Faggots (38 page)

“I’m listening.” Dinky was looking at Fred while now entering his epauletted leather shirt, slipping into it sinuously and snapping it closed slowly, first all the snaps up the front, and then the cuffs. He fit inside it snugly and handsomely, like Yul Brynner in a sinister Western. More shivers from Fred.

“Shirt from Florence, too? I never knew the Italians were so into leather.”

“Ike bought it for me in Hong Kong.”

“It fits you very nicely.”

“He knows my measurements.”

“I guess I didn’t want to know about Dennis or Irving or Savannah George who doesn’t mean anything to you, or Ike. Unh, who exactly is Ike?”

“I was just being honest. I always like to tell everyone the whole story. I know someone who’ll make you a shirt in New York. You’d look good in leather.”

Hmmm. The whole story. Stories from the Wicker Library. That I read without a library card. Talk about a Pandora’s Box. How do we talk about those? “You made some incredible promises this weekend.”

“You shouldn’t have run away. You didn’t have to slug me. You could have come back with us. We could have hidden you in the closet and you could have watched.” Dinky had now reached for two cock rings, black leather bands, one inch wide, studded with silver knobs, with snaps. One by one, he applied these to his wrists. “Think you could have got off on that?”

Fred watched the application. Fred listened to the missed opportunity. Fred fantasized the missed opportunity. Fred’s crotch was sorry it had missed opportunity. Fred saw Dinky, in shirt and g-string and cock-ringed wrists only, tilt his head to one side and smile up at Fred.

But Fred said: “OK, buddy. You’re very beautiful to me. If you can’t handle that, if you can only do it with strangers and everybody else but me, I’m sorry.”

Dinky suddenly reached for his pants. He stood up and he started pulling them on. He did it sensuously, with punctuated looks at Fred, first one leg inserted in the supple, clinging cowhide, then the other, then bending to smooth and form the surface to the contours of his thighs and calves, like a lady with her nylons, then standing tall for a squeeze-in of and a pull-up over that perfect palazzo of a tush Fred had tasted how many aeons ago, then a front tug-up, until his g-stringed balls and cock bulged out, Hello!, before he pushed them down and in, good-bye, then a suck-in of his stomach and a zip-up of the fly and a snap-closed to the package very firmly at the top.

Fred had watched it all. Fred was going crazy. Dinky relaxed. He sat down on the bed and he said: “Sex doesn’t mean a fucking thing. You just don’t understand that. It’s just a sensation. Stick a popper up your nose and you might just as well have a dildo up your ass as me.”

Yes, Fred had watched it all. His case of the Shivering Nicelies might just be on the brink of No Control. Oh, what fucking Holy Grail resided in those leather pants?

Don’t you know, Fred? Can’t you see?

He fervently attempted to return his argument to its course. “I’m going nuts seeing you with everyone else! Sex and love are different and any faggot given half a choice will take the former. And probably fucked with Adolf Hitler if he’d been cute!” Oops, he’s pulled on some athletic socks and here comes the first boot. “And after all those incredible promises, I’m wondering just when you’re scheduling us in for a serious try at the latter.”

Yes, on-going was boot one. Dinky was tugging it on. It was a most handsome black boot, military-style and polished to a mirror, and he placed his pant’s leg inside of it, and began a meticulous lacing up the front. Fred had admired them before and Fred was admiring them now. Fred’s crotch was deep in admiration. “You know, I really want to be friends with you,” Dinky said. “Friendship is better. I like being friends with you.”

Holy shit. That’s what Feffer said, too. Feffer who also made me feel so wonderful. Feffer who also wasn’t so keen on talk of love. Feffer who so recently made his debut into the Big Top. I certainly do pick them. Why, Fred? Why! “I don’t want a friendship with you! That’s something else entirely. You don’t fuck with your friends. And every faggot couple I know is deep into friendship and deep into fucking with everyone else but each other and any minute any bump appears in their commitment to infinitesimally obstruct their view, out they zip like petulant kids to suck someone else’s lollipop instead of trying to work things out, instead of trying not to hide, and…unh…why do faggots have to fuck so fucking much?!…it’s as if we don’t have anything else to do…all we do is live in our Ghetto and dance and drug and fuck…there’s a whole world out there!…as much ours as theirs…I’m tired of being a New York City-Fire Island faggot, I’m tired of using my body as a faceless thing to lure another faceless thing, I want to love a Person!, I want to go out and live in that world with that Person, a Person who loves me, we shouldn’t
have
to be faithful, we should
want
to be faithful!, love grows, sex gets better, if you don’t drain all your fucking energy off somewhere else, no I don’t want you to neutralize us into a friendship!, for all of the above!”

Dinky had reached over for boot two. On-going was boot two. Very quickly!

“Unh, Dinky…do you think you could stop dressing for a moment and…unh, stop running away from me and yourself and answer me…and…unh…where did you say you bought the boots?” Fred, forget about the fucking boots! He may not be answering you, he may not be hearing a thing you’re saying, you may be firing dying shots at the Alamo, but listen to yourself! You’re getting back some of your old zip! Now what about your proposal? Not that there’s room to kneel down. But you still haven’t asked him. Do you love me, Dinky, at least enough to try?

“Paris. I bought them in Paris. But I know a place where we can get you a Hot pair in New York.”

“I never knew you’d been to Paris.” Which Rolex did I take on that trip to Paris?

Up-lacing was boot two. Dinky suddenly yelled out: “What you want is a heterosexual marriage! But the straights don’t have it any better!”

“Funny you should bring that up…” Fred now looked at the ceiling, out into the dim living room of Salvation Army overstuffeds, at the plywood wardrobe. Anywhere but at Dinky. Now’s your moment, Fred. Afraid of the rejection? No! Want to be fucked by him in all that leather? Yes. I also want a marriage. A commitment to play house. So what? What’s wrong with that? Why am I letting him intimidate me out of my fantasy. No, it doesn’t have to be a fantasy. I’m beginning to think that the only fantasy is Dinky. Has been Dinky. He’s beginning to look less and less like a housewife. Or a husband. But carry on, Fred. You’ve come this far. It’s sales-pitch time again. The coach pep-talking the team in the locker room at half time, no I guess this is the third quarter and I’m behind 103 to Nothing, no it’s probably five minutes till the final pistol, no it’s probably all over already and I don’t know it. Sure wish I could sit down on the bench. But with all of Dinky’s dressings and all of Ike Bulb’s ancient items, there’s precious little room to sit down…“Oh, that’s a tiresome subject! Heterosexual comparison! Why do all faggots dredge that one up? Straights don’t compare themselves to us! We’re all the same anyway. We’ve just got an added dose of the clap.” Fred tried to pace in mini-steps. Too bad Ike doesn’t have a bigger bedroom. Maybe one of these days Dinky will break down the walls. “I’ve lived all over the world and I haven’t seen more than half a dozen couples who have what I want.”

Dinky’s voice chirped up in relief: “Then that should tell you something!” Then he broke the lace and cursed and set to work reknotting it with speed. “That’s why my friendship is better. For all of the above.”

“Yeah. It tells me something. It tells me no relationship in the world could survive the shit we lay on it. It tells me we’re not looking at the reasons why we’re doing the things we’re doing. It tells me we’ve got a lot of work to do. A lot of looking to do. It tells me that, if those happy couples are there, they better come out of the woodwork fast and show themselves pronto so we can have a few examples for unbelieving heathens like you that it’s possible. Before you fuck yourself to death.” That should do it. Send him right out into the arms of the world. “Hey, Dinky…, sooner or later you’re going to have to make a commitment to someone. Which means making a commitment to yourself. And a commitment to the notion that our shitty beginnings don’t have to cripple us for life.” Ouch. Fred felt a growl of reproach from his stomach. “You know something? I’m beginning to think that that’s all we allow ourselves to feel. Shitty.” Another retort from the interior. And still no room to sit down. Or kneel.

And still not much help from Dinky.

But then Dinky looked up from his successful knotting with a very big smile. “I like myself fine.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if you do. And I’m having a tough time with myself. And you’re not helping me any.” So why are you here, Fred? It’s got to be more than Algonqua’s Commitment. Algonqua’s Red Crossing.

Dinky finally finished with the boots. They looked good. He looked at Fred. Fred wasn’t looking so good. “You know, you analyze too much. You want to know too much. I don’t want to know.”

OK, Lemish. You hear that? You want somebody who doesn’t want to know? All your life has been a journey to find an identity. Why are you letting this loser help you lose one? He sure is a vision, standing up in all that leather. Your crotch, please note, has not ceased its admiration. He thought you were a vision once, too. For a couple of weeks. Your crotch, please note, wants a return engagement of that admiration. “You don’t want to know why you do the things you do?”

“No. Why should I?”

“So you might stop doing them.”

“I like doing them. If I knew why I did them, I might not like doing them anymore. Come on,” Dinky was now trying to get past Fred in the narrow space, “let’s go to Irving’s party.”

“Irving’s? What kind of party?”

“Who knows? If it’s in The Meat Rack, it’s probably the whole lot. Leather. Piss. Shit. Your outfit isn’t right, but no one will notice. We’ll start work on improving your wardrobe next week.” He clapped Fred on the shoulder with his hand, like an officer encouraging the enlisted man out into battle.

“You into piss?” Fred asked.

“Sometimes. There’s a guy in Brooklyn. I told you about him. I like his piss.” He started rummaging through his civilian clothes hanging in the plywood wardrobe.

“Oh, shit,” Fred finally sank down on the now vacated mattress, realizing that once again nothing was being resolved. And trying not to ask himself why he still wanted for a lover/husband-wife someone who liked a guy-in-Brooklyn’s piss. “You can’t give me what I want. And I’m still fucking hooked on you. Why can’t I let go? Why am I still holding on to somebody who can’t give me what I want?” Fred! He’s heard you utter these blasphemous words!

But the fucker still doesn’t say anything. Where’s your proposal now? Your knees still ready? You still want him? Yes. Then ask him.

“Why can’t we get it together?” Fred asked softly. “What better trinity for a love affair and a good relationship than two guys who share mutual affection and attraction, mutual interests, and terrific sex? You always said on paper we make so much sense. The fucking with you was always wonderful.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Can’t we do it again?” You’re back to begging. Fred. You shouldn’t have to do that, Fred.

“Sure. We’ll do it again.” Dinky was still rummaging. but now down on his knees, in his little canvas carry-all on the floor.

No. There couldn’t be. Fred restrained himself from looking for Dennis under the bed. “How about right now?”

“No, not right now. I told you I’ve been feeling very nonsexual lately. I also told you we’re going to Irving’s party.”

“What’s Ike Bulb to you?”

Dinky found his plastic bag of pills and stood up. “He gets off on watching me do it with other guys.”

OK, Lemish. Another Dennis isn’t under this bed. He’s in it. How many fucking roles can this Dinky play fucking? All things to all people. Save me. Save himself. And it’s that self I say l want. Is it there? Do l still want it? Do l want to do it with Dinky and have Ike Bulb, whoever he is, get off on watching the two of us doing it? I hate to admit it, but I wouldn’t say No. Oh, Fred. When are you going to say No?

“Want some drugs?” Dinky offered, selecting several for himself.

“No.”

“You never would trip with me.” Dinky swallowed two Desnobarbs. “You and I, we’ll do it together for Ike. We’ll do a scene of our own. Would you like that?”

“Where’s Cosmo?” Fred asked, looking around suddenly for the cute little white Bedlington terrier who looked just like a lamb and who seemed to Fred at this moment to probably be the only recipient of Dinky’s completely unwavering affection. On their first date, a thousand years ago, was it only last March?, Dinky had come toward Fred (come to think of it, wearing these same leather pants, I didn’t even notice…), holding Cosmo’s leash, Cosmo straining, strutting forth, forward, in front of Dinky, so excited, in anticipation. Such a good omen, Fred had thought.

“He’s run away out here. But he’ll come back.”

Fred jumped up and took Dinky in his arms and tried to embrace him and kiss him. But March was a long way away and the room was still too stuffed up and so the bodies and the lips, for both, had trouble connecting.

“You’ve already fucked half of New York,” Fred said. “I’ve fucked the other half. You told me you were in the bars since you were seventeen, you had your muscles at twenty-three. There isn’t a scene you haven’t seen or done. And you’re only thirty. Why can’t you imagine something better? I dare you to change! And try for something better!”

“My bulldog Fred,” Dinky managed to mumble as Fred managed to connect with an earlobe. “I told you we’d work on our relationship.” He rubbed his hands up Fred’s new washboard stomach. “You feel good.” He poked his hands in Fred’s crotch to see if it still was deep in admiration. It was. “You still turn me on. We’re not finished yet. I still want to keep seeing you. Let’s go and grab some donuts before Irving’s. I know how you like your donuts.”