Free The Romanian by Bruce Benderson

gapes in disbelief at the fact of my now trailing not one but two hustlers. Certainly Marius has never sat down to such a menu, either. His eyes bug in disbelief. If I intend to spend this much on dinner, how much will I give him to suck his dick? Romulus merely tilts back his chair and enjoys the farce. He’s seen money wasted on fancy cuisine and fantasized its paying for a leather jacket or a new pair of shoes many times before.
    There are wines and meats, salads and cheeses. Romulus keeps consulting his watch anxiously. Marius’s glow over his supposed good luck hasn’t diminished. It’s time to get down to specifics.
    â€œI’m wondering,” I tell him, “if you’d agree.”
    â€œYes, yes,” he answers eagerly.
    â€œBut you don’t know what I’m asking.” It’s obvious that he’s expecting a sexual proposition, the chance of gleefully fucking my head like some stuffed dummy’s while cash oozes from my pockets like sawdust. That’s how he sees me: a pudgy gold mine, something squishy and exploitable. Who knows what the night will bring, if he’s really eager enough to win my attention that way. . . . But for now, “I’m looking for a bodyguard,” I blurt.
    Romulus sneers in amusement at the absurdity of it. “I want to go to some places that Romulus won’t take me,” I add pointedly. His sneer freezes on his face, unyielding, stoic.
    â€œMe strong. Good bodyguard,” growls Marius.
    â€œReally? Let’s see.” I put one elbow on the table in an arm-wrestling challenge. Marius grasps my hand. After an initial pause motivated by politeness, he flattens me. The silverware and dishes rattle. The waiter, in red jacket and black tie, watches in panicked disbelief. Marius guffaws with pride.
    â€œYou’ll do, I suppose,” I remark, my eyebrows arching campily. “And for your services, Marius, you will now be paid thirty American dollars in advance. Is that okay?”
    His eyes are bright with elation. “Yes, yes.” I take the bills out and push them across the table. “Now remember,” I say, “I expect full protection.”
    I turn toward Romulus, and in an acidic tone, “Well, then, I won’t be needing you anymore. You may leave.”
    Romulus ignores my comic impertinence and answers with an Old World sense of decorum. “Yes, yes, I am late. No dessert for me, thank you. She waiting for me. You excuse me, yes?”
    â€œWith pleasure.”
    He looks at me in bored disbelief, shakes his head bemusedly. “See you tomorrow. . . .”
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    THE PAIN OF BEING SEPARATED from my obsession is searing, but it’s a pain I embrace with grim pleasure. Wanting him is the only feeling of being alive, and at moments, having him isn’t wanting him. It’s unlikely, of course, that Marius can imagine any complicated level of attachment. We’re in a taxi on our way to the Romanian bar, but even such a simple operation takes on awkwardness the way he handles it. He’s sprawled in the front seat like a bumpkin who’s won a buggy ride at a county fair. He’s telling the driver, who glances at him with annoyance and then ignores him, to step on it.
    The Romanian bar doesn’t feel dangerous or forbidden to me anymore. Is it the absence of Romulus’s squeamishness about my safety? The shrieking, serpentine music coils through me in an Asiatic intestinal pattern, flattening and twisting my thoughts into Francis Bacon-style distortions. Marius is slurping up the drinks as if it were his last night alive. I’m high on a weird sense of widowhood, the feeling of being cut loose and perfectly free to destroy myself. I look avidly at any gnarly wrist, jutting Adam’s apple or tree-limb neck that promises a hard time, an onslaught of energy and resistance and force. Still, I feel there’s something about my physical bulk and emotional