The Rules of Attraction

PAUL Have you been in a worse mood lately?

The Freshman you have a crush on passes by you down the stairs out of the dining halls and when you ask him where he’s going he says, “Hibachi.” You’ve forgotten your I.D. so they bother you about that but they let you in anyway. You get some coffee and for some perverse reason a bowl of Jell-O and walk to your table. It seems that Donald and Harry went to Montreal last night to visit the natives and got back this morning. “I haven’t masturbated in eleven days,” Donald whispers as you sit down. “I envy you,” you whisper back.

And then there’s Raymond who has brought Steve, nicknamed The Handsome Dunce in some circles, to the table. Steve is an economics major who “dabbles in video.” Steve has a BMW. He is from Long Island. Now, Raymond has not slept with this guy (gay Freshmen — it’s dawning on you — are an anomaly now) even though he did leave the party with him last night. But Raymond is eager still to let everyone think so. He laughs at every lame conversation attempt made by this idiot Steve and asks him constantly if he wants anything and brings him things (cookies, a disgusting/funny salad, garnishes stolen from the salad bar) even if he has said no. It’s so nauseating that you are about to get up and leave, sit somewhere else. What’s even more nauseating is that you don’t. You stay because Steve is hot. And this depresses you, makes you think, will you always be the quintessential faggot? Will you only pant after the blond-tan-good-body-stupid-goons? And will you always ignore the smart, caring, sensitive type, who might be four-foot-three and have acne on his back but who is still, essentially, bright? Will you always pant after the blue-eyed palooka who’s majoring in Trombone Theory and ignore the loving Drama queer who’s doing his thesis on Joe Orton? You want it to stop, but …

… then the tall blue-eyed Freshman, who doesn’t even have a hint of interest in you, will ask for a cigarette and you’ll be blown away. But the Freshmen, represented here by Steve, look so stupid, so desperate to please, trying so hard, nothing on their minds but partying, dressed like ads for Esprit sportswear. Fact remains however: they are better-looking than the Seniors.

“How was the party?” Harry asks.

“My brother’s bar mitzvah was more fun, maybe,” Raymond says, glancing over at Steve, whose eyes look permanently half-closed, a dumb grin locked on his face, nodding to no one.

“They were actually playing Springsteen,” Steve says.

“Jesus, I know,” Raymond agrees. “Springsteen, for Christ’s sake. Who was D.J.?”

“But you like Springsteen, Raymond,” you say, ignoring the green Jell-O, lighting a cigarette, your four hundredth of the day.

“No, I don’t,” Raymond says blushing, looking nervously at Steve.

“You do?” Steve asks him.

“No, I don’t,” Raymond says. “I don’t know where Paul got that idea.”

“See, Raymond has this theory that Springsteen likes getting, to put it mildly, boo-fooed,” you say, leaning in, talking directly to Steve. “Springsteen, for Christ’s sake.”

“Listen to ‘Backstreets.’ Gay song definitely,” Donald says, nodding.

“I never said that,” Raymond laughs uncomfortably. “Paul’s got me mixed up with someone.”

“What was the adjective you used to describe the cover of the ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ album?” you ask. “Delicious?”

But Steve’s not listening anymore. He’s not interested in what passes for conversation at the table. He’s talking to the Brazilian boy. He’s asking him if he can get him some Ecstasy for tonight. The Brazilian boy says, “Saps your spinal fluid, dude.”

“Paul, why don’t you just mind your own business,” Raymond says with a resentful glare. “… And get me some Sprite.”

“You had this list, Raymond,” you say, causing more trouble. “Who else was on it? It was quite a list: Shakespeare, Sam Shepard, Rob Lowe, Ronald Reagan, his son—”

“Well, his son,” Donald says.

“But isn’t this the century no one cared?” Harry asks.

“About what?” you all ask back.

“Huh?” Steve asks after the Brazilian leaves.

But you stop listening because we all have lapses of taste; we’ve all slept with people we shouldn’t have slept with. What about that tall, lanky guy with the Asian girlfriend who you thought had herpes but didn’t and the two of you made a vow to never tell anyone about your two nights together. He’s across the room right now, sitting with that same little Oriental girl. They’re fighting. She gets up. He gives her the finger to her back, the wimp. Now Raymond’s talking about how great Steve’s “dabbles in video” are.

“Your stuff is great. Is that class any good?” he’s asking. Now, you know Raymond loathes anything that has to do with videos and that even if this guy did something amazing, which is doubtful, Raymond would still loathe it.

“I learned a lot from that class,” Steve says.

“Like what?” you whisper to Donald, “The alphabet?”

Raymond hears and glares.

Steve just says, “Wha?”

Harry asks, “Was there a nuclear war somewhere over the weekend?” You turn away and look out over the room. Then one final look at Steve sitting next to Raymond, both of them now laughing about something. Steve doesn’t realize what’s happening. Raymond still holds his stare at the three of us, and his hand shakes for a second when he brings his glass to his mouth and gives Steve a quick glance which Steve catches. The quick glance gives it all away. But what could it possibly mean to the blond boy from Long Island? Nothing. It meant only “quick glance” and nothing past that. It meant a shaking hand lighting another cigarette. After Sean left, songs I normally wouldn’t have liked started having painful significance to me.