I stayed clean on the flight back to L.A. I had begun to feel so much better, only orange juice and coffee... lots of coffee. I was happy to spend a few months in the big house outside of Bayonne where, besides the help, Gotson and I had the whole property to ourselves. We rode in the hills above the estate and, I basked in the ocean cove of my childhood… the almost private beach below the property of the estate. Robert and Mama returned to the house after spending most of that time in Paris taking care of the rest of Papa’s estate. Much to Robert’s chagrin, Mama had managed to take over where Papa rarely allowed her to venture since the early years of their marriage. She put all of it in order and made sure my stipend was generous enough to live well but held back the rest of my inheritance in a trust of some sort. She turned out to be as financially astute as Papa. Still, I couldn’t bear Robert’s scrutiny and sarcasm much more than a few days before getting back to Nick and my house in Santa Barbara.
I got home finding the sink full of dishes and newspapers spread over the kitchen table or stacked on the floor… six weeks worth. The other rooms, besides the bedroom, were untouched except for the music room couch… bottles and full ashtrays, no more than an arms reach from the couch covered every surface. Still, it was good to be home and, though I had begun to despise Nick long before our separation. He was supposed to be watching the house while I was gone. I wondered where he was and, oddly enough, I missed him. I decided to call Mickey. He used to be my cab-driving drinking buddy before he caught sobriety. Sobriety, it is like a virus… everybody was getting sober back then: sober or dead. I got his answering machine… “Hello, I can’t pick up the phone…. Leave a goddamned message.”
He hated getting phone calls and screened his calls. Anyone who knew him well enough could get through if he really was home. Everybody else could leave a message, “Hello, Mickey? I am back… it is Saturday afternoon… what… it is noon or so… Oh, you bad boy… you are at Mel’s? Or are you at an AA meeting? Pick up the phone… okay.”
Shit, he isn’t at home.
If I go to Mel’s… I can’t sit there without having something to drink. Whenever I drink I want something better… especially when I drink too much and have a hang-over.
Maybe I’ll go to his house and crawl into his bed… surprise him? When he comes home he will get a present from me. No, we only made love once. We flirt but Mickey is like Gotson to me… a dear friend. When I was young, the summer Gotson took the picture of me in the surf…Gotson was younger then, middle aged… a handsome man. He protected me from my brother. I was basking nude, as usual for my family, when at the cove… it was a beautiful day. A world of hormonal surges was opening up to me and, as I probed the moisture from my fous-fou-nette, suddenly Robert was there before me. He knelt in the sand and put his hand on my inner thigh. Before I realized what was going on he was on top of me. I struggled at first but he persisted, forcing my thighs apart. He was my older brother… what was I to do? He was bigger than me with a powerful physique. Mama was visiting her family in Amsterdam and Papa was in Paris. I hoped Gotson would show himself but he was nowhere around… I knew what sex was but this was not sex. I’ve seen our horses mate… it was very much like that… violent. It hurt and I cried out at him to stop but he did not.
Gotson finally showed up… Robert saw him on the path leading down to the beach. He lurched away as though I was a bed of hot coals. Robert stood unashamed and even defiant before Gotson. I am not sure if Gotson saw all of what happened but, without saying a word, he put an arm around Robert and took him to the other side of some rocks. The surf muffled their voices but I heard Gotson’s once as I gathered my clothes and walked, dazed, up the path to the house. Robert’s head was hung down as he passed me but I could see he had a blackened eye under his Gucci’s and a swollen lip. To say it was awkward the rest of that afternoon is an understatement. Robert sped away in his fuckin’ pretentious Ferrari back to Paris before dinner never tried to mess with me again.
Robert and I didn’t talk after that incident on the beach for several years. I can never forgive him and, whenever I think of him… his smug face, I am disgusted. That one time; when I was getting turned-on by Mickey and we were making-out, I got a sudden flash… a memory of a feeling I couldn’t help and I stopped him in the middle... when he penetrated... I felt the betrayal, the shame and I just wanted to shower and cry. It seems as if making love would sully the affection I have for him. I never cared what happened with Nicky or the other men I have had casual sex with until afterwards. But, as always, when the sex is over I just want to go home and shower; or, if it is my house, I will send the poor fool away.
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