Gagged

By Ian Gerstl

I hate those words—not ‘I,’ ‘love,’ or ‘you,’ but the sequence. I remember the first time she said those fateful fucking words. I wish I’d said nothing, but I caved and lied. “You too.” She bought it. I had no reason not to love her. She was perfect. Her face symmetrical yet soft, her waist trim and her bottom round, her neck slender and her arms skinny but not frail. She spoke softly and coolly, smoked yellow American Spirits, pulled off a French bob, and gave great head, passionately, never feigning her technique. Maybe it was too good, too tactile, too visceral, too perfect. With a vacant mouth between bobs, she whimpered and whispered, instinctively, maybe unconsciously, “I love you.” I hated it. My body loved it; she was perfect. Focus. I had to focus—make it last. I muzzled her mimetic murmurs with the palms of my hands on the back of her head until she gagged. A short-term solution. When she gasped for air, I caved, pressing my hands against my ears to block her quiet reminder of my daily lie. I didn’t love her, or if I did for a moment, it wasn’t long. I loved the idea of her. We believed we were inevitable. We weren’t.

I wiped the edges of my mouth and watched my food float and bob in the porcelain bowl, welcoming the familiar acidic mouthfeel. Today’s toilet bowl collage was some mixture of Pad Thai, veggie spring rolls, and a few Sapporo—or was it Asahi? I can’t remember, but the image was spectacular, textural, and vibrant. The reds from the too-much-oil-crisp I always added complemented the green rings of onion, framed by beige half-chewed noodles, accented with whites from slender sprouts, and then blunter pieces of unknown floating parts. The main course and subject of my art, I assumed, were shrimp or tofu. No wait, that was definitely tofu; the shrimp was more porous and, of course, slightly pink, but most of them sank after floating for a moment. Buoyancy of half-digested food is funny. Why does it float momentarily then sink? Who knows? Though brief, my art was beautiful, cinematic in its expression, designed by some psychedelic director of photography.

The longer I looked, the less I liked it. Well, actually, the longer I watched, the more I thought of Pollock: the unoriginal hack, probably funded by the CIA to mind-fuck the Soviets. I hate Pollock, but I imagine he loved back shots; they’re more or less a monochromatic Pollock on a canvas of flesh. I don’t love back shots, but I respect their utility. Today, sex is two things: one, it’s unconscious mimicry of the highlight reel of our preferred pornos; two, it’s two willing participants temporarily pretending to be in love. That’s it. I won’t be told otherwise. Threesomes, road head, a handjob in a stall, etc., are something else: hedonism. I’m talking about the thing that happens on a Wednesday night, in your bedroom, under the covers, after dinner or happy hour; they’re not there to see your record collection, that Basquiat print you found on Pinterest, or watch that one YouTube video (it’s never just one video). I show her anyway. It’s the role we play to make her feel like she wasn’t easy. They do the same for us. Her “ooo’s” and “ahhh’s” juice my ego, as if I worked for it, that I impressed her enough to bed me. It’s an equal exchange. We play along to accommodate bedroom make-believe.

All I know is back shots and occasional front shots—is that what they’re called?—chased with thoughts of how long I have to stay or if I’m allowed to sleep, and wordless exchanges of a vape. Did she finish? I wonder, but never ask. I used to ask, but now what’s the point? The answer seldom satisfies. Whether I did or not, their response is always the same: “Mhmm,” she replies with her eyes closed, lips glued to a protruding vape. Was it the best you ever had? Was my cock the biggest and thickest you’ve ever felt? is what I really want to ask—well actually, no, just be told. I have a nice penis. It’s not the biggest or thickest; it’s what formerly single white women once called “boyfriend dick.” It’s not small, not huge, rather just right—the perfect temperature of porridge. I confuse that fairytale with the one where the wolf eats grandma. Whatever. I have a nice penis. You get the picture.

I kicked the steel handle wearing my warped reflection, flushing former contents of my stomach. Enrique was waiting for me. My awe now replaced with disgust, debating whether my meal was better going down or coming up. I waffled, weighing its flavor versus the sensation of its return, but today, I concluded, it was better out than in. Most days, I think that’s the case. I stood, unzipped my pants removing my flaccid (nice) penis—it’s better erect, I swear. I’m convinced all men really want to be growers, not show-ers. We’ve got lives to live and seats to sit on—fuck, how the hell does a show-er sit? Where the fuck do they put that thing, roll it up and tuck it between their cheeks? Those poor fortunate gals, waging an unending war with impending UTIs from a cock perpetually stashed in an ass crack. Life’s fine as a grower. I returned my piece to my pants and flushed again. It was time to play with balls.

Enrique stood behind a red-felted table with the number “17” in a white sans serif font—I think it’s Helvetica? He leaned on his cue and the table on the side nearest the ivory ball. “You all powdered up, Jas?” he asked.

“Fuck! My nose!” I replied, swiftly turning toward the restrooms and back again. “Just break, you cunt.” Enrique laid his hand on the table, left forefinger and thumb tightly clasped, creating a small “V,” slotting his cue. He pushed and pulled the cue three times and on his third push stopped, taking the slightest breath, holding it for a second, exhaling as he thrashed the cue back then forward, connecting with the ivory ball, scattering the collection of colored resin balls across the table until they became motionless again.

“Open,” Enrique said, dissatisfied. My turn. I considered cutting the solid green six into the back right pocket or banking the blue-striped ten into the left side pocket. I chose the back shot—shit, no, bank shot. I meant, bank shot. Jesus. I must be horny or something. Fuck, now I’m thinking of that Sorbel rip-off again. I made the shot. Performing an effortless bank shot will forever eclipse a back shot. The thunking sound from a falling ball into an empty pocket is an ear-gasm never prompting the same contemplation one feels lying on your back, wondering and hoping her audibility wasn’t an act. The dense resin thunk hitting thin polymer never lies. “Satisfied?” Enrique remarked, jealously. I smiled, readjusting myself.

“Quite.”

We play games of five, usually. Today, I won the first, he grabbed the second, then I took the third by Enrique’s faulty shot on the onyx eight sinking the cue ball with it. I took the lead again. “Another beer?” Enrique asked. I nodded. My head began to ache; this would be my fourth, Enrique’s second. I was convinced I played better inebriated. Enrique looked dubious.

More than this you know there’s nothing… Bryan Ferry’s vibrato voice echoed. “Roxy was never the same after Eno,” Enrique remarked as he reordered the balls, alternating solids and stripes.

“You’re out of your mind. ‘More Than This’ is their best song. This is all Ferry. Eno had a good run—anyway, he had a better solo and producing career,” I said, shaking my head.

“It’s good, but their best? C’mon.” Our beers arrived; I put mine back without a breath.

“I’ll take a little tequila. No, make it a double,” I said to the bartender, wiping my mouth. She asked what else Enrique wanted. He said nothing, just stared, obviously amused. The bartender left and shortly returned with my tequila. I threw it back. He ordered fries and two waters. I lined up my shot, letting loose what I believed was the perfect release; I missed the ball, mostly. Together, we watched the ivory ball meander across the table until it stopped, resting against the blue solid two at the top of the rack. I looked at Enrique. He didn’t look at me. Just shook his head, hands to his face—vindicated, amused, a little annoyed. Mulligan. I tried again.

The fries arrived. I didn’t want to eat; my throat felt raw, too much chili oil crisp. I wanted to drink, but I also wanted to win. I was hungry. I could remedy this meal momentarily. Is that too soon? I rubbed my throat unconsciously and coughed. Enrique took his shot. “You gonna eat?” I nodded. “You ever consider what that song’s about?” I stared at him curiously. “ ‘More than This’.” Right. That song. I hadn’t. “I guess Ferry said it’s about a relationship, or the eventual end of one.” What is he talking about? “Have you felt that before? How’s it go again? ‘It was fun for a while… like a dream in the night,’ something like that?”

I had felt that. You know it’s over before it really is. There’s no definitive sign or moment—it just ends. You start counting the days, you stop checking in, you stop saying goodnight, or leave without saying goodbye. Nothing caused it, or maybe something did. Well, actually, I guess I did. Did I stick around out of guilt or because I had to let my “I love you” lie run its course? I felt it eventually, maybe, probably, but by that point I faked so much, caved too often; I was a shell of what I meant to be. I hid parts from her I knew she knew, when I knew it was over, I couldn’t admit it. She caught me—well, rather she heard me behind our Ipswich pine-stained wood bathroom door. She knew I wasn’t sick and listened. Her inquiry, neither caring nor curious. How did she know it wasn’t anything more than nausea, maybe nerves, a bad oyster, or wilted greens? Who’s she to say otherwise? I lied, of course. I told her it was nothing, that I was sick. “Jasper.” I could hear her voice again. “Jasper, what’s going on? Talk to me,” she begged, judgement left her tone, now replaced with desperation. Eventually she withdrew and listened. I wanted her to hear me, to wonder, to second-guess herself—isn’t that what we do best? We break them, little by little, with a twist of words, a change of meaning, an alternate story: it’s not what you think. They begin to believe us. She began to believe me. But it’s not the belief in a lie that’s a sin but succumbing to the doubt of what you know to be true.

I nodded. Enrique knew I had more to say but recognized I wouldn’t. But I would have said more if he’d tried. The moment passed. Thank god. I was solids, and he was stripes. His auburn fifteen and ochre nine were left, poorly positioned, while my navy two sat on the edge of the left corner pocket. It was a gimme shot. My turn. If I played the line right, the eight was an easy follow-up for a win. But the run was long; the cue ball hung on the opposite side of my two. The conversation ended as I lined up the shot. Am I drunk? Bent over the table, I saw two ivory balls and my fuzzy target in the corner. I closed one eye to see my line and only one cue ball. The tip of my cue danced within my practice strokes. I took a breath, released, and connected. We watched in disbelief as the cue ball rolled and rolled, each rotation losing more momentum. It seemed to move so slowly—maybe that was my perception—that at any moment I believed it could stop, but it didn’t. It kept rolling and rolling until it bounced off the rail without making contact with my two. I didn’t move. Maybe because I was comfortable with my torso outstretched on the table, one leg dangling, the other on its toes. I missed the ball by an inch; in pool that’s a mile. Damnit. “Ball in hand,” I said, words muffled, my face pressed against the red felt. Enrique finished with little effort. Vindicated. His last three strokes of the cue were precise, without flaw. I felt nauseous and smiled.

Now on my knees in my favorite position before the porcelain throne. Why am I nauseous? I seldom felt nausea. Nausea is the body expressing something isn’t right. An autonomous safety measure, unmitigated; when it starts, there’s little we can do to prevent what’s coming. Let it out or swallow. Nausea is for the weak of stomach—the feckless fearful fucks. What are they afraid of? “I hate to vomit,” she used to say. Was this her only flaw? She’d say it with her nose turned upward, her questioning words dripping with disgust. She didn’t understand—did anyone? My reflection bounced off the surface of the water. This is me. Not what she knew, not what Enrique knows, this is me: bent over the rim of a black plastic seat, fist in my mouth, fingers coaxing my raw esophagus. I gagged and winced with each itch: first one, then two, until finally three fingers. It wouldn’t come. My throat throbbed; I pulled my fist from my mouth. Curious. I never needed three before, so I tried again. Fuck. I spit, tasting metal. I looked at the surface of the water again—rings of red now covered my reflection. This is new. My hand began to shake as I returned it to my mouth, now wincing from the beckoning curl of my fingers. There it is. The stall door swung open, slapping my ass. I yanked my fingers from my mouth. “Yo!” Enrique exclaimed. “My bad, bro. What the fuck, ma—” I looked over my shoulder and gagged, witnessing the look on Enrique’s face. Here it comes. I clenched the seat with both hands, my face inches above water, my body tensed, a euphoric release as the familiar lightness returned to my skull as beauty flowed from my mouth. I kept puking but turned my head to the side between heaves to confirm my suspicion. He’s watching me. We made eye contact—almost intimate if not for the grotesque expression on his face. He didn’t turn away as I would have.

“It’s nothing. Jesus. Think of knocking?” I replied and puked again. Jesus. I thought I’d be embarrassed. I waited for it to come, that familiar feeling of humiliation, but it didn’t. I finished and sat there with my mouth open and bits of fries stuck to my face. I tried to make out the song from the dull, muffled sound of classic rock. We locked eyes. I wasn’t ashamed. I was angry. This is private.

“Your lips, Jas,” he said. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand: blood. Is this what a first period feels like? Pubescent girls reach cautiously, hands shaking. They feel it—the warm red-hot mess—before touching it. They know what it is. It’s here. It’s time to die. A shamanic entry into the feminine, initiated without consent, whether they’re ready or not. Playtime is over, sweetheart. Welcome to chaos, the ebbs and flows of feeling everything all at once, without answer or solution. Just raw emotion boiling inside of you until it escapes, dripping down your naked legs. A girl no more—a woman until death. They knew what was next: pain, unending pain and disappointment until nothingness. I knew what was next too. They’re all the same. Enrique, her, everyone. They can’t accept what they know to be true. We judge what we do not understand. Here it comes, just say it, you fucking coward. Enrique didn’t say anything. He let the stall door close and turned. I watched his feet walk him to the sink. Say it, you fuck!

“Jas… You good, man?” I didn’t say anything. That’s not what he was supposed to say. I just stared at the white-and-red-striped rubber wrapped around the edge of his Chucks, slightly scuffed. He must clean them. It’s nothing. He thinks I’m just sick. No big deal. I stood and let the stall door swing open from a light pull of my fingers. Enrique washed his hands. We locked eyes. He pulled two, three—no, five sheets of paper from the receptacle, handing them to me. I took them, wordless. I wiped my mouth and face and looked at his reflection. He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. What the fuck?

I racked our balls in silence. Enrique polished the tip of his cue, twisting the tiny cube this way and that while rotating the cue in an opposing rhythm with the flick of his wrist. His eyes darted from the table, to the cue ball, to the rack, then to me, smiling when we made eye contact. He’s a handsome man; small but deep lines parenthesized rows of soft white below an unobtrusive, lightly groomed mustache. It wasn’t thick nor pronounced, but complimentary to the shape of his angular face and tawny skin. He didn’t break eye contact as he performed his habitual approach before his break. This was it. The game, the others—were practice, a warm-up before the finale. We knew what the other was playing for. Is this what moments before a battle feel like? Shoulder to shoulder, facing likely death or permanent bodily harm, unknown who will live or who will die, who is right and who is wrong. Is that not what war is? The ultimate height of disagreement. Is war not about vindication—not only to prove to your opponent, but to yourself, that you are right? Is an end to war the unbiased, uninterested, unbothered universe selecting the true winner, the rightfully vindicated?

Enrique let loose. Something else rocked our resin balls, his precision and power amplified by—rage, resentment, anger, even disappointment? I don’t know. Chaos covered table seventeen, until one by one the balls settled slowly into inevitable motionlessness—thunk. The orange five fell into the side pocket. Solids. He was solids. Enrique watched the balls, calculating his next shot. He lined up, sinking his purple four from across the table, cutting it into the left corner pocket closest to me. He did the same with the maroon seven, then missed on his green six by a hair, as it hung on the edge of the right middle side pocket. Unbothered by his miss and beautiful opening run. Silence hung. He didn’t motion to me, just looked, watching me, examining my lie. I didn’t say anything. Maybe he had forgotten or just moved on, accepted what had happened as nothing. This was just a game of pool, nothing more. That’s all it is.

“How long, Jas?” 

Fuck. 

On and off a few years, the last few months, most days, but not every day. I have to eat and shit eventually. I lined up my shot, ignoring his inquiry. Did I have to respond? I replied by sinking my auburn fifteen, orange thirteen, and ochre nine, and missing my purple twelve—but it was a gimme for my next turn, blocking the left corner pocket closest to him.

“Jas?” Enrique said. Goddamnit. “You want me to pretend I didn’t see what I saw?” Obviously. “You’re not going to get off that easy.” Fuck, man. Just drop it.

“It’s your shot. I set you up nice.” Enrique stood motionless, staring. He wasn’t angry nor sad—was he curious? He held his cheeky smile. The fuck is he thinking? Is he mocking me—is this all a joke to him?

“Jas,” he said, still smiling, “what’s up, man?”

“Take your shot.”

“I will,” he said, but didn’t move.

“What is this, a Mexican stand-off?”

“We’d need a third.”

“You are a dirty spick, on your mother’s side. That’s enough to make it one.” He was still smiling but now with an eyebrow raised. “Hey, what do you call ten dead Mexicans in an abandoned truck south of the Pecos?” He cocked his head, pursing his lips, eyebrow still raised. He said nothing. “Refried beans.” Enrique’s eyes widened as he walked to the side closest to the ivory ball and took his shot. He pocketed his six, followed by a clean cut of the ochre one into the left corner pocket opposite of me, and ran his red three into the adjacent corner along the rail. Every move, push, and pull of the cue was mechanical—perfect. He never celebrated nor complained. He stoically took his turns, placing the cue ball precisely where he intended, never missing from sloppiness, only lack of momentum. I hadn’t seen him play better. He ended his turn by missing a straight shot on the midnight-blue two; it was a makeable shot, but he barely touched the ivory ball with the tip of his cue so that it lightly kissed his final solid before a shot on the eight ball. Was that intentional? He left me a perfect lie, with my remaining balls conveniently positioned. I was trapped. He didn’t want this win; he wanted me to talk. Have it your way, fucker. “It’s nothing, man. I’ve got it under control.”

“Is that right?”

“Nothing to worry about. Everything is A-okay.”

“Anyone else know?” I took my shot, pocketing the twelve, followed by banking my red eleven, running my blue ten along the rail and banking my final ball, the green fourteen, from the far wall into the left corner pocket closest to me. I could end it here. Game over. I win. I’m right. End of conversation. But I missed. I called the right middle pocket; the eight ball bounced off the corner, rolling to the middle of the table, nearly touching Enrique’s final ball.

“That I get a little tummy ache? Everyone feels nausea occasionally.”

“Jas,” Enrique said, but I heard, cut the bullshit.

“Just you—well, also Toni, but what does that matter anymore?” Enrique didn’t reply but waited for me to continue, to tell him: How long? Why? Do I know what I’m doing? Did I know what this was doing to me? Yes, I did. I knew what I felt. I had control—just about the only thing I could control. Each day is another break of the rack, scattering our consciousness into chaos. We have no control, especially ourselves. Nothing good comes from our control, only by chance. But I can control this pain. I can control this feeling. Everything I did came out wrong, nothing real or resonant, just shit. But this—this I can control. I chose this. No one else has a say. This is me. I know what I’m doing. Let me do this.

Oh fuck. 

I swallowed. Oh no. Fuck. I swallowed again. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit! Here it comes. I closed my mouth, but my lips betrayed me. My face blew up, cheeks rounded, filled not with air but my vomit. My lips puckered. I tried to hold it, but the smallest dollop of beige shot from my lips, arching across red felt, landing directly in front of Enrique’s final ball. I stared at the vomit then looked at Enrique. He stared at my stain, mouth open. Silence hung until he began to laugh.

I swallowed. Game over.

By Ian Gerstl