Faggots (11 page)

Frigger crawled out through the small doorway and stretched his rocky body in pleasure. He was wearing his cruising outfit, clipped-off T-shirt and one half inch of visible Jockey short revealed above his jeans. While he made his living decorating the homes of movie stars in California, he came East occasionally to do the odd p.r. job, thus allowing himself to claim Bi-Coastialty, AC-PC, and to stay at the 63rd Street Y where there were so many cocks to suck.

“Would you believe ten inches and he’s still in high school?” Frigger said, wiping his mouth, his cruising wardrobe evidently having proven most alluring.

“What’s the rest of him look like?” Anthony asked.

“Nice. He’ll go to the gym soon. He wants to be a trampolinist. He’s going to go places.”

“Yeah. Down the sewers.”

“Want me to come in there and hold your hand?”

“Sure.”

“Want me to come in there and suck your cock?”

“Of course not. You’re a friend. You’re family.”

“So what. You’ve got a big cock.”

“How do you know?”

“Important news travels.”

“You’re insatiable. How many times have you done it today?”

“Six. Seven. Ten. Who knows. It’s still early. I do it till my mouth feels like putty. I’ve still got some feeling left. Where’s Fred? Still waiting for Dinky?”

“Yeah. He won’t listen to me. Not even a call or a postcard.”

“I fixed them up. I thought their neuroses would mesh. They both talk about love. Dinky was after me and when I rejected him he went off with Laverne. Though we continued to fuck secretly, of course. I think I’ll hit The Pits and grab a beer. See you.”

Anthony watched as Frigger crossed the highway. Then he turned toward the building. Why am I still hesitating? He lit his second joint.

Randy Dildough stood in his thirtieth-floor suite in the Pierre Tower and looked downtown toward his thirtieth-floor office in the Pan-Pacific Tower and thought that it would be wonderful and fitting if he could walk from there to here. If a Jesus walked on the water, couldn’t a Dildough fly through the air?

Randy did not think his last name an unsatisfactory one—combining as it did allusions to the American Big Three: sex, money, and food—because Randy tried not to think that anything about his fine self was less than perfection. And with such positive thinking, Randy has risen to the top, president of Marathon Leisure Time, part of the Pan-Pacific family of companies, headed by Myron Musselman, and at only thirty years old!, a true feat, to achieve control of a major American supplier of entertainment at such a young age, no doubt reflected in his constant yclepture by the nation’s press as the Kennedy of Leisure Time.

He is attractive, his trim, compact, streamlined strawberry-blond-headed body sporting the snappiest of custom suits, shirts, ties, shoes, manicures, to which totality is added an exuding of strong sexuality, as so many men of power so exude, together with his dandified love for the dazzling, insolently manifested in his rabid acquisition of the latest in chauffeurs, Malibu houses, electronic wizardies, posturings, rare flowers, the company of only the greatest stars, the biggest deals, and his secret cavortings in the dens and vicepots and cesspools of the underground faggot world.

Pause to reflect on this. The head of one of America’s major Stock Exchanged companies is a faggot. No mean feat, again, this.

He loves living on that dangerous razor’s edge. On the one side, he satisfies his need to constantly glitter, dazzle all of his audience, baffle all of his victims, and look down from Up There on everything down here, as he continues building his empire by destruction of the enemy, humiliation of his rivals, in so doing becoming, in the grand tradition of his country, The Big Man, The Hero, silhouetted against the landscape as etched by Forbes.

And, on the other, stands the Dreaded Secret, which he knows could fell his growing redwood.

Such conflict, particularly in anyone who’s horny, would, needless to say, streak a blow dry with a certain frost of confusion. Who could ask for anything more?

So, while it will not be the custom to present case histories for all of our faggots, let’s tarry a moment on this particularly unusual one.

Cunard Rancé Evin Dildough was born thirty years ago in Stockton, California, of two fine Americans, Yvonne and Ralph Dildough. The name was Dutch-German-French-English and, as the family had distinguished branches in each of these fine countries, Ralph’s father had been reluctant to change it when he emigrated to America and discovered shortly thereafter that an instrument of the same pronunciation, if different usage, was making the rounds. Ralph owned extensive and fertile farm acreage that prospered with grapes and asparagus, and he had loved his only child very much. Yvonne, too, was a diligent teacher and a watchful and loving mother to her growing boy. Both parents were deeply religious, well-read, well-educated, well-versed in Gesell, Ilg, and Spock, and were most supportive and constructively critical throughout all of Randy’s formative years. He had, in fact, the perfect American upbringing.

Stander F. Lure, in his classic study of homosexuality,
The Perversion of Mount Ararat
(which takes as its text the Biblical maxim: “…and the sons of Sennacherib shall rise up and smoot the father of his own thing…”), has this to say: “There are certain instances when perversion develops from no known cause—where parental figures have been accepted and where roles have not been confused, where, in fact, there is no reason at all obvious why the offspring should have emerged warped and abnormal. When this occurs, one must look for other, perhaps deeper and less obvious causes: incredible boredom in the home, for instance, or the desire of the child to be different if only because his parents appear so perfect, or, as a possibility, and please bear in mind that I offer this only as a possibility, where the child is just plainly a wayward, restless wind.”

Randy lay dormant and did nothing abnormal until the age of fifteen, at which time he had his first experience with sadism. Like so many things in life, it was unexpected and unplanned. It happened like this:

The ninth-grade class, of which Randy was a member, was preparing a play of its own devising about the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill. The woodworking class had dismantled part of the stage floor, in order to facilitate the building of a mock river bed, in which Nancellen Richtofen, portraying Mrs. Betsy Ross, the first woman to discover sparkling sands in the river’s stream (the children were allowed to mold history as they saw fit in this early landmark attempt at psychodrama) would wade, only half of her pencil-thin body visible to the audience, the other half standing on a newly constructed platform built several feet below the level of the stage floor. Nancellen, being a tall girl, already six feet at fifteen years (useful for a Bendel’s model later but a pain in the heart now), it was decided by Mr. Petronius of Woodworking II to make the lower portion about seven feet long, the length of a good coffin, he mused to himself, half in jest and half in wish fulfillment, because, if you asked him, the whole play was a fucking waste of time, tearing up a stage just so a string-bean girl could proclaim: “Oh, sparkling sands, what doth I witness neath your trickle?,” and dangerous, too, in case she, or anyone else for that matter, should fall forward, either by tripping or being pushed by one of the many playful lads who might be overdoing the admonitions of Mr. Proctor, the director and history teacher, to “Be boisterous, boys, remember you are rough and tough, the sort who made this country Great!”

Randy’s role in this pageant was to wear an enormous black cape and, in the person of Lord Baltimore, come from England to survey “the scene” in California before going off to Maryland to stake his claim, wave it about with furious rippling sounds and sinister motions, rather like Dracula, so that Nancellen and three boys several feet her juniors, each equipped with a mock rifle, would be mightily frightened and one of the boys would yell “Fire at the Stranger,” and the three boys would fire at Lord Baltimore, killing him, thus causing America’s entry into the Boer War.

Worried that he might fall into the pit if he did not rehearse his cape maneuvers, Randy decided to go to the auditorium after school to do just that. Approaching the stage, he heard gurgling sounds from the mock river bed, and stealing up behind the small-scale version of Sutter’s Mill itself, complete with posters proclaiming “Wonder Bread is made here from our fine flour,” he peered down on the flicking figures of Nancellen Richtofen and fat Hattie Illcit. Joining them together was the first two-headed dildo that Randy had ever seen, perhaps one of the first to reach Stockton, certainly the first to be used by two fifteen-year-old girls on the premises of its junior-senior high school auditorium. Back and forth the two girls slid, up and down, top to bottom, tipsy ho and a bottle of rum, slithering with mounting enthusiasm and completely unaware that Randy gazed down upon them and his namesake with a growing interest and finger-pinched nose, perhaps because Hattie was a girl known around town for not being big on Johnson’s Baby Powder. As the dildoettes came closer and closer to fruition, Randy, in one of those first seizures the inspiration for which he was never able to pinpoint, grabbed hammer, nails, several boards of original stage planking, all courteously left available in a sloppy pile by Mr. Petronius’s boys from Woodworking II, and set to work sledging in time to the grunts and growls from below. By the time orgasm was reached—the young ladies miraculously attaining it simultaneously—darkness had overcome them, along with a drop in oxygen.

“Was it that dark in here the last time we done it,” Hattie inquired, “or is it just because I might of landed my face in your cooze?”

Both girls then reached up and found the truth: not only were they boarded in but someone had obviously been witness to their actions.

Randy, standing on top of them, felt a surge of power zitz through him. In the dark protection of the auditorium and his Baltimore cape, with two coiled females only inches beneath his feet, completely in his power and ignorant of the invisible force that held them captive, only this shadow knew, the True Dildough, with great pleasure and tremendous gutsy motions, yanked his full-grown penis to a gigantically pleasurable orgasm. The spurts of his semen, like some fire hose uncoiled into action, lobbed into the air and scored a direct hit on the Wonder Bread sign. He stood there for a moment, afterward, feeling wonder-ful himself, feeling completely his own man; he then replaced his penis neatly inside his Montgomery Ward corduroys and went home, stopping, courteously, on the way, to place an anonymous call to the police, informing them that two girls were caught fucking with each other under the school stage and an old man had sealed them in. The girls were duly rescued but, unable to dispose of the enormous dildo, they were both expelled. (Hattie married the town plumber and Nancellen, her six-foot form soon filled out in more pleasing proportions, went East to Miss Porter’s, Vassar, New York, our story, and full-time devotion to the Sapphic code.)

Innately, at this juncture, Randy sensed that he was on the royal road to self-knowledge. Little did he know that the pattern, like a quivering Royal-pudding-mold left longer in the icebox, was now being set. The reflexes were being conditioned. World beware! He had enjoyed himself, God knows; but once you’ve enjoyed the thrill of jerking off over two bodies you’ve buried alive at fifteen, what can you do for kicks at sixteen? And wouldn’t you be completely worn out, exhausted, bereft of both ideas and energy by the time you were fifty? To hell with fifty; what about thirty?

Well, our lad was now only sixteen and one day he decided to crucify a saint. There was a saint in his high-school class, recently moved here from Salt Lake City, one Robbie Swindon, who never had a bad word to say about anyone and who always had a smile and a word of positive thinking for each (we all know the type), in addition to which he was not only good-looking, the president of his class, and liked by all the girls, and boys, too (we all know the type), but his private parts, which Randy had witnessed in the ever-popular gym period, brought out a strange sensation in Randy’s mouth which made him want to know that type, too. He could not put his finger on it exactly, but he instinctively knew that he wanted to take that saintly penis in his mouth and suck it. He had never done such a thing before and he had not had it done to him, nor had he read about it or heard about it in the casual banterings pubescents so often enjoy during their periods of Open Play. All he knew was that he was going to somehow capture young Robbie and suck that thing.

As fate would have it, events played into young Randy’s hands or, if you will, mouth. Once again the auditorium and a pageant would prove useful. This time, Easter, with its ever-stirring panoply, its mythology made tangible, its “Christ the Lord is Risen Today, Allelujah,” would turn the trick. When it came to playing Jesus, there of course was no one in the entire school to hold a votive candle to young Robbie. There he stood, or rather, hung, that beautiful lithe body, clad only in cut-down Fruit of the Looms, leaning against the old rugged cross, reincarnated from Sutter’s Mill leftovers, his palms and shoulders and feet rubbed black and red with burnt cork and Tangee lipstick, his still hairless armpits circled to the wood with thick white rope, his eyes thrown agonizingly heavenward. Yes, he was nigh unto perfectly cast, and watching him, Randy almost came in his own pants. How to get that dick in his mouth? How to do it?

He elected outrageous tactics. When the stage lights dimmed, then expired completely on the tableau of lone figure up on Old Rugged, Randy disconnected and pocketed several prime fuses from the backstage main electrical complex, then stealthily made his way on padded feet (in this pageant he was more happily cast as a Roman centurion, his body only lightly encumbered with his briefs and crosshatched strappings, his already erect penis easily available for exit through a distinctly non-Roman conjunction of royal purple sash and Y-front Jockey’s) to the center of the stage where Robbie hung crucified.