are you!” Black drops his voice as though he’s sharing a world-shattering secret. Maybe he is. “We’re just two spies in a great big sea of them. If we defect tomorrow, our leaders won’t think anything of it. They’ll just assign two more goons to take our place.”
White shakes his head. “Don’t say that, Black. Please.”
“Maybe they’ll look for us for a little bit,” Black continues. “Just to keep up appearances. But they’ll forget about us in time and then we’ll be free to do whatever we want. We can finally be together.” He kneads a lock of White’s hair between his fingers slowly, gently, as though he’s touching a holy shroud. “And I don’t just mean when we’re fighting. Or all these in-between moments.”
“Black…”
“A lot of the neutral zones are very accepting of same-sex relationships, you know. So is Grayspyland. They’re so much more open-minded than either of our nations. I just know we’ll be welcomed with open arms.”
“What about your parents? What about…what about my parents?”
“I admit that my folks would probably be surprised,” Black says. “But I know they love me too much to disown me for being with another man.”
White swallows hard. His voice comes out in a scared little whisper. “I don’t think I can say the same for my family.”
Black smiles at him sadly. He reaches over and cups White’s chin in his hand. The touch is so soft that it doesn’t feel real. It feels like how somebody might touch you in a dream. Vaguely and wispy. A ghost of a touch. Without thinking, White leans into it, closing his eyes. He imagines the future that Black is proposing. A little house with a yard and a garden to grow vegetables. Cooking banana-and-chocolate-chip pancakes together in a sunny kitchen, coffee brewing in the percolator. Visiting Black’s parents in their house with the pink flamingos and tacky gnomes in the front yard. And at night they would sit on the couch, watching TV or reading and not saying anything. Just enjoying each other’s company. It’s so peaceful and serene.
White knows it can never happen.
“I can’t betray my nation,” he says. It hurts to talk. “Not for you. Not for anybody.”
“I know. It was a nice thought.”
“It was. It really was.”
Black pulls White closer to kiss him. White lets him. He feels safe here in the dark where nobody knows who he is. Where he can pretend to be a man who is okay with loving another man. Who doesn’t worry about what others think of him. Who can leave his job—his nation—everything he holds dear to pursue an uncertain future with his supposed enemy. It’s nice to pretend if only for a little while.
Black’s hands slip and slide down to White’s belt. White’s heart quickens, but he doesn’t stop Black. He doesn’t want to. An increasingly large part of him wants to see how this will play out. Black stops kissing him long enough to gently ease White’s cock out from its hiding place. It’s already purple and engorged. Some precum glistens on the tip. White’s face flames red and hot with shame. He covers his eyes with his hand, shoulders shaking slightly.
“White, it’s okay,” Black says. “It’s natural. It’s normal. You’re normal.”
White shakes his head. “I don’t feel normal.”
“Do you want me to continue? Because I can stop if you want.”
“No!” White’s sudden ferocity startles them both. He looks at Black with a shaky smile. “I want your hands all over me.”
Black blinks at him before smiling. “God, you’re beautiful,” he says. He generously spits into his palm and uses that and the precum to lubricate White’s cock before he starts running his hand up and down, up and down, smooth and silky. “Do you remember when we were at the factory? The one in Blackspyland?”
“Yes,” White says through gritted teeth. “How could I forget?”
“You were like this huge burst of light,” Black says. “I was waiting in that factory for hours, wondering if you were even going to show. For a moment, I thought you wouldn’t. That you figured out I was waiting for you. That you didn’t want to see me.”
White shakes his head. “How could you think that? I love seeing you. I look forward to it.” He’s having a hard time concentrating as Black’s strokes start to get faster. “In fact, I…I look forward to seeing you on every mission. It’s like...fuck…it’s like if I don’t see you then I don’t consider the mission a success.”
“White, you know I absolutely love the sound of your voice, but you gotta quiet down. I have to concentrate so you don’t wilt on me.”
But White finds that once he starts, he can’t stop. His voice spills out like bile. It doesn’t help that his stomach is still a bit upset from all the liquor and grease. “Black, you’re amazing. Stupendous. You’re the only thing that makes me feel real.” White can feel his face and chest break out into a cold sweat. His temples are wet, too. He can hardly sit still. “It’s like we were made for each other. Like somebody or something created us out of thin air and pitted us against each other for the rest of our lives. Don’t you feel the same way? Please, for the love of God, say that you do.”
Black gives him a sympathetic smile before he reaches over and plucks White’s blue silk handkerchief from his shirt pocket. He unfurls it with a flourish and carefully tucks it into White’s mouth, muffling his words and making him choke them back. White looks at him in shocked outrage. The nerve! And just when he was pouring his heart out! Black smiles back and kisses White on the cheek as he starts stroking faster and faster. His hand moves up and down over White’s cock, making that wet, frenetic, squelching sound of hand sliding against skin that they’re both very familiar with.
White makes a desperate, guttural noise behind the hankie. He throws his head back and runs his hands down his face as Black goes faster and faster. White’s moans are muffled and frantic, which only makes him more excited. He instinctively leans back and spreads his legs and rolls his hips in an effort to meet Black’s speed. To help him out. White’s vision grows hazy. He can feel himself getting ready to tip over the edge. He focuses on the single beam shooting out of the projectionist’s window, the one showing them the movie they are both currently ignoring. If White concentrates hard enough, he imagines that he can see little motes and fragments floating around in the flickering beam light. Little imaginary lives hovering above his head like distant plants.
He tries to imagine that it’s not Black jerking him off but a beautiful, buxom blonde with shiny pink lips. He tries to imagine that she’s tenderly kissing his shaft and licking at his tip and looking up at him coyly, almost shyly, as though she isn’t sure she’s doing a good enough job. He blindly reaches out and grabs the back of her head. Her hair feels messy and slightly coarse. She hums appreciatively as he massages her scalp, but her voice is a little too deep and smoky. White cracks open his eyes and sees Black’s face inches way from his own. Black smiles tenderly at him.
“I think you’re ready,” he says. His voice is all lilting and cooing like he’s singing a lullaby.
White shakes his head. He makes muffled pleas. The silk tastes thick and heavy in his mouth. No, not yet. Please, not yet! I’m not ready for this!
He tries to hold onto the image of the blonde, but it’s too late. He’s over the edge now. Black goes faster and faster until White finally cums. His ejaculate arches through the air and lands on the seat in front of him. For one moment it glistens in the dark underneath the projection beam. And then it’s gone. It will dry up and flake off like it never existed. Some crimes don’t leave much if any evidence.
He slumps into his seat, drained and deflated. For a minute or two, neither man makes a move. They sit there as though they want to soak in this moment before time inevitably moves forward. Before they’re forced to confront what just happened between them. Finally, Black carefully removes the handkerchief from White’s mouth. First he uses it to wipe his hand. Then he presses it into White’s limp fingers.
“You want to clean yourself up?” he asks. “Nobody likes the feel of dried cum. I mean, I sure don’t.”
White numbly does just that before zipping up and cinching his belt. He stares at the hankie in disgust. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
“You mean to tell me that nobody’s jerked you off in a public theater before?”
It’s clear from Black’s tone that he’s teasing and trying to make light of the situation. But there’s nothing funny about this. The familiar weight of shame settles on top of White’s chest. It makes him feel hot from top to bottom like he’s been set aflame. His hair is a mess, his underwear is damp, his hankie has been stained forever. Even when he washes it, he’ll have to throw it out. It’s been completely defiled.
“White…?” Black sounds a little concerned. “Hey, are you okay? Talk to me. What’re you thinking about?”
He reaches out to brush away White’s hair. It’s a simple, innocent gesture, but White regards the incoming hand like a ballistic missile. He slaps it away violently. “Don’t touch me!”
Black recoils, holding his stinging hand against his chest. “What the hell is your problem? You can’t just hit me like that!”
“This isn’t me,” White says. He can’t keep the trembling desperation out of his voice. “This…isn’t…me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I like women, Black. Women! I don’t like men. I’m not supposed to like men. I’m not supposed to like you.” White struggles to catch his breath. His chest feels like it’s gripped in a vice. He clenches and unclenches his fists uselessly. “I shouldn’t have liked what you just did to me. I should have fought you off but I didn’t because I liked it. And I like you. Oh, God, I wish I didn’t feel this way. I wish I didn’t think about you all the time and want your hands all over my body.” White can feel his aching eyes grow wet. He can no longer keep his voice from trembling and breaking. “I…I’m not normal, Black. I’m not normal.”
"Yes, you are.” Black’s own voice is firm but soothing. “You’re normal, White, and so am I. Our feelings are normal and natural. We are normal and natural. Our nations are wrong about people like us. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with people like us.”
“But…”
Black shakes his head. “White, listen to me. There is nothing wrong with us. It doesn’t matter what our governments say. They’re wrong.” Black takes White’s hands in his own. They’re strong and warm. “Nobody but us gets to dictate how we feel, okay? If you don’t want to see me anymore after this, then I’ll understand. But only if you’re the one who feels this way. If you ice me out because of what your nation thinks…well…I’ll have a problem with that. I might have to knock some sense into that pretty blond head of yours.”
White chokes out a laugh. He’s all teary and snotty. He knows he should feel disgusted that he’s so disheveled and in front of Black, but he’s too emotionally drained to care much. He presses his forehead against Black’s. They sit like this for a moment, holding hands, silent and still as statues. Black’s right. It doesn’t matter who they love—men, women, both. They are normal. Their feelings for each other are as natural as the hair on top of their heads.
“Black…” White’s voice is calm but still a little shaky. “Have you ever…done that to a man before?”
“Only myself.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. You’re the only man I’ve touched. The only man I want to touch, honestly."
White is surprised. “It felt so natural…like you’ve done it a million times before.”
“Well, I’ve had a lot of practice,”’ Black says with a grin. “I’ve thought about you so many times when I was alone in my bedroom…I guess that’s why I’m already such a pro at stroking you off.”
White pulls away and tries to fix up his hair. His stomach grumbles ominously. He can’t tell if he’s hungry or sick or both. The back of his throat burns a bit from emotion and bile. “It’s going to be so weird the next time we see each other on a mission,” he says. “I can stay professional, but…”
“What, and I can’t? The next time you see me, White, I’m going to bash you over the head with a giant wooden club and I won’t even feel the least bit bad about it.”
White has to smile at this. The idea of seeing Black on a mission after this moment makes him feel excited and optimistic. But it also makes him feel a bit sad. As long as the war is raging, they will both always be spies. They will both always be fighting. It’s what they’re both good at and neither of them can ever think to give it up even for a fleeting shot at love. They can dream all they want: reality will always come around to give them a cold, hard slap in the face.
He wants to tell Black all of this and more. He wants to cut his stomach open and spill his guts out. He wants Black to touch him again. He wants to touch Black. There are so many things he wants to do and say that it makes his head spin. He opens his mouth…and promptly throws up all over his shirt. So much for spilling his guts.
“Oh, White,” Black says. His voice is full of tender sympathy.
"I’m sorry,” White says. He’s miserable all over again. “I’m a fucking idiot. I’m the biggest fucking idiot who ever fucking lived.”
"Yes…but you’re my fucking idiot.”
White makes a lazy swipe at him. “Shut up.”
Black helps him shrug off his shirt. The air conditioner makes his sweaty skin feel all chilled and shivering. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling. Black balls up the soiled shirt and sticks it under the seat. He brushes back White’s hair and fans his face. Then he turns to the movie, which is nearly over.
“Oh, shit, we missed it,” he says.
“They’ll replay it after the credits end.”
"Do you want to watch it again? I mean, actually watch it? I promise I’ll pay attention this time.” Black strokes White’s cheek as though it were made out of delicate tissue paper. “Or do you just want to go home?”
The thought of walking even just the block back to his house is too much for White to bear. He shakes his head and settles into his seat as far as he can go. Black settles in, too, and puts an arm around White’s shoulders. He reaches up his hand and caresses White’s hair. White closes his eyes as he waits for the movie to start again, to induct him into a fantasy world of torch singers and drug addicts and bright green yards with white picket fences. It’s a stark difference from his world where he can’t even be with the man he loves unless he defects. And he’s honestly not sure if he’ll ever have the strength to do that.
Feeling Black’s fingers, hearing him breathe softly, White briefly surrenders himself to the dream where all of this and so much more is possible. The dream is warm and loving. The dream is a fluffy blanket wrapped tightly around him. The dream is so much kinder than reality could ever hope to be. Maybe White can slowly incorporate the dream into reality. He might never ever defect or quit being a spy, but he can have more moments like this with Black. He can look at himself in the mirror—his real self—and be okay with what he sees.
Tomorrow he will call his mother and talk and talk until the hotel room’s answering machine cuts him off. He won’t tell her what happened tonight, but he will make her hear his voice. She brought him into this world. The least she can do is actually listen.
White smiles in the dark. The movie starts to play again. Black starts to hum along with the opening song. “Blue Velvet”. It’s a nice song. It’s a dream of a song.
Reality can go fuck itself.