The Stripping of the Layers

He couldn’t believe they were spending their birthdays together. Oscar was a phenomenal actor. Being his understudy came already very close to his dream job, but he couldn’t possibly imagine fitting in Oscar’s shoes.

His girlfriend had been skeptical. “It’s great that Oscar nominated you again as his understudy. But shouldn’t you be trying to go on the stage more?” She didn’t understand the importance of Oscar. She was a great, supportive girlfriend. But her world was different. The stars of her theatre didn’t get reviews or have their lives scrawled over tabloids. They were praised for even the most mundane surgeries. Mediocrity in his theatre, however, was treated very cruelly.

“Ah, your glass is empty. That’s not done. I think I have another Bordeaux in the kitchen. Go, have some and pour some for me too.”

Joel walked the length of Oscar’s wooden floor, his fingers gently brushing Oscar’s furniture. Everything about Oscar mesmerised Joel: no gesture out of place, each syllable articulated. Even his apartment appeared free of clutter. Sure, there were books, posters and objects that betrayed his interests. But maybe Oscar had deliberately placed them there? He had to see Oscar’s bedroom and private bathroom. He needed to know all the layers of Oscar, from the core to the surface, to calculate steps he would have to take to become him. No wonder Joel couldn’t resist being invited to celebrate his birthday, their birthdays, with Oscar. He wanted to meet a more loosened-up Oscar.

He emptied the last bottle of wine in the drain. “We seem to be out of wine, Sir.”
 “Already? Huh! Get Benedictine from the lowest drawer, will you?”

 By now, they cheered on every round. “What shall we drink to this time, Joel?”

 “To our birthdays, Sir.”

Oscar’s eyes widened with amused surprise. Damn, he was a good actor even after several glasses of the vile spirit. If he were called for a theatre emergency, he’d just button his shirt, head to the stage, and make it seem as if he’d been rehearsing for weeks.

“Then let me give you a gift.”

He gulped down his drink in one large sip and placed himself behind Joel.

“Oh your back is so stiff. When in theatre, you ought to get regular massages. I’ll give you the number of my physiotherapist.”

Oscar knew exactly what to do. Or maybe he just pushed the right buttons. Joel succumbed to his touch. He stood up, took off his shirt and just marched into Oscar’s bedroom. Oscar, as expected, followed.

 

 “Wait, Joel. I don’t want you falling asleep during the massage.”

The next instant the top of the dark wooden bedside table was streaked with four white lines.

“Go ahead, snort it. We don’t want the night to end, do we?”

His pants had come off… His whole body was smeared in with oil… He did not want oil on his expensive underwear, so he’d taken them off too… Oscar’s lips on his ears… The pain… Oscar had held him, and whispered the most romantic words in his ears… Oh, the pain… Oscar’s lips over his—he was such a good kisser.... Joel was sore in places he’d never imagined being sore. Fucking faggot.

“No, you can't go to sleep yet! What about round 2?”
“Oh you're a wild animal, aren't you?”
“ Wait, let me fetch us another drink.”

Joel took extra care to stir Oscar's glass.

Oscar had snorted another line.

“Here you go. The last of the Benedictine.”
“Do you wanna go this time?”
“Nah,” he didn't want any traces, “you do it best.”

When Joel woke up, Oscar was snoring. He washed the glasses and cleaned up the kitchen. He returned to the bedroom to check on him. He punched three digits on his phone.
“Help! I'm calling from Oscar Pereira's flat. He isn't breathing!”