I toweled the sweat from my chest and headed for the shower.
It took all my willpower not to jerk off. My libido was just stupid—when water hit the wrong way it felt like my dick was getting the electric chair. Four times your prescribed T dose will do that. What exactly was the etiquette for jerking it at a friend’s gym, anyway? I thought of Tamsin’s mouth, Ingrid’s thighs.
And twisted the tap to cold.
Downstairs, Armin sat in the lobby, dressed like a prince in cashmere and gabardine.
“Looking for me?” I said.
“Need your help with something. Can you spare a few hours?”
“Sure.”
Once I would’ve asked a million questions before committing. T made it easier to roll with things. My curiosity about the world shifted from risk analysis (worth my energy, sanity, personal safety?) to simply asking myself: Do I want to do this or not? I lived less in my head, more in my body. Wasn’t sure if it was primarily hormonal or social. The unknown was always less risky for men. I didn’t have to tell a friend where I was meeting an Internet hookup, or walk with a buddy to public transit, or have the taxi drop me off a block from my actual apartment. I— Okay, so not a complete change. Still spent a lot of time spinning my wheels inside this skull.
Out in the crisp autumn air salted with snow, I looked up and let the sky dust my face. A thousand cold needles pricked my shaved skin. Every muscle swelled, taut as steel cable.
God, I felt good. Like myself again.
Armin drove his Range Rover downtown. Chicago was glorious in the clutch of late fall: leaves pasted the windshield, plum and pomegranate and marigold, and the snowmelt left a shine on the world like pottery glaze. Miniature white stars hurtled against my window and dissolved.
“Mind walking a bit?” Armin said.
“Not at all.”
We parked in a garage and strolled up the Mag Mile, taking in the pageantry: shimmering tinsel, twinkling lights, and a high pure note pinging the sky like struck glass, just above human hearing but turning the air musical, crystalline. A coffeehouse door swung open and a warm cinnamon breeze swirled out. I wanted to taste the snow with my tongue on the chance it was confectioner’s sugar.
At our last meeting, the girls had noticed the change.
You’re so spirited, Tam said, smiling. Inge said, Have you been drinking?
Armin stepped into a tailor’s shop, the leathery musk reminding me of Tam. We crossed a buffed wooden floor and a man in a smart suit glided toward us.
“Mr. Farhoudi, always a pleasure.”
They shook hands. The tailor greeted me. I shook, too, feeling like an asshole in my skinnies and jean jacket.
“Is this the gentleman we spoke of?” the tailor said.
My heart made a fist. “Armin, you didn’t—”
“Sorry for the deceit, but I had to.”
“Please,” the tailor said, “make yourself at home.”
He backed off, giving us privacy.
“What are you doing?” I demanded. “I can’t afford this.”
“It’s taken care of.”
“We talked about this, Armin. No handouts.”
He shrugged, and the snow dotting his topcoat drifted to the floor. “It’s not a handout. You have a job interview coming up, and every man needs a suit.”
“This is nice of you. Everything you’ve done is really nice. But also really, really humiliating.”
“You’re a friend, Ren. I help my friends.”
I pitched my voice quieter. “Can you honestly say you’d do this for your cis guy friends?”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully beneath thick charcoal brows. He gestured toward a pair of brass-studded club chairs. I sat beside him, uneasy. Our voices stayed low.
“You may not believe it,” he said, “but I’m not friends with any cis men.”
“Seriously?”
“None. My social circle in college consisted of the . . . organization I was part of.”
Eclipse, the precursor to Black Iris: they were essentially the bizarro version of us, a bunch of rich, privileged douchebags who acted like masters of the fucking universe and abused girls and minorities in the process.
Laney had destroyed Eclipse from the inside out. Including Armin.
“The men I associated with were toxic,” he said. “That poison tainted everything. Their masculinity, their worldview. And I immersed myself in it for years. Became accustomed. You can’t exist in a culture like that without some assimilation occurring.”
“Have you been reading Ingrid’s blog?” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Sorry, go on.”