By Paul Lee
Copyright ©2024
The lobby was as cold as the bedroom where I’d first met him on cam. I rolled my lonely
suitcase toward the front desk, which was near the back. To the left, an overweight guy was
sitting in an easy chair by the fireplace, texting speedily. He reminded me of the man who had
raped me prison-style. To the right, a skinny chestnut-haired young guy was drinking an import at the bar. He reminded me of the 20-year-old Kentuckian virgin who had fucked me, before blocking my social media accounts.
The ceiling sang Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The wheels of the suitcase added bass when
I reached the stonework at the front-back desk. The receptionist was a stout man of light brown hair and pleasant grins. And, of course, he reminded me of someone…of the police officer I’d ridden in an enchanted forest, with a vague view of cars passing through the trees, wondering if one of his men-in-blue might stop and find us. And, despite the forest’s enchantment, his horse had been a stubborn donkey.
“Just you?” the receptionist asked.
I presented my ID and four Franklins, which were bright beside my black nail polish.
“Just me,” I answered, matching his smile. “Just here to clear my head.”
The wide mirror behind the register caught my reflection. It was a little blurry, so my silicone
breasts didn’t look perfectly defined; but the glass had erased my laugh lines and enhanced my black winged eyeliner.
He pressed the keys on the computer.
“And how many nights?”
“Two nights.”
I pushed the money closer to the register. He didn’t seem to notice—too busy grinning at my
tits. His wide eyes shifted to the register. He punched a few keys, nodded at the screen.
“Three hundred ninety dollars and twenty-five cents.”
I motioned to the four Franklins. The drawer shot open.
Kaching!
And suddenly Beethoven shut his mouth. After all, the world was built on money, wasn’t it?
He slid the room card to me. “Room 113. Fourth Floor.”
“Thank you,” I said.
His grin grew, chin raising. “Certainly. Do you need help with your luggage?”
“I’ll be fine.”
I proceeded, before glancing back at him. He grabbed a brochure from behind the counter.
“Oh, I almost forgot.”
He extended the paper. I took it.
“Thank you.”
With a heavy nod and grin, he replied, “Anytime.”
The silver elevator opened. I advanced, pressed #4, as Beethoven reemerged. The piano’s
classical melody bounced off golden, mirrored walls. Seconds later, the metal mouth expanded, revealing the hall that led to a labyrinth of rooms. Every 40 yards was an easy chair and a writing desk. The slender, goateed man sitting in the one near my room somewhat resembled the well-endowed 23-year-old who had bred me many years ago.
Room 113 was reminiscent of a couple I’d stayed in with my parents over 20 years earlier.
Mom and Dad were still around, like residual energy, haunting the halls of post-career debt.
The pictures above the old-fashioned headboard captured the snowdrifts of Upstate New York. The curtains were reddish golden hues. I drew them back. They revealed the slope dipping into the white valley and hills. The TV was a whopping 45-inches. But I didn’t watch it.
How could TV entertain when even the edges of society were jaded now?
The room was nothing but a room. The world was outside, of course. I stowed away my
belongings and ventured toward the dining hall. A family of five – three kids and their parents exited the elevator. They nodded. I nodded back and then entered. It dropped to the first floor.
Everyone in the lobby was different. No face resembled anyone I’d slept with.
I passed the front counter, the fireplace, the bar, and followed the wall curving to the sign
attached to the arch: Washington’s Dining Hall. Golden napery and various foods carpeted
mahogany tables, which split the room in half. A crowd of suits and dresses milled around full
bowls and platters. All food was from the local farm owned by the hotel proprietors.
I decided to take a seat and order from the menu. On my way to the table, I saw him sipping
water. His suit jacket was draped over the chair, exposing his semi-formal shirt patterned in
multi-colored parrots. He must’ve been 78 years old. He was 73 when we had stopped talking.
The shirt was a little confirmation of identity. Full verification came when I gazed into his stern,
coldly calculated face. It cast a dim shine, as though exfoliated and moisturized for ages against Age. But the shine had been brighter when I’d last seen his picture—when we had been brighter.
He stiffened, glanced at his glass of water, then back at me, his lips immobile.
“James?” I asked, starting to doubt my eyes.
Slowly, he shook his head.
His voice was surprisingly soft. “Who are you?”
I gulped. “Paula”
He scanned me up and down. “You really are a Paula now.”
“I finally transitioned.”
Then he expanded a smirk..
“Maybe you don’t remember my last email—” a feverish cough broke his sentence—“but
there are things we’ll never agree on, and it’s best we do not communicate, regardless of how
many years have passed.”
My brow creased as I slowly shook my head.
“You know, James. That wasn’t fair. I cared for you. I never liked you for your money. We
were going to move in together. And when people are going to stay permanently, they must
accept differences.”
“I’m rather busy…Paula. I already told you: I won’t allow junkies in my house. We’ve been
done for five years.”
I pulled out the chair across from him and sat. “You know, it wasn’t about weed, James. It
was about transitioning. You wouldn’t admit it. When I sent you a pic wearing the light purple
wig, you said, ‘It looks like Halloween’. You wouldn’t accept me. You used pot as an excuse.
Even though I was falling in love with you and wanted to live our lives together and was willing
to accept your differences.”
He dug into his pocket, then slammed his wallet onto the table.
“I’ll give you money and you can be on your way. This discussion is concluded.”
I slapped my palm onto the table. “I don’t want your money, James. It never was about
money. I was not a gold-digger like the others.” He fingered the bills and then removed eight
Franklins.
“Eight hundred. Have fun and leave me alone.”
I looked at him, not the cash. “You’ll die alone. But it didn’t have to be that way.”
Tears welling in my eyes, I hurried toward my room, as the food on the tables suddenly
smelled sour.
I read a pastoral novel for the following hours. At 8 PM, room service arrived with orange
juice and a chef salad. An hour later, I logged onto my laptop (mostly used for writing fiction
and working on Chatmate). James wouldn’t leave my mind. Like an archeologist digging for
sacrificed corpses, I excavated the burial of emails.
Scrolling, shaking, scrolling—finally, I saw his name. But my wobbly finger accidentally
opened the message above his.
Shawn Larison: “Having some relationship/drama issues I don’t even know where to start
fuck my life Jesus you have been so upfront and honest and kind to me. I guess I owe it to you to just be honest I’m in a very much long-term relationship things have been rocky clearly anyway my wife has been tracking my phone. She just called me wondering what the fuck I’m doing two hours away from where I’m supposed to be yada yada yada I’m not gonna make it and I feel awful. I know we were both excited. Last time was so so awesome I know it’s not easy. Getting ready and getting yourself cleaned up and cleaned out. I’m just kind of speechless right now. I’m sorry.”
Memories cascaded. And I almost opened the emails of our argument following that message
but decided to move onto what I’d been looking for. Shawn Larison had been my favorite fuck.
He’d been the first very tough and strong manly guy I’d experienced, and an early “rebound”
after James. Five years ago, I figured he’d decided to settle into his monogamous life on his
Ohioan farm.
I opened the last email from James Coy: “You surprised me when you sent the $3,000 back to me, despite the comment I had sent to you that you could/should keep the funds I sent you. You sent it to me a couple weeks ago -- I don't recall seeing an option to either reject or decline the transfer -- I think it merely went into my PayPan account by default; however, when I looked at my PayPan account today, there was an option to ‘refund’ your ‘payment’ of $3,000, so I refunded it.
“I don't feel any nasty or bad things about you. I was trying to help you and it seemed like you could use money, so I sent you money. I never wanted any of it returned to me.
However, you sent me some rather unkind -- and in my opinion un-called-for -- comments by e-mail.
PLEASE do NOT send me any further e-mails of any kind. Although I wish you the best, there
are obviously a few things we do not agree upon and are not likely to agree upon. Let's leave it at that.”
Yes, James was old-school enough to double space after sentences. Reviewing the space
between his periods, I wondered if the Old School was why he couldn’t understand
transgenderism and cannabis. Five years ago, after reading his last message, my 29-year-old self accepted that he was not for me. He would’ve made me prisoner to his ideals and preferences.
Freedom mattered. Freedom mattered more than a mansion and a lover. I had debated telling him he would either die alone or with a gold-digger since he didn’t want someone honest and real.
It was simple: if he’d cared for me, he wouldn’t have left me on the frontlines of
discrimination in the Bible Belt.
My head swirled. My heart raced. The Past was a train chugging toward my soul. I didn’t
want to be run over. I didn’t want to die a trainwreck…
I stepped into the hall, found an easy chair, and drifted to sleep. Footfall woke me. I peered up
at two paramedics rolling a stretcher to the elevator. A body lay on top, covered in a white sheet.
The plump woman spoke into her radio: “James Coy, age 78. Found dead, alone in his hotel
room. Ponderous Inn—West Side Oakland. Cardiac arrest.”
“James?” I asked, jumping from the seat.
They glanced at me as the elevator doors closed behind them. The last thing I saw was the
stillness of his outline under the sheet.
It was like a dream inside a dream after falling asleep waiting on an idyllic morning. For ten
minutes I sat motionless, wrapped in thoughts of what the last five years could’ve been. Then,
almost robotically, I rode the elevator to the first floor and sauntered into Washington’s Dining
Hall.
And there he was, standing at the table James had sat at, his back turned to the growing
crowd, staring out the window, staring at something no longer there. Shawn Larison shifted 40
degrees. The moonlight glistened off his wedding ring, which he was spinning around his finger close to his heart and hovering over the trashcan. He hadn’t seen me. I figured he would recognize me if I approached and reintroduced myself. Flashbacks of the day in my bedroom, bending over and getting wet and feeling his cum wash away the Pains of James.
Here he stood alone with everybody. Here I stood alone with everybody. I thought of the
times he’d stood me up, building and crushing my hopes. The week spent isolated, waiting on
this friend…only to read the event-stopping email after wasting hours getting ready. And, no, he didn’t hold my hand during sex. But despite all the bullshit and uncertainty, there’d been
something between us: a spark that wouldn’t grow in the dark.
A mutual weirdness lingering unignited.
He stood debating, hovering, flexing, and finally pacing…wondering if freedom really
mattered. In one of his last emails, he’d mentioned that he’d wanted “so badly” to be with me
and to be “free.” And I wondered if somewhere in this moonlit night he saw my face, if he saw
the spark glowing dimly in the dark hills. But I backed up, backed up intensely and cautiously, as if evading a ghost, and then stepped outside.
Maybe dying alone wouldn’t be so difficult…
THE END
About Paul Lee:
Paul Lee is a 29-year-old author who grew up in the Appalachian Mountains. Paul's fiction - spanning multiple genres - is published in several magazines and journals. Art and social justice are Paul's main passions.
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