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YOU: You and Kim are currently undercover at a men’s club called LA GROTTE DES HOMMES.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Now *this* is more like it. Who wants to pull waterlogged bodies out of the river, or comfort screaming mothers, or try once again to crack the extensive dry-cleaning theft ring being run out of your dry-cleaner?
LOGIC: Again - just because they lost your third-best corduroy jacket - doesn’t mean they’re guilty of an undercover theft ring.
SAVOIR FAIRE: But they *are* guilty of crimes against fashion. The deep-mustard shade of the jacket they “lost” is not recompensed by anything else in your wardrobe.
HALF LIGHT: *They* know what they’re doing.
YOU: Tonight, you’re wearing a blue satin shirt, loosely tucked into your best pair of flares. You’d unbuttoned the shirt four buttons in deference to both the nature of your undercover job *and* the heat.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It’s sweltering, the air in the streets thick and heavy with several weeks worth of oppressive heat. On the walk from the Kineema to the club, you had sweated deeply into your shirt, darkening the fabric, and Kim had taken off the black leather jacket he was wearing and slung it over his shoulder.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Exposing his arms, his collarbone, his waist. He’s not wearing his gloves. It’s too *hot* for that. He hasn’t worn them for weeks.
SUGGESTION: You’ve had trouble keeping your eyes off his hands: when he’s been driving, when he’s been filling out paperwork, when he’s been across from you at lunch, eating a kebab.
ENDURANCE: It’s been a hard month. This kind of weather makes the whole city act in strange and unpredictable ways.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Including murdering a man in La Grotte des Hommes, an *underground* men’s club. He had been found in a bedroom upstairs yesterday morning by the hired cleaning woman. Autopsy results indicate suffocation, although the toxicology report is pending.
INLAND EMPIRE: The dead man told you he had died for love. A common refrain for you.
PAIN THRESHOLD: That’s because it’s *dangerous.* That’s because it’s bad. Because it *hurts,* Harry.
EMPATHY: It’s a good thing *you’re* not in love with anyone.
INLAND EMPIRE: Yeah…sure.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Kim believes the man was killed by his partner of the evening, even after your interview with the man, who swore the deceased was alive when he had left him. *You* believe the man was killed by someone else - the bartender, or even the landlady.
LA GROTTE DES HOMMES: You and Kim, posing as a pair of undercover lovers, have casually interviewed a few people throughout the night - including the bartender, a young man who claims to be a doctor, and has been flirting with the bartender all night, and an older couple. Kim slides his hand into your back pocket as you lean on the bar, and you jump a little.
KIM KITSURAGI: “At ease,” he says in your ear, his breath raising the hair on the back of your neck.
INTERFACING: His fingers twitch, as if he wants to give a little squeeze.
YOU: You’d expected him to be stiffer, but he’s surprisingly relaxed touching you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Perhaps it’s the drinks. You’ve each had two - you, sampling the brightly colored tiki drinks the bartender claims to have invented, Kim, straight whisky.
COMPOSURE: No, that’s not it. It’s that he’s comfortable touching you. He’s *always* touching you, haven’t you noticed?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh, we’ve noticed.
INTERFACING: A hand on your shoulder. A tap of the fingers to the back of your hand. A palm to your lower back, ushering you places. An Ace’s High, an Ace’s Low, a hand up from the ground. Once, drunk, when you were vomiting in an alley, a hand rubbing circles into your shoulder. Just last week, when you were stuck trying to climb a chain-link fence, a boost to both asscheeks.
SUGGESTION: But he hasn’t kissed you again. Not since May. And now it’s August.
VOLITION: You were supposed to be satisfied, don’t you remember?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: But we’re not. We’re *never* satisfied. And Kim isn’t either. Surely you’ve seen the way he’s always looking at you when he thinks you’re not looking. When your head is bent over your desk. In the Kineema rearview mirror.
VOLITION: He thinks about you more than he should. Maybe as much as you think about him…
YOU: So you and Kim lean into your undercover roles this evening, playing the affectionate but cautious lovers.
DRAMA: But you’re still more like cops than like Guillaume le Centime and Tim, two gay lovers who are meeting here because they have nowhere else to go. Kim refused to come up with a last name for his undercover *undercover* persona. “Detective, you would have to be mad to give a last name at these kinds of places,” he’d said.
DRAMA: It’s his lack of a fake last name that’s tipping everyone off.
LOGIC: It’s probably all the questions you’re asking. You ask if it’s *safe*, and then, after they tell you about the murder, how long the deceased had been going here, if he had any particular friends, who they thought did it?
HALF LIGHT: The regulars are beginning to get suspicious, especially Doctor Anton, who, leaning on the bar, asks if you’re journalists, or worse, *cops.*
DRAMA: You deny it with aplomb.
KIM KITSURAGI: But Kim really sells it. “Doctor, look at me. Do you really think a half-Seolite faggot would be a cop in this city?”
COMPOSURE: You can feel the tension in his forearm where it is pressed against yours on the bar. Your sleeves are rolled up, and you push your arm gently against his.
PERCEPTION: Your sweating skin slip-sliding together.
DOCTOR ANTON: He shrugs. “Could be you’re a glutton for punishment.”
VOLITION: Kim’s nostrils flare, very briefly.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Oh, he is.
YOU: You put a hand on Kim’s arm and lean to whisper in his ear. “We should go sit on the couch over there.”
LA GROTTE DES HOMMES COUCH: That’s right. I’m the gangster of love, baby! I can make *magic* happen. Come on and bring your sweet date over here. You’ll be in his pants in no time.
KIM KITSURAGI: He turns to you, very close in the dark bar. You can see every hair, every line, every pore.
SUGGESTION: You want to touch them all.
KIM KITSURAGI: His eyes dart over your face - eyes, chops, mouth. “Alright.”
YOU: You and Kim take your leave of the patrons at the bar and head on over to the couch, which is easily three meters long and made of a deep smooth leather or leather-substitute. It is also very soft, and you sink into it when you drop down. Kim sits very close to you, leaning into your heavier weight, pressed to you, shoulder to hip to thigh.
LA GROTTE DES HOMMES COUCH: Now *that’s* what I’m talking about. Alright, let’s make the magic happen. I know his type. I’ve seen a dozen of them. All upright and repressed, carefully put together. There’s something about me that makes men lose control. Imagine him rutting against you, eyes screwed tightly shut, his perfect control fractured. You can see it, can’t you? Don’t you want to be here when it happens? When the good detective loses control?
YOU: Oh, god, yes. Yes, I do.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: There is a clarion call coming from inside your flare-cut pants.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Kim is close enough to see it if he looks down. Mayday, mayday!
KIM KITSURAGI: Up close, you can see the sweat beading on his temple, his upper lip.
YOU: “It’s hot in here.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He makes a noise of assent. He is a little drunk, and puts an arm along the back of the couch, behind your head, leaning over you slightly, as if exchanging sweet nothings.
PERCEPTION: The brush of leather against the back of your neck.
KIM KITSURAGI: “What’s your plan, detective?”
1) “This couch says we should fuck.”
2) “The good doctor’s suspicious.”
3) “Kim, I think we should make out. For the case.”
YOU: You talk out of the side of your mouth, but barely hear what you’re saying, your heart is pounding so hard. “The good doctor’s suspicious.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I thought so too. Do you think he did it?”
YOU: You rub your chin with your hand. “He might have.”
VISUAL CALCULUS: Even now, Doctor Anton is talking to another rather large man who has come in. He stands with his arms crossed, watching you.
HALF LIGHT: Men in these sorts of clubs do not take kindly to the RCM.
1) “This couch says we should fuck.”
2) “The good doctor’s suspicious.”
3) “Kim, I think we should make out. For the case.”
YOU: “Kim, I think we should make out. For the case.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Something darkens in his eyes. In the dark of the club, in this shadowy corner, it is almost impossible to read his expression. “For the case. Of course.”
1) “Wait, really?”
2) “Okay. Here goes.”
3) [No words. Just act.]
YOU: You turn, slipping an arm between Kim and the back of the couch, tugging him into you. He is so close, an arm thrown around your shoulders, looking down at you. You land a hand on his knee, then slide it up his thigh, very slowly, watching as your familiar thumb snags every wrinkle in the cargo fabric.
VOLITION: This is *your* hand. Dark-haired and familiar, white scarring on the back.
YOU: You dare to look up from your hand to Kim’s face.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim does the same thing at the same time. “This is a very compromising position, detective,” he says, very low.
VISUAL CALCULUS: You’re staring at his mouth.
VOLITION: You are powerless to help it. It’s like the eyebrow. You’re held in his thrall.
KIM KITSURAGI: A soft huff.
COMPOSURE: As if of annoyance.
EMPATHY: Do I have to do everything around here? he thinks.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah, fuck it,” he says, and leans in. Close - closer -
SUGGESTION: He stops, just as his lips touch yours.
PERCEPTION: The soft and full brush of his lips. The feather of his breath on your mouth.
KIM KITSURAGI: He waits a beat, two. You can see the dark flash of his eyes through his glasses, can *feel* the wicked curve of his smile.
VOLITION: You cannot take this anymore.
YOU: You whine, reaching forward -
KIM KITSURAGI: And then he pants, and kisses you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh, fuck. We’ve died again. We’ve died again and we’re *never* letting *anyone* bring us back, this is so good, it’s too good -
INTERFACING: It’s slow and long, his open mouth pressed against yours, the flash of his tongue on your lower lip. You whimper, hand clutching at his hip, other one coming up to cup the back of his neck, tangle in his slicked-back hair. You feel him smile against your mouth - where he thinks it won’t be seen - as he kisses you, slowly, your mouths moving together over and over and over again.
PERCEPTION: You can taste the salt on his upper lip.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Feel the prickle of his mustache. Your own chops are rough on his cheeks.
SUGGESTION: He *likes* it. He wants to climb on top of you, to grind against you. To look down at you as you look up at him with that dumb admiring worship you’re *so* very good at.
VOLITION: He’s wanted to see that look directed at *him* since he saw you on your knees in front of Dolores Dei.
AUTHORITY: But not *here*. Not in front of others.
EMPATHY: And not as part of a case. Not as a trick.
KIM KITSURAGI: The kisses are longer, drawn out now, open-mouthed. Or maybe it’s all the same kiss. You don’t know. You haven’t broken for breath yet.
INTERFACING: You can feel him gasping, his movements slowing, his chest heaving as you slide a hand inside his leather jacket, untuck his white shirt from his pants, touch damp, sweating skin.
KIM KITSURAGI: And then he pulls away.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Will you ever get to keep him??
PERCEPTION: A sharp whistle. The sound of applause.
DRAMA: You should acknowledge your appreciative audience.
AUTHORITY: But you can’t move. Kim is looking down at you with something dark and feral in his eyes.
HALF LIGHT: He’s going to devour you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Let him.
KIM KITSURAGI: And then his eyes drag over you, and he shifts, and his eyes shutter, hiding that hunger away. “Well?” he says. “Do you think it worked?”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh, it *works* alright, funky-baby.
VISUAL CALCULUS: As if he hears you, his eyes track down, slowly, to your crotch.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: To your not insubstantially-bulging disco flares.
KIM KITSURAGI: His lips are glistening with spit.
AUTHORITY: “*Your* spit.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective,” he says, very low, so low that only you can hear, “I think we’re finished here, don’t you?”
1) “I’ll never be finished with you, Kim.”
2) “I think we should go upstairs to one of those *private* rooms.”
3) “Yeah, you’re right. This isn’t helping the case at all.”
4) “I think we should kiss again.”
5) “I think we should ask a few more questions.”
INLAND EMPIRE: *Don’t* push it. He’s already kissed you *twice* now. Maybe, if you’re very lucky, you can get him to kiss you *again*?
YOU: “I think we should ask a few more questions.”
YOU: You and Kim go back to the bar, managing to subtly ask a few more questions, before you leave the club and begin to walk back to the Kineema. It is still hot, although it is now around midnight, and the air is beginning to clear slightly due to the sea.
KIM KITSURAGI: You come up to the Kineema, and Kim subtly inspects it for any damage incurred during your absence.
VISUAL CALCULUS: He does this every time he returns to the Kineema after any sort of time away.
EMPATHY: He does the same to you every morning you roll into the 41st, whether you are on time or not.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I’ll give you a ride back to your apartment?”
1) “But it’s a half hour out of your way.”
2) “Screw my apartment, let’s go out dancing!”
3) “Screw my apartment, let’s go for a drive!”
4) “Thanks, Kim.”
YOU: “Screw my apartment, let’s go for a drive!”
KIM KITSURAGI: He smiles, propping a foot up on the Kineema running board. “Perhaps another time.” He looks younger in his black jacket, the crow’s-feet around his eyes deepened in the shadowy light.
SUGGESTION: It’s an intoxicating combination.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You should push him up against the Kineema and kiss him. Get your hands inside that jacket, rut against his thigh.
VOLITION: *You* shouldn’t have had that final drink at the bar.
1) “But it’s a half hour out of your way.”
2) “Screw my apartment, let’s go out dancing!”
3) “Screw my apartment, let’s go for a drive!”
4) “Thanks, Kim.”
YOU: “Thanks, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Of course.”
KIM’S KINEEMA: You drive back across the city, windows down, letting in the breeze that only speed can bring to the city in this heat wave. Kim goes the long way around, back over the 8/81, and it *does* cool down when he goes this fast. When he hits the bridge, he guns it fast enough that you have to look away from the speedometer.
PERCEPTION: All you can hear is the roar of the Kineema engine. The lights blur around you.
DRAMA: You are going the fastest anyone has ever gone before.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: You are going just over 200 kilometers per hour.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Don’t be a little bitch.
HALF LIGHT: You fly past another motor carriage, a lorry, two motor carriages in a row.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: It sounds as if you are deep in the belly of a large cat, roaring loud enough for the world to hear it.
KIM KITSURAGI: Bits of his hair flutter back in the breeze, falling down from his brilliantine. There is a look of total concentration on his face as he handles the levers.
INLAND EMPIRE: He’s trying to get away from something.
YOU: What is it?
INLAND EMPIRE: It’s behind him, but he’s having trouble leaving it.
HALF LIGHT: It’s you. He *hates* you.
SUGGESTION: No whatever it is, it’s inside him.
KIM KITSURAGI: He gets to the end of the bridge, slowing down. He meets your eyes in the mirror and smiles slightly, but he looks distracted. You drive the rest of the way in silence, as if Kim is thinking about something -
INTERFACING: Or just enjoying driving -
PERDITION AND MAIN: And you enjoy looking out the window as your neighborhood begins to coalesce around you, oozing back into your consciousness. Kim pulls up in front of your apartment. The basement windows are dark and empty.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Just like you.
1) “Do you want to come in?”
2) “Actually, can we go around the block again?”
3) “Actually, can I maybe stay at your place tonight?
4) [Go into your dark apartment. It’s your bed and you have to lie in it.]
YOU: “Do you want to come in?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm.” A infinitesimal pause. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, officer.”
1) “It’s a *great* idea. Don’t you want to kiss some more?”
2) “You’re probably right, Kim. I’m scum.”
3) “Tell me the truth. Am I a bad kisser?”
4) “I just wanted to play Suzerainty.”
YOU: “I just wanted to play Suzerainty.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Suzerainty.” He looks at you sharply in the rearview mirror, then turns around to face you. He says, “it’s too late for that. We will be at it for three or four hours at least. You take too long on your turns.”
INTERFACING: But he reaches out and taps your knee with his bare knuckles, as if to show you he meant it affectionately.
EMPATHY: They linger for longer than is strictly necessary.
SUGGESTION: If you push him, he will come in.
HALF LIGHT: No, he won’t. He’ll run.
1) “Do you want to come in?”
2) “Actually, can we go around the block again?”
3) “Actually, can I maybe stay at your place tonight?
4) [Go into your dark apartment. It’s your bed and you have to lie in it.]
YOU: Opening the Kineema door, you slide out. “Goodnight, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Goodnight, detective,” he says.
YOU: You can feel his eyes lingering on you as you go into your apartment. It is hot and stuffy, and you go around opening windows and turning fans on. Their dull roar fills the space. It almost, but not quite, blocks out the sound of the Kineema as it roars away.
SHIVERS: Despite what Kim Kitsuragi has told you, he takes the long way back to his apartment. Something about La Grotte des Hommes is making him restless, reminding him of the clubs of his youth which he frequented on occasion. It has been a long time. Now, he has the RCM, and the Kineema, and lately, you…for some reason, this thought causes him to accelerate.
YOU: You are strangely restless too. You find yourself making laps of your small and dark and smelly apartment like an animal in a cage. You stop by the couch, scooping up a bottle of vodka, and take it back into the bedroom, where you lay down on the lonely bed, and attempt to fall asleep. It is hot in there, the thick heat emanating from the open windows, the hot stale car exhaust and heat oozing off the pavements back into the sky. From your very skin, the brands where Kim had touched you earlier still glowing in the night.
SHIVERS: But it will cool as the night turns to morning. You will wake around three, shivering slightly, and pull the sheet off the floor and over your sweat-dried skin, and go back to sleep. Across the city, Kim Kitsuragi will turn around, back to his open balcony door, and curl up tighter around himself, perhaps wishing for someone else there with him.