Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's

I guess when you're with someone like Roger, you're not supposed to complain. Or maybe you're supposed to not want to complain?

I mean look at the boy, for one thing. Now, I'm not a lesbian, even part lesbian, but part of Roger reminded me of a woman. It was the beautiful part, like how his lips were so pink like he'd rubbed ice across them. He definitely had masculine lips—thin and strong, and when he open-mouth kissed he took control, but the color was beautiful and feminine.

He moved like a lady, too. He was graceful. A boy that tall and skinny, you expect him to be a little jumpy, always expecting to do something clumsy. It's like tall girls slouching, it's just how things are. Roger didn't do it, though. He knew how to move, just like he knew people were attracted to him.

He never seemed to care about the latter. Further strange.

Between the womanliness, the confidence, and the fact that he didn't care who looked at him, Roger was the epitome of sexual tension. But he didn't seem to have a sex drive.

Once… it was June, a hot night. I had hoped to score—after six months of dating, the guy didn't put out. How can that happen? I dressed tight. I didn't wear bras—not that I usually did, but I stopped altogether. And a few times I even didn't wear underwear.

I arranged to meet Angel at the Life Café after work for dinner—mostly because it was close. I think that's a big part of what made it our hangout. Sure, we were in New York, and we all split up when we went on dates—Joanne and Maureen went to clubs or reliably demure restaurants, depending on who decided; Collins and Angel went to either sidewalk type joints or foreign places; me and Roger… eh. He liked to walk.

But when everyone got together, we came to the Life Café.

That day, Angel was coming, so Collins came too, since they were pretty much joined at the hip.

(Excuse me while I pretend I wasn't jealous.)

Roger meeting me there meant Mark would come. Was it supposed to be subtle, his little crush? The only person who didn't know was Roger. I had even heard Collins joke about it, and his joke was so funny I laughed even though I wasn't crazy about him (a none-too-easy feat, keeping my friendship with Angel in mind).

Anyway, it was the five of us and beer and wine and Coke, since Roger never drank alcohol. When he ordered Coke and a burger, I laughed. So did Angel.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"You eat like a sixteen-year-old boy," I teased.

"Oh," was all Roger said. He glanced at Collins and said "oh" again and drank his Coke.

Collins leaned over and whispered something to Angel. Angel covered her mouth with her fingers and stared at Roger. She stared the way people stare at us when they find out that we have HIV. "What?" I asked.

"Oh…" Angel looked at me, then at Roger, then at Collins, and said to Roger, "Honey, you could've said. There's nothing wrong with having low blood iron levels."

She's a horrible liar. Even Roger could tell it wasn't true. He had that look I knew all too well after six months. This is what The Look meant: the next thing that happens will determine whether Roger is playful and the light of the party, or storms out of here in a furious sulk.

"Hey, Roger, guess what," Mark said. He knew The Look, too.

"What?"

"I met a Buddhist today."

"You mean in the orange robes?" he asked.

Mark said, "No, in Central Park at the hot dog stand," and Roger laughed. I knew the joke, too: he's the man who says, 'make me one with everything'. I also knew that Roger loved that joke, and the one about Napoleon, and such. Why hadn't I thought of that?

A part of me hated Mark then. Why did he always have to have the right answers? Ok, yes, he had known Roger much longer than I had, but… I was his girlfriend, dammit! I should've been the one making him smile!

Collins directed the conversation towards politics, at which point he and Mark were the only ones who knew what the hell was going on, but they talked anyway. When it came to politics, I didn't care, Angel agreed with Collins, and everything Roger knew he learned from Collins. (See why I didn't like him?)

The food came and we ate. Somehow we all had money then. Mark was working part-time at a kosher deli, Collins was employed at New York University (bitching about Tisch and extolling Galatin as usual), and Angel had been doing her Jill-of-all-trades act.

As for Roger, he must have had a gig that week, because I remember his description of it. And I remember being jealous.

Is that awful? I just wanted him for once to recognize that I felt that way, too, that I liked being admired for what I was good at. So what if I was good at dancing and looking sexy? I was good, dammit. I was good, too, and I liked to be looked at for how good I was.

One thing I wasn't, though, was stupid, and trying to convince Roger to be glad that I was a stripper would've been plain stupid. I guess my argument was more that he should be glad I was happy, but Roger was obsessed with the "stripper" aspect.

According to Collins, we were all archetypes.

(Yeah, I know that word.)

Mark was the 'blind visionary'.

Roger was the 'minstrel with a broken soul and golden voice'.

Angel was the 'angel walking among mortals'.

I was the 'stripper with a heart of gold'. That's it. That's why I hated him. Even Collins saw me as nothing more. He counted himself a philosopher, not by his day job, but I…

Anyway, that day, while we were walking out of the café, I latched myself to Roger's arm and whispered to him, "Hey, Roger."

"Yeah?" he asked, smiling.

"I'm not wearing any underwear."

That was supposed to be a treat for him. I'd even shaved.

(According to Angel, what scares a lot of men is how confusing it is under the hair down there.)

Roger didn't consider this. His face darkened. With Roger, you can see the way his soul peels back from his eyes and retreats deeper. "Um… maybe me and Mark should stop and buy milk," he murmured. He took off his sweater and tied it around my waist. "Okay? Right, Mark?"

Damn.

--

I sat one day and listened to Angel play. She said that I made her extra cash by sitting there looking dejected.

"So what's up, Mimi?" she asked, when there weren't many people around.

"Why doesn't Roger want to have sex with me?" I asked.

Angel considered for a moment. The look on her face made it abundantly clear that she had been getting plenty from her man. Despite my mild grudge against Collins that he saw me as nothing but a stripper, I had to admit he seemed to do better than Roger in the 'boyfriend' department.

"Maybe he's a virgin, or had a bad experience. Or maybe he's just not sure that you're ready."

"Angel, I couldn't be more ready!" I cried, exasperated. "I shaved for him! I never wear jeans, or bras, and sometimes not even underwear! Does he need a neon sign?!"

Then, very gently, Angel asked, "Do you think you might be coming on a little strong?"

I sighed and slumped down on my crate. I had come for sympathy and guidance, the last thing I needed—from her!—was criticism. Angel played for a while and made a little money, then paused and said, "Have you told Roger all this?"

"What, that I've worn out three sets of batteries waiting for him?" I retorted.

"Not… exactly that." Angel laughed. "Just that you're frustrated. That you want him to make love to you."

I made a face. "I want him to fuck me."

"Somehow, I don't think Roger likes to call it 'fucking'."

"That's what it is!"

"But is it who he is?"

I sighed again and slumped down on my crate. The best part about a friend like Angel was how she was always right. The worst part about a friend like Angel… same answer.

--

That night in June, I finally made my way into Roger's bed. Most of us were more than a little drunk. He rested a hand on Mark's back and asked, "You okay?"

"Yeashure," Mark slurred, a combination of "yeah" and "sure". Then he headed towards his bedroom, tripped, giggled, and made it.

Roger chuckled. Since he never drank anything but pop, the drunkenness did not extend to include him. He had an arm around my shoulders that I wasn't about to surrender. "You want to stay here tonight?" he asked.

Yes please finally THANK YOU GOD!

But what I said was, "Okay." All smooth and casual, I was good at that. I maintained that attitude the entire time Roger was asking me out for the first time.

In the bedroom, he stripped down to his boxers then pulled on a pair of sweatpants. "Do you want to borrow something for pajamas?" he asked.

"Why don't we skip pajamas?" I suggested. I walked over, kissed him hard and ran my fingers across his chest. He didn't have much in the way of hair, which probably decreased the impact of my advance.

Roger stepped back and took my hands. "Mimi, I don't want to do this while you're drunk, okay?"

"'m not drunk," I said, but my giggle killed the effect.

He kissed my cheek. "It's okay, Mimi. We'll just sleep it off, okay?"

He was pleasant to sleep with. He held me and breathed on my shoulder and though he didn't exactly snore, he occasionally made happy mumbling noises in his sleep.

I awoke somewhere around two a.m. when Roger pulled away from me far too vehemently to spare my self-esteem. He was sitting over the side of the bed, gasping for air, and after a moment I realized he was crying.

"Roger?" I shifted to sit beside him and rubbed his shoulder.

"Mimi," he said. My name sounded forced, strangled between breaths. "I… I was just dreaming about you…"

Dying, was my first guess. He had dreamed about me dying and it upset him. Then I realized that the reason he wasn't looking at me was that he was staring at his groin like he had never achieved an erection before.

"Oh. Roger, this is not a problem," I said. I reached down and slid my hand around it, intending to jerk him off, but Roger pulled away from me.

"Don't!" he yelped. He was crying now. "Don't, don't, don't."

"Roger?" I asked. He shook his head, hugged his legs and put his forehead on his knees.

He whimpered, "Oh, God…"

I wasn't sure I wanted to be around him at that point. Who knew what would happen next? Roger might get angry, get violent. He might get… even stranger.

I slept on the couch that night, and I resigned myself to never having sex with Roger. What was wrong with him? Who works himself up to tears over a little wet dream? And not even wet, he didn't even get that far.

--

I guess after that Christmas, when we broke up, it wasn't much of a surprise to either of us. I told him, evenly, "I think we'd do better as friends."

Roger looked at me for a long moment, then he nodded. "Yeah," he said, "you're right."

A girl likes a guy to fight for her, at least a little. Anyone else would have hurt my feelings by casting me aside so lightly. With Roger? Even before Santa Fe it was little more than gentle touches on the shoulder, warm hugs and closed-mouth kissing, usually lip-to-cheek anyway.

We were never going to be more.

...to be continued!

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