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Kim knows places like this very well.
Parks and public restrooms where they linger, waiting. The members of the oldest and largest workers' union scattered in plain sight, just after it's gone dark, and all the people have left. These aren't gatherings, even though they can all see each other and share a language only they can unravel. There's no sense of community, just vague understanding, a shared interest. The alienation is the point - you want the strangeness. Hands are meant to touch in a rough, unfamiliar manner, trying to make sense of anatomy clashing with desire. It's always too dark, too cold, too humid. Clothes cling to damp skin as they undress each other hungrily and tongues break against flushed necks, careful not to leave marks one could be seen with in the outside world. The kisses only start below the collar, but there's rarely even time for such tenderness.
Years in hiding have trained them in meaningful gazing. The stare is always the same, Kim catches it all the time. It's an ignition - recognition, a deviant would never look at a non-deviant in this particular way. There's longing. An invitation - look into me as well, but don't talk, we share a secret now. The tension may only resolve in places like this. Sometimes, it's seedy nightclubs, sometimes it's lonely beaches, hideouts between bushes. The spark catches on and there's a collision of bodies. Not minds, this is not an emotional endeavor. Kim has been through the motions countless times now.
The lover you find - although "prey" would usually be more accurate - isn't supposed to be your type. Down-low men, old faggots way past their prime, awkward, unexperienced boys, tragic nymphomaniacs and lonely RCM lieutenants, who just want to clear their damn heads.
‘Gendarme.’
There’s also voices. You can always tell by the voice. A certain accent is born when one must obscure their words from others. A soft, subtle tone, a way with words. It’s like a separate language of love and longing, made up of strategical omissions and careful pauses. Sometimes there’s a hint of playful flirtation – it relies on disbelief. They wouldn’t talk to me like this, they can’t think I’m like… that, you know?
The boy speaks with boundless confidence. He’s radiant. Kim shoots him a cautious look.
‘I felt that you’d find us sooner than later.’ The boy takes a drag on his cigarette.
He embodies the otherness Kim has harbored for so long. Flamboyant – but in a delicate way, he doesn’t go overboard, he wears a jade earring and lets his masculinity shine through an open shirt. He has an oneiric face; he could appear in a dream, making the man who saw him there rethink everything about his love life. These looks seem to be a recurring motive, Kim thinks, thousands of beautiful boys are born with the same defiant eyes and lips. He’s seen them in Police Academy, he’s seen them on the streets of Revachol, he’s fallen for them back in secondary school. Once they get you, you won’t ever be able to stop searching for them.
Kim has seen them too many times to be starstruck.
‘It’s not difficult.’ Kim nods. ‘There’s a similar spot back in the Harbour.’
‘You don’t look like a frequent guest.’ He smiles.
‘I don’t get much free time.’
‘Of course, you don’t. You’re too busy bringing justice to the streets.’ The smile doesn’t leave. Even when he stops, there’s an afterimage of it. Heavy eyelids and tiny wrinkles around them. ‘Can’t even fit debauchery into your schedule. You must be miserable, gendarme.’
‘I’m not, thank you.’ Kim eases in slowly. ‘I didn’t think you’d be here.’
His laughter is a bit like a song.
‘Oh?’
‘I would think you’d be too tired of men.’
He looks through Kim. He’s very observant, drinking in every detail, trying to deduce if he’s making an impression. A bit of a type when it comes to fine art students, he probably wouldn’t stick out all that much alongside his university colleagues. He doesn’t seem fazed by the suggestion.
‘You really are a detective. How did you know?’
‘You haven’t exactly hidden it. Nothing to be ashamed of, either.’
‘I’m not ashamed, gendarme. I just would prefer policemen not to know.’
His cigarette burns in the dark, an orange beacon between him and Kim. The canal below ripples and shines. A sole streetlight paints over jet black waves.
Martinaise is sleeping softly.
‘Prostitution is not really penalized. You would have to pay a fine at best.’
‘And why would I want to pay a fine?’ He grins. His teeth are visibly yellow. This, alongside his distinct smell of cigarettes and atrociously cheap perfume, feels as if it should be part of a completely different person. ‘You know how your comrades treat people like me. No offense, gendarme.’
Kim nods. None taken.
‘We are… working on it.’
‘You’re not.’
He shrugs, lighting another cigarette. Any tension disappears immediately.
‘I don’t mind, gendarme. I know you’re not like them. It just doesn’t make me hate them any less.’
‘I understand. Your demographic is… highly affected.’
They fall silent for a moment. The water keeps trembling.
A pink hue stretches over the horizon.
‘Do they pay you to pretend you’re with them?’
‘They like to think they could have me, fully. I provide the fantasy.’ Smoke flows from his lips.
Kim smiles.
‘Do they ask you to see your work?’
‘No kissing and no sharing art, gendarme.’ He laughs. ‘They don’t really care. I put on music, and they talk about themselves. They like their boys to be half-imaginary.’
He reaches out to Kim. Drags his fingers over his shoulder. He’s pent-up, he must’ve noticed.
‘You don’t strike me as one of them.’
‘I don’t get paid nearly enough.’
Kim knows the language very well.
When the boy looks at him for a moment too long, he knows exactly what he’s trying to say. I miss being with men like this, he’s saying, I miss the urgent need. He feels that Kim craves it
Even if they see each other again, they won’t say anything, they’ll continue the investigation and carry on talking, maybe briefly gazing at each other at best. Harry isn’t tuned into their frequency and Kim is more than capable of obscuring truth.
And finally, his mind goes blank. The boy’s lips are cold but vaguely familiar. They share heavy breaths and Kim thinks he might just die of secondhand smoke. A sudden chill runs through his body as the boy pulls him close, hips against hips.
With a theatrical gesture, he lights another cigarette. Kim pants. The pressure sends shivers down his spine – an icy chill goes through him again and again. He closes his eyes. A distinct scent of sweat, of cigarettes – a cheap brand – and sperm. Thick pre-ejaculate dribbles down the boy’s fingers, making the friction even more unbearable. They’re both moaning softly, their arms jerking hopelessly, their bodies heavy against each other. From the outside, they must look like an animal, trembling and shaking, caught in a corner. An abomination of limbs.
Kim comes first. He finishes the boy off promptly. He knows that part very well, too.
The rush recedes.
They pull up their trousers and smile at each other. Kim’s usual meetings with evening friends don’t go along such friendly lines. There’s an understanding between the two of us, he thinks, this is basically the end of the world. If you were to sail any further, you’d fall through.
‘I saw you smoking on your balcony, gendarme.’ The boy smiles, dangling a pack of cigarettes between his fingers.
Kim looks at it intently. It looks absolutely deadly.
The Pale glimmers.