“Nothing that bad happens in Astoria. Nothing that bad happens in Astoria.” Darius’ mantra spun through his head as he knocked on the anonymous door, the rhythm matching his ricocheting heart and the light bounce in his knees. He reminded himself he was expected. Invited. He pushed his mind toward the distant reach of believing, on some level, wanted.
Breath rapid, he knocked again, and felt the door creak forward, inward.
If he could believe in want, even just this shallow, physical, temporary want that would last a few hours or a night, he might catch his breath. He might push back the tight coils of confirmation that had clutched him since Monday, when nagging suspicion had turned to certainty.
Knuckles against the door, he pushed. He pressed with a confidence he didn’t feel, stepping over the threshold. He called down its length.
“Omar?”
A tall, apparently naked male form was framed momentarily at the end of the hall, backlit in the dark apartment by the lights of the street. “Darius? Come in. Take off your shoes.” The form slid out of view without another word.
Darius did as he was told, kicking his canvas mocs off next to a neat line of shoes. “Nothing that bad happens in Astoria,” was joined by “I’m glad I didn’t wear socks,” remembering trying to find an errant sock after a mediocre hook up years before. Didn’t remember the guy, but vividly remembered the awkward search for the missing footwear.
He turned into the long dim hall, dimmer even than the stairwell. Just like his old building where he lived after college, massive and decrepit. Ten years ago living in then-affordable Astoria had been an obvious choice, being half Greek. His mother had been so pleased that he could answer back when she switched into her native tongue, which was a fair trade for being occasionally assumed Spanish, or Arab, or even Berber by neighbors. Those brief adoptions were a welcome change from the kind of profiling he got any time he went to all-white neighborhoods.
Astoria felt like the shallow end of the dating pool: unthreatening. Easy to jump out of. When Monday’s Instagram revelation had sent him into five sweaty days of swiping and messaging, he’d leaned toward the safety of Queens. Safe enough for him to reach out to Omar, who otherwise felt out of Darius’ league.
The greatest threat he imagined in Astoria was being spotted by one of his mom’s cousins who would force him to gossip. And maybe eat a whole grilled fish. And then ask about Jean Rene.
Jean Rene who had been at every family gathering for three years. Jean Rene who was handsome and aloof and gone as of seven months ago. And as of Monday, in the Dalmatian Islands with some fair-haired boy. Who had a narrow pale face and a narrow pale waist and nothing to indicate any magical ancestors. But it wasn’t his appearance or presumably his lack of mythical abilities that had driven Darius over the edge; the idiot had commented “One incredible year together @JRDarbonne!!!” Even some of his kindergarten students could do the math on that declaration and come to a better understanding of Jean Rene’s fidelity.
The pictures had sent Darius spiraling into the too-late unfollowing and blocking and eventually deleting Instagram altogether. If he couldn’t exorcize the images from his mind, he could obliterate them from his phone. Or something. The empty spot on his home screen wasn’t empty for long, making way for GRWL.
Which had brought him here, shuffling past a strange bathroom and kitchen, alert to some indication of impending murder, or other ill intent. But only the scents of cleaning products and grooming supplies greeted him, and then warm spices and the clean cut of citrus. The combination made a good olfactory impression on Darius as he moved down the narrow hall into the living room.
His eyes, now adjusted, made out a huge L-sectional under the window and along the wall. His bare toes felt the start of a rug and he caught himself before he could trip. That was all that he needed after seeming too pushy, maybe even needy: to be a total klutz and fall flat on his face.
He looked for Omar in the empty room, its walls painted by the recurring cycle of a traffic light beyond the window. The only other illumination came from a handful of fake candles along the wall. They were an oddly romantic touch, given how not-date the vibe had been on the way over.
His stomach tightened, remembering the bus ride from Harlem as the room glowed momentarily red. After the curt, transactional plan-making, Darius had ventured to mention missing Astoria’s food, and their chatting had gotten a little flirty on the subject of Greek-versus-Egyptian deserts. But when Darius had suggested a stroll to get coffee and sample the competing phyllo and honey arrangements from their respective cultures, the three little dots had flashed a maddeningly long time, and then vanished. Butterflies turned into stymphalian birds in his stomach, chomping on him all the way across the Triboro Bridge.
Worrying about bodily harm had been simpler, less personal, than the piercing message that he didn’t even qualify for coffee.
Darius was blinking at the candles, reminding himself they were only a light source when Omar finally spoke.
“Take off your clothes.”
Darius jerked, looking for the source of the voice. It had come from the deeper dark of an open door. It was a nice voice, self-assured, and a little bossy. He felt a little of the thrill that he’d wanted, but enormously more doubt. His heart started to pound in an urgent duet of anticipation and uncertainty.
He froze. He hadn’t been prepared for something this anonymous and abrupt. At this rate he’d be riding the same M60 back to Harlem and would have to shuffle past the bug-eyed driver with her pressed curls and disapproving mouth, him smelling like sex and confusion. Maybe he’d sit with her and ruminate on why he had hoped for anything other than this?
Because if he was being real, GRWL wasn’t a dating app, it was a sex app. A sex app for a very specific subset of people, so maybe he should just get it the fuck together and get laid. It was Friday night, it had been seven months since Jean Rene had dumped him, five days since he’d confirmed he’d been cheated on, and he needed to just clear this hurdle and move on.
He took a step toward the bedroom, resolved to at least try.
“No, stay there.” The voice directed him. Darius hesitated, hands crossed over his belly, grabbing the bottom edge of his t-shirt. “Please.”
He stepped back and pulled off his shirt and joggers. And then, fuck it, his boxer briefs.
“Get on your hands and knees, Darius. All fours.”
He did what he was told, balling his fists against the stiff wool of the rug to lock out the trembling of his arms. Braced, he had the distinct feeling of being some kind of offering; he felt a riveting vulnerability, stripped not only of his clothes, but his skin as well.
And then the largest wolf he ever imagined, bigger than he imagined possible, padded out of the bedroom door. The thing was over four feet at the shoulder, with a broad chest that filled the doorway. It lifted its head and sniffed the air, panting slightly. The light from the street flashed yellow against the hard serration of the monster’s canines, then red bathed the slow strings of saliva that ran from its blood-dark gums and pale meaty sliver of tongue.
Darius yelped and sprang backwards, whipping his body out of reach with uncanny speed. He landed in a serpentine curl on the sectional.
His nervous system crackled and sparked like the Fourth of July. The most ancient part of his brain sent warring impulses over whether to fly or freeze. Freeze won out and he sank down, coiling into himself, suddenly frigid. The only words that formed in his head were “Bad things do happen in Astoria. Bad things do happen in Astoria,” over and over and over.
His skin tightened and he clenched his teeth. He covered his now-clammy head with his hands, forcing himself into total stillness. Not here, not now.
“Darius, Darius?” His name was mangled, sliced by teeth designed for rending victims limb from limb. Darius couldn’t move to reply; he was deep in his own mind. He was vaguely aware of something that sounded like a wetsuit being dropped or someone struggling in a sleeping bag on the floor. Then, a warm breath by his ear.
“Darius, are you ok?” The voice was normal, human. “I’m sorry. I thought,” then a long frustrated breath. “Usually, that app,” and he trailed off. Something fleecy and soft landed on Darius, giving him shelter. “Sit up, let me get you something.”
Darius grabbed at the blanket and clutched it around himself, willing his body to warm up. He could hear clunks and shuffling from the direction of the kitchen, normal sounds, not monster sounds at all.
Then Omar was back, and from under the hood of his blanket Darius watched his foot kick an ottoman into position, and a hand deposit a small pressed metal tray onto it. Out of the corner of his eye, Darius followed Omar’s very human feet as he walked a safe distance to the far end of the sectional, and sat down.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Darius rolled up, keeping himself covered in the throw. In front of him was a little tray of cut up oranges, and squares of something dark. He opened his mouth a little to catch the smell: chocolate.
“The chocolate will help with the nerves. I am really, really sorry, Darius. Usually they, you know guys? On GRWL? They want to see me in that form.” Omar watched him from where he sat, with one elbow on the back of the sofa, his body turned, left side of his face to the window.
“Oh.” Darius nodded, as if it made sense. Why had it not occurred to him? Of course an app for weres and other people with dual aspects attracted a lot of that kind of thing. His own experience was uncomfortable proof. Omar assuming that’s what he wanted had not crossed his mind. Had things changed that much since the last time he dated? Was that all people wanted anymore? Why was he always the last one to figure this shit out?
“I didn’t…know.”
Omar shook his head, holding himself in profile. He gazed at the opposite wall. “Yeah. Well, maybe I should have guessed. You didn’t say anything about it.”
“You had a very clear ‘no chasers/no fetish’ thing in your bio.”
Omar let out a little non-laugh, a humorless peal of sound that had all the joy squeezed out of it. “Yeah. I do. But still, if you say you’re a top and you’re a werewolf, people just bring their own expectations.” The words faded into silence, but the acidic zest of his voice lingered in the air.
Darius fidgeted with a piece of chocolate. The return of warmth to his hands soon left it melting and sliding between his tight fingers. He popped it into his mouth; the sweetness stung his salivary glands. He let it overwhelm his senses momentarily while he peeked at Omar. All the sexual tension had evaporated and Omar barely seemed aware he was still there. But he wasn’t pushing Darius out the door, either.
The strange moment stretched, empty of any anticipation. Darius picked up an orange slice, carefully piercing the flesh with his teeth and peeling the pulp from the skin. The juice flooded his tongue, joining the last of the chocolate. His body was warm again, and his mind was emerging from its three-alarm fire response. He noticed the concentrated sweetness of the fruit: the bitter white fibers had been trimmed away. The edge of his hypervigilance caught on this little detail: it didn’t quite fit with the performance that had greeted him. It was out of place, like the candles.
These little mysteries nipped at the back of his mind, joining the heavier grind of his primary question from the bus. If he wasn’t going to get the reassurance he’d come for physically, maybe he could wrest some solace from the wreckage of the night another way.
He straightened a little, and clearing his throat to deepen it past the threshold of petulance, asked: “Why wouldn’t you meet me for coffee, then? If you don’t like being, I don’t know, fetishized?”
Omar startled. “What? Coffee? Oh, that.” His left hand moved up over the side of his face. “I just, that’s not a thing I do.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t.”
“Yeah, but, you seem like a really nice guy.”
“And nice guys don’t have casual sex?”
“Ok, there’s casual and then there’s--”
“What?” Omar jerked a little on the couch and then shifted again, looking away toward the wall. He spoke without meeting Darius’ gaze. “You contacted me. You saw my profile on that app, you reached out, you came here. How are you sitting there, doing whatever this is--” he waved at him. “Eating my good chocolate and judging me?”
“Fine, I’ll go.” Darius made to stand up and realized he was still naked under the blanket. Without the cover of impending sex, he was suddenly very aware of his own body, which felt like one long stretch of unguarded underbelly: still vulnerable if not to rending teeth, then at least harsh judgement. His clothes were an impossibly far few feet away, an indistinct clump on the darkened rug. He shifted inside the blanket, angry and pouty. “I mean, it’s just coffee.”
“Yeah,” Omar shook his head. “It’s just coffee and then you suddenly remember you had somewhere to be, and I’ve wasted my Friday night.”
“What are you talking about? I know you’re a werewolf, it’s right in your screenname--”
But Omar had dropped his leg, and turned out of the shadows to face him. Where the right side of his body was smooth and gym-toned, the left side of his body had been savaged by some terrible violence. From his temple to his last rib was gouged and webbed with scar tissue; his arm missing most of its mass above the elbow. Long ridges of scars ran from his left cheek down his neck and back across his scalp. Most of that ear was gone. His shoulder looked like a discarded chew toy.
They sat in silence. The lights phased green to yellow to red against the wounded map of Omar’s skin.
The cold desire to stare and gawk needled Darius, freezing his limbs. But then the realization that the rejection hadn’t been about him at all trickled through his shock, washing him with a warm deluge of relief.
He looked down and picked up another orange.
“That was the werewolf?” he said finally, shaking his head. “Damn shame.” He bit into the orange, focusing on the tartness, chewing slowly.
Omar was tense, but seemed frozen himself, surprised by the lack of reaction. Darius pushed on, testing the limits of this unfamiliar new confidence as Omar hesitated.
“Because if that wasn’t the werewolf, I’d say you are about the unluckiest guy I ever met.”
Omar blinked. He started to say yes, but had to stop, surprised to find that he had laughed. “Yeah, that would be a real shitty string of luck,” he nodded, “you’re right. Bitten by a werewolf, and the next day: mauled by a bear.”
“I thought maybe you fell in the tiger pen at the zoo, and your doctor was a werewolf with no self control. Like if the candy breaks open at the store, why not?” Darius joined Omar’s shocked chuckle with his own little laugh. “I mean, why resist temptation? What’s one more or less ear?”
“Who can resist an ear is the real question.” Omar was really laughing now, and Darius saw what looked like surprise, or maybe relief behind his fingers as he shaded the scar-stiffened side of his face.
“Not werewolves, apparently.” Darius grinned.
The laughter settled and he pulled the fleece around himself. It was kind of pleasant. Warm.
Omar let his hand slide down, meeting its twin as he leaned forward over his knees. “Do you want to hear about it?” He didn’t look up, instead tracing the ridges that exaggerated the pattern of bones on the back of his hand. Darius heard weariness, but what he also hoped was a desire to keep talking.
“Only what you want to tell me. I’m not, like, into werewolves?” He bit his lip. “I mean I don’t have a thing about them.” He watched Omar process this, and hoped he was getting the underlying meaning: he’d been into Omar. He liked to think he would have messaged him on any app.
“Went camping with my then-boyfriend. Two couples. Attacked by werewolves: one person unharmed, two of us turned, one taken by the wolves, never heard from again.”
“Shit!” Darius had lost hold of calm, his boldness unraveling into honest horror. “Holy fuck that must have been terrifying.”
Omar nodded. “Luckily I got hit really hard in the head and don’t remember most of it. Except the pain. The pain is pretty memorable.”
“Jesus.” Darius looked at him, noticing how tentative the expression on Omar’s face was. Waiting for some disgust or rejection. Or maybe pity. He didn’t know much about weres, so he decided to just be interested. “If you don’t mind me asking, I thought the virus gave you like, boosted healing?”
He sighed. “It does. But we were in the middle of nowhere. The virus kept me alive. But the thing about fast healing is that it’s, well, fast. So by the time I was airlifted to surgery, I already had scar tissue over most of this,” he gestured to his face and left side.
“I’m sorry.” Darius looked at his hands. “That sounds really hard.”
“At least I’m High Sentience.” At Darius’ confused look Omar added. “I can control my changes. And as a wolf I retain my human mind: personality, intelligence, morality etc. Some weres don’t. Some go completely feral.”
“Like the ones that attacked you?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“And your boyfriend?” Darius instantly regretted the question. There was no happy ending answer to this question.
“He was fine. Unchanged.” From the way Omar returned his gaze to his hands, Darius understood the rest of the story. Omar sighed. “He was always a bit of a dick actually. No great loss.”
Darius felt the warmth draining away without laughter fueling it. Unlikely he could rekindle it, but he didn’t have to leave Omar wallowing in some sad past alone.
“When was that?”
“Six years.” He looked down at his own hands. “I have a claim in for reconstructive surgery. But my insurance is fighting it. The surgery is more complicated for weres.” He looked away. “Like everything else.”
Darius mulled over all the terrible insurance stories he knew, but didn’t want to change the subject off Omar. He rolled all the anecdotes into one summation. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.” Omar nodded, dull. “Hey I’m gonna grab some water, do you want some?”
“Yes, please.”
“And then it’s your turn.”
Omar jumped up and bounded past, still unself-conscious about his nudity. Darius looked away, stung by the prospect of explaining his own background. But he let himself catch the last flicker of Omar’s retreat as a welcome distraction.
He had the buoyant movements of an athlete and Darius remembered the shot on his profile of him doing curls at a weight bench. In retrospect, the picture, which was a larger percentage of why Darius had remembered him than he wanted to admit, was shot from the right and his head was down, so all that was visible had been his unmarked side. A new bad feeling arose in Darius’ stomach, but before he could parse it, Omar was back.
He had a bottle pinched between his left arm and body, and two glasses in the fingers of the right. Darius could see clearly that his left arm was inflexible, held tight against his ribs and never fully straight. Darius jerked a little bit, wanting to help, but stopped himself. Omar poured easily for both of them.
“Drink,” he said, gesturing to the glass as he returned to the far corner of the couch. “And then talk.”
Darius did half of what he was told, realizing he’d vaguely hoped Omar would sit beside him. He drank and held the glass up to his mouth, forestalling the second part of the command.
“So what are you?”
Darius reflexively recited the other, more common answer. “Well my dad is Black, from West Hartford, and he met my mom when he was in the Army stationed at Alexandroupoli--”
“No, not that.” Omar looked frustrated. “I mean, cool…But you know what I meant.”
Darius knew exactly what he meant. He sat with the glass against his closed lips as Omar prodded.
“Your profile didn’t specify. Just ‘other’.”
“Uh, yeah. ‘Other’ is me alright.” Omar looked at him, first curious, then lifting his eyebrows in impatience. Darius sighed. “I’m not a were-anything. No viral transmission.”
“Then what?”
No one ever liked to hear this part. If you were bitten by something, you were the victim. You automatically got sympathy. Was that what he’d felt momentarily for Omar? Sympathy? No, it had felt worse than that, or more complicated.
“I’m from a long magical line. But only the women get the full power.”
“Ok.”
“Just, try to keep an open mind.”
“Of course.”
Omar was leaning forward now, eyes fixed on Darius with the intent focus of an animal parsing a complex new smell, and although Darius wasn’t stringing him along purposefully, he was glad to be the object of that focus.
“Do you know what a lamia is?” Darius waited while Omar cocked his head, and then shook it. Sometimes people around the Mediterranean knew. Jean Rene had known, being from Nice. “Ok, well, don’t look it up. The internet is full of sensationalist bullshit.” He was getting cold again, whether from the invasion of Jean Rene into his mind or fear of explaining, or the uncomfortable connection between the two. He put a whole block of chocolate in his mouth. He chewed it down to a reasonable size while he warmed up. How had he never noticed that chocolate could do that?
“Ok but you haven’t said what it is.”
“Right.” Darius hated this part. “Lamia are like--picture a mermaid, ok?” Omar nodded. “You have a nice mermaid in your head? Friendly mermaid? Ok, so a lamia is like that, only instead of a fish, it’s a giant snake.”
Omar nodded, still neutral. “So like Medusa?”
Darius sighed. “No, she was a Gorgon, that’s a whole other thing. Gorgons are actually dangerous monsters. Lamia are just people, women, who also are snakes. But--” he held up his hand. “Not all the time. She, I mean my mom, can control it. Like you can control your changes.”
“Oh, that’s not so bad. So it skipped you?”
“Not exactly.” He picked up an orange, but fidgeting with it, squirted the oil directly in his own eye. “Ow! Fuck!”
Darius raised his hand, but then realized it was also covered in juice so he couldn’t even wipe his tearing eye. Then Omar was right next to him, asking what was wrong, all naked skin and concern, almost touching, but not quite. Darius felt himself reacting in a way that would have been appropriate in the first minutes of their meeting, but seemed awkward and inappropriate now. He pulled the fleece tighter and managed to yelp “My eyes!” and then Omar was up and away and back next to him.
“Use this.” He pushed a damp washcloth into Darius’ hand, and then moved away.
Darius did as he was told, wiping his burning eye. He blinked until his eye was clear, and then looked with chagrin at the long hypotenuse between himself and where Omar had retreated, on the far end of the sectional.
“You ok?” Omar was leaning back again, one knee up in the dark. Not completely turned away, but not as open. Darius cursed himself for his half-erection and full on idiocy.
“I’m fine.”
“Well, you don’t have to tell me, whatever it is isn’t worth blinding yourself over. I hear you Greeks have a thing about doing that.”
Darius laughed. It was a relief. Better to be thought evasive than desperate. He settled back into his blanket. “No, ok, so here’s the thing. Lamia have powerful magic, and can transform at will. Can be captivating women, or hybrids. Enormously strong and some actual magical powers, like making sleep and love potions, that kind of thing. Old school stuff.” Omar nodded, looking impressed. “But there are old stories, that lamia,” and he bared his teeth and raised his shoulders half in defense, half in dismay. “Eat children.”
Omar laughed. “Your mom? Did she ever try to eat you?”
“No, it’s xenophobic bullshit. ‘Look at the backward Greeks, they eat their babies blah blah blah’. Most of Europe thinks they are so much more advanced than us.”
“Ok, I get it. And you? You turn into a captivating woman?”
Darius laughed and reached for the orange again and thought better of it. He shrugged the blanket higher around his shoulders. “For boys of lamia, we just, it’s hard to explain. So I can be a snake.” He looked up, and noted Omar’s half-lit look of keen interest. “But not on command. I have a very sensitive limbic system. Do you know what that is?”
“Your lizard brain. Ohhhhhhh I get it. That’s what happened just now.” Omar pointed to the floor and then to the couch.
“Mm-hm. My higher mammalian, human functions just kind of go away. Kinda like how you described ferals? Pure instinct. I go cold blooded, my sight gets bad and my sense of taste is off the charts. Or smell; it’s one sense really. I mean it’s always unnaturally good, but it’s like, everything when I change.” He twisted the edge of the fleece in his fingers, waiting for Omar to be freaked out, the ingrained shame of the past few years settling on his skin.
Instead, Omar nodded. “Yeah, the world really changes when you see it through your nose. Mouth in your case.” He bobbed his head in agreement, as if this was common sense, not some perverse thing you had to hide. Then he leaned forward, conspiratorial. The next words slid out like a secret Omar knew Darius already possessed. “It’s amazing, right?”
Darius paused, incredulous. An abused shred of memory protested; no one normal thought like this. And he felt it: Jean Rene flinching away in disgust when he would accidentally say “I tasted you coming up the stairs” instead of “heard”. Three years of flinches, pursed lips, withdrawn hands. Three years of love, framed in “despite”.
“Yeah.” Darius proceeded, still half submerged in memory. “That’s me. Just regular Darius, except that I might also be 200 pounds of cold-blooded, mouth-breathing snake.”
“What kind of snake?” Undeterred, Omar leaned further forward, eyes narrowed in curiosity and the slightest smile parting his lips.
Darius felt a weak flutter in his chest at the intent gaze, but like trying to balance on the point of a pyramid, he could not hold it. He tumbled down to suspicion.
“Oh no, are you a snake chaser? Do you have a snake fetish?” He pronounced the words with humorous drama to cover a pang of dread. But Omar laughed.
“Is that a thing?”
“Baby, everything is a thing.” And he laughed, too, the sound a little shrill. “But yes. It’s totally a thing, and I’m not into it. At. All. I had to take it off my profile.”
Omar straightened. “Ok, so people wanted to fuck you, as a snake? How does that even work? Or they wanted you to, what? Be inside them?” He moved his hands in vague gestures that illustrated his confusion, then let them fall back on his knees.
Darius’ laugh snapped off as he recoiled. “No, it was--” He tightened his lips against the memories, and shook his head. “I blocked anyone who said anything explicit.”
“Sorry. Seriously, you don’t have to explain.” Omar leaned back, giving Darius space to refuse.
“No, it’s ok. I mean, I know people like what they like. But I’m not….” He felt a flash of shame. “Safe.” Omar gave him a sympathetic look, and Darius realized Omar misunderstood who wasn’t safe in this explanation. “When I had that I turn into a boa constrictor on my profile--”
“No shit.” Omar’s eyes went wide and he sat up, realizing his mistake. But it wasn’t horror that rushed across his face, it was awe.
Darius sat up too. He felt his unease drop away as an unfamiliar pride replaced it. “What did you think, I was a sixteen foot garden snake? Please.” he flicked his wrist, snapping at each syllable, performing what he thought that pride should look like. “No, girl, boa con-strict-tor! One big hungry muscle that will eat you for lunch.”
Omar gave a little smile that birthed a string of giggles.
Darius hesitated, not wanting to spoil the mood with the next part. The part that made “despite” his highest hope. But remembering Omar’s offer of his own history, he pushed on.
“People would reach out and no joke, want me to crush them. You know, like asphyxiation for fun and orgasms? But it’s not like that.” His mother loomed over him, massive in the childhood memory, explaining the risk his changed body posed to regular people. “There’s no ‘light’ setting on a boa constrictor. It’d be like asking a train to only run you over a little.”
Omar considered it, nodding. And then batted his eyes. “Please Mr. Conductor? Just a little train wreck?” But he pronounced it wittle twain weck in a grossly flirtatious voice.
The mocking tone punctured the hide of Darius’ long simmering resentment and all the humiliation, the confusion, the dread burst out. He threw his head back and laughed. He clapped his hands in delight, released by Omar’s knowing solidarity. The noise of his voice was rough and unrestrained as Omar teasingly said wittle twain weck over and over.
As his laughter settled, Darius noticed he’d lost the blanket somewhere around his waist and he grabbed it back up, covering his rounded shoulders and soft belly. Back under his aegis of fleece, he tried to seem nonchalant, and not terrified that Omar had seen his bare skin. He pulled it across his chest and surreptitiously checked Omar was still amused and attentive, and went on.
“I think the real thing is,” he cleared his throat. “Even if it is, you know,” he glanced over again, “casual? I feel like I should be there.” Omar nodded, so he continued. “And, maybe it’s old fashioned, but when I’m with someone? I like having hands. And a face. I like being part of it.”
“Sure. I can see why you’d be into that.”
Darius returned the smile Omar sent his way. “So, can I ask you…” he knew exactly what the question was, but the words stayed in his throat. Omar’s flew right out.
“Was I going to fuck you as a wolf?”
Darius shivered. But nodded. His tone had been commanding again, the same guarded and forceful tone from the beginning of the night. Darius could feel his body cooling off, afraid of the answer.
“No.” Omar’s face was serious, and for a moment something like resentment moved over it and Darius was afraid he’d resented the question, resented him. But then it passed. “I’ve definitely been asked. But,” he looked down, and looked back up, a mean little grin on his face. “I couldn’t anyway. Not the way they’d want. Because my wolf is female.”
“What!”
Omar looked mischievous and nodded. “Yeah, little secret that a lot of non-weres don’t know. The virus you get determines your wolf; there are different strains based on the carrier. And I got a female wolf.” He raised his hands, as if helpless. “And she’s not interested in any hairless boys, so,” and he dropped his hands.
Darius grinned, glad to be invited into some kind of complicity. “Then why? The way you, I mean…”
“That’s what people want, right? You know: the fantasy. A little brush of fur, a little growl. We’re not really connecting; it’s not like they’re coming here for a lot of eye contact and pillow talk.”
Darius wilted a little inside. Wasn’t that maybe what he’d wanted, despite the context? Despite all the brevity and transactional messages, there’d been something he liked about Omar. He’d been chalking it up to being in Astoria, that it felt a little safer, more possible than other, more conveniently located guys. But he’d been soliciting coffee and baklava from Omar, not nudes.
He started to speak, to disagree on his own behalf, but Omar interrupted him. “I have profiles on all the apps. Daylight photos, dancing at weddings, all the normal shit people put on sites where you go for dates. For relationships. How many messages do you think I get?” Omar glanced at him. “And some people straight out won’t date anyone with any kind of dual nature, so the pool is even smaller. And I like, can’t pass, you know? Like I could lie and say,” and he waved at Darius with a weak smile, “that I fell in the tiger pen in the Bronx Zoo. But you can’t lie forever. The last regular guy I brought back here freaked out. We met for a drink and I wore a collared shirt and baseball hat, you know? But he could see my face. We got back here and I took my shirt off and he almost got sick. He just looked at me and said ‘you’re so much worse than you look online.’ And walked out.”
Omar shook his head. “Then there were the guys who were too into it. Not the wolf, the scars. Like I met them and it was all they wanted to talk about and they couldn’t stop staring.” He shrugged. “So I find the guys who seem generically into wolves, or into me, and I show them what they want to see and I give them what they came for and that’s that.”
He finished and looked at Darius, and there was such defiance on his face, such fragile pride that Darius felt paralized again, afraid to move and see Omar crack. Instead, he thought he would like to kiss him. Erase all that cruelty.
The impulse loosened the knot of contradictory emotions that had wedged itself inside him. As the three-toned rainbow of the traffic light played across Omar’s brittle expression, Darius felt each in turn:
Green; he wanted to argue back, tell Omar to be brave. But for what? To have coffee with him, with his mid-thirties spread and list of anxieties? Who might accidentally turn into a snake because he got spooked?
Yellow; he felt intimidated by Omar, both the massive wolf, and man who moved with such physical confidence. Yet he wanted to protect him from all the hurts that had come before, and waited in the future.
Red; there was anger there too, both betrayal from Omar for deceiving him with carefully cropped pictures, and righteous outrage that he had been driven to hide his appearance in the first place.
He knew then there wouldn’t be a get what he came for and that’s that with Omar. Not tonight, not ever. The chance for that had passed. Realizing this, the skinned feeling of kneeling on the carpet crept over him again. Utterly vulnerable to the uncertainty of what would come next. He looked at his lump of clothes on the floor, and back at Omar.
Omar’s pain was monstrous. And he had nothing to offer as balm but the pathetic mess that was himself.
Darius stood up, still draped in fleece, and stepped toward his clothes. A tremor of fear rose from his wobbly belly, up through his pattering heart. He moved slowly, but Omar jerked back, and his face did crack. Only momentarily, but Darius saw the clench of his jaw and then the collapse of all tension into pure resignation.
Omar nodded, placing his hands on his knees and sank back into the couch, head coming to rest on the cushion, and eyes on the ceiling. There was no use hiding in profile any more, Darius had seen everything there was to see, and apparently had seen enough.
“So you’re going.” Omar’s voice was flat, but Darius could taste the anger.
“Yes.” Darius stepped to where his clothes lay. Bending to pick them up, he turned to face Omar. “And so are you. We are going on a date.”
Omar slowly curved his neck up until his eyes met Darius’. They were wary, distrustful eyes, narrowed and focused. A wolf’s eyes studying an invader, assessing: threat or prey?
The light outside the window played through its limited spectrum again while he glowered at Darius.
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
Darius felt a twang in his chest, as his confidence, perched again on the peak of the pyramid, threatened to plummet back into his gut. He tried not to stomp his feet in petty exasperation as he hissed at the hardened face in front of him, painted red in the glow of the traffic signal. “How can you say no now--”
“Because,” the note of command truncated Darius’ attempt to rebut him, as the light flipped to green. “Walnuts in baklava are gross. Who thinks they are better than pistachios?” Omar grinned, lopsided and gleeful. “Is this what happens when you eat children, you lose your sense of taste? You Greeks.”
Darius’ shoulders slumped, and he exhaled a combination of a chuckle and a curse.
“Fuck you, Omar.” He held out his hand, grinning and shaking his head, reaching down to lift him off the couch. “Is this what it’s gonna be like all night?”
“I hope so.”
Omar was fast, suddenly standing warm against Darius’ chest, his jock bounce and gloating smile an intolerable combination. Darius slid an arm around him, clutching his crumpled clothes into the small of his back to stop his bubbling, taunting movement. He caught the back of Omar’s neck with his free hand and erased the triumphant grin with his own mouth.
In the long slow kiss that followed, Darius reminded himself he didn’t need to be ashamed of his heightened senses. He relaxed into himself. The marvelous layers of Omar’s night inundated him.
First there was the heavy flavor of the wolf: her own fur and the odor of her animal self that impregnated it, some long ago meaty dinner, and the hot breath that rose out of that very different body. So rich and complicated.
Then he tasted the metallic mineral water, tiny hints of chocolate, and a sharp effervescence of mint indicative of newly brushed teeth. Together they were a sketched portrait of the care Omar had given him, in forethought and reaction, tonight. Small moments of consideration, like the candles on the floor. Not promises, but offerings.
Darius pulled back, breaking their kiss. With his hands still anchored around Omar, he realized he’d lost the blanket. He stood up a little straighter, skin to skin, unashamed, and looked up to meet Omar’s expectant gaze.
“Go get dressed.” He tapped Omar on the chest with one finger, and then pressed into it his sternum, confident. Omar resisted a little, not moving, a sweet and frustrated sigh escaping his parted lips.
Darius put some force behind his voice, pressing harder until a space opened up between them. “Now, wolf boy.”
Omar’s eyes flicked wide with surprise. Then a great canine grin bloomed across his face as he stepped back.
He gladly did what he was told.
Darius followed Omar’s path into the bedroom where he flicked on a light and rushed into his clothes. Darius leaned in the door, pulling on his pants, vindicated in his belief that good things did still happen in Astoria.
Amy Nagopaleen writes fiction from Queens, NY, where she will happily tell you where you can get the best pastry. When not thinking up stories fueled by coffee and weird experiences at work, she is making art and parenting her second-generation queer kid. Her writing can be found in Fusion Fragment, Solarpunk Magazine, Pen+Brush in Print, and forthcoming in PseudoPod.
You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @amynagopaleen