Faggots (41 page)

And Dinky smiled even more.

Laverne, trying so hard to be Jack, now said: “Dinky, do you know that I now have absolute control of your life? Do you know that? Do you realize that with a squidge of my fingers I could rip out your insides? I could kill you. It would look like an accident. I’d go free. I’d be free?”

Dinky opened his eyes and continued smiling up at Jack. He spoke very softly, no doubt having trouble with the words. “I’m…tall…and…strong…” And then he closed his eyes again as Jack mini-punched some more.

Tall and strong?, Fred thought he heard those words. Is that what it takes to be tall and strong? Isn’t he wondering what it feels like to be dead? Isn’t he thinking about all his failures, one after the other, with the persons, one after the other, to make him whole? While Laverne at last is making him hole?

Jack made a final desperate punch for freedom into farthest interior regions! Dinky only jerked yet higher into pleasure! Jack thought: only millimeters more would do it! Can I do it! Dinky only moaned out: “Jack! Oh, Jack! I feel! I can feel! It feels really good! Don’t stop! I can finally feel!”

Gasps of admiration from the crowd! Look at those doors open! That guy can really take it! Yes, gasps of admiration from the crowd! Except from Cary Lemish. Everyone is thrilled to be witnessing this major sporting event. Except our correspondent on the spot, our Mr. Lemish. So who’s making you stay here, Fred Lemish? When are you going to say at last: I don’t want…that? When are you going to ask at last: Where here is pleasure? Or joy?

Jack? Laverne? said: “Will you leave me alone, Dinky? Will you give me back my apartment? Will you grow up and go your own way and get out of my life and let me go on with mine?” He punched in a little more.

And Dinky jerked up higher, higher, burbling, murbling higher: “I can feel!”

And Jack suddenly wondered just what he was accomplishing. He’ll always have me in his power after this. And I can’t kill him and maybe it’s too bad for all of us that I can’t.

But Humpstone tried again. “You now have all of me, Dinky. You have all my arm up to my elbow. Will you throw away your leather and your dildoes and your cast of thousands and your lies? Will you? Will you!” And he clenched his fist against the farthest region’s wall.

Dinky just continued to jerk up in pleasure and smile at heaven. That elusive heaven. Now so close. Now almost here. He tried to say a few more words to Jack. “I…I…I…want…your…other…arm!”

There. He had said it. Did Lemish and Laverne realize that in these words lay Dinky’s answer?

The crowd at least was most impressed. Gasps of empathy and admiration and hero-worship and the manifestation of same as fists shot up and clenched and reclenched like applause. Oh, heroes of old, ancient Greece and Rome, Thrace and Asia Minor, Crete and all points East and West, make way, make way, make way for Dinky Adams! Yes, gasps of pride for one of their own went up from all around.

Except of course from you-know-who.

You-know-who is still in his aisle seat, first row of the orchestra, Mr. First Nighter, a bit hysterical, looking at his leading lady and wondering, hoping, praying that this might just be their most cathartic, final, truly final, curtain. He waits for a few tears of his own. They’re not coming. My face and eyes and feet are numb. I can’t take it all in. You’re in heaven, Dinky. You are now evidently up in heaven at last, completely fulfilled, smiling magnificently, you don’t even know I’m here, yes, up in some heaven where two partial arms of your ex-lover who is still your lover because of course he can’t kill you, of course he’s still in your system, he can’t get out of your system, that I understand, yes, up in some heaven where all of this takes you. Thank you, God.

Around them, pairings and groupings and bend-overs and lean-tos and reach-ups and suck-anywheres and hand-me-downs and Nazis and international fellows and local boys are going crazy. Fist-fucking’s such a turn-on! Under this moon and stars. Under these sheltering trees. In these shadowy shadows. Our own special world. Cocks and mouths and lips and tongues and assholes all are meeting, greeting each other, joining the fun of this party, making one of their own, our very first mixer of the season, having ourselves a ball! Or two.

And down on his knees, Hans is having two as well. At last he has his Irving, plus an Ike, two cocks with big heads in his very own mouth, which is known as Giving a Remington, immissio penis in os, in os.

“Terrific party, Irving!” Ike happily thanks his host

“That Dinky, he is all yours, Ike?” asks back Irving, still laced up like a Kislav phantom.

“What’s that you’re saying?” Ike begs for a translation.

“Dinky! Yours?!” Irving spits the words most clearly through his mask of slits.

“As much as he’s anybody’s. I don’t expect anything from him and I never tell him I love him, though of course I do, but he knows I don’t expect him to love me back…”

Hey, Lemish! Do you hear that, buddy?

“…oh that feels good!…” Ike is pleased with Hans.

Irving unbuckles his belt. His leather gear now sags down to his ankles. His sagging tits now showing, his crossover bucklings unbuckled, yes, his gear now down on the ground and showing all. It’s never going to happen, it’s never going to happen, my Faustian bargain comes now to haunt me when it’s too late for anyone to come…

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” The sounds of Dinky’s feeling coming to fruit.

Irving grabs that Hans away from shaving two, and sticks that Hans in front of his own crotch. And tugs him now toward pleasure. “I tie you up and gag you up and stick my filthy jockstrap in your mouth and fuck your asshole while I fuck your head, and force my cock into your mouth while shoving dildoes up your ass, and then sit on your face, while I work your tits, tug your tits and stuff my big balls in your mouth, and jack off on your tits, and fuck you like a dog, with my jockstrap in your mouth, yes I fuck you Well!, both mouth and ass and head!…”

Hans is now in heaven, too. At last he has his Irving all alone. He’s been tugged into his pleasure. His connection to the ultimate. To find out who and what he truly is. I love it!

And lean-tos and hold-ons and I’m comings and groupings and pairings and boots off and boots licked and Nazis kneeled before and under and Fred wonders what would happen if all their toys and all their costumes were taken away? They might be forced…to love.

He looks at Dinky and Laverne. One Revenge Fuck pummeling One Punishment Gratefully Received. Jack, are you what will happen to me?

Then he looks at the Three-Ring Circus ringling all around him. Thinks of Feffer on his cross. Looks at Dinky in his swing. What else is there…? Is this my competition? Is this my Age that’s rapidly approaching? Yes, Fred looks at all and thinks immortal thoughts, not of Adams, Dinky, for a change, but of Miller, Henry: “We are no longer animals but we are certainly not yet men.” Which happily at last gives him a tidge of courage to think heroic thoughts of Lemish, Fred: “The fucking we’re getting’s not worth the fucking we’re getting,” and it’s time to go…

So, feeling that the now discovered smithy of his sex appears no longer worth the foraging, he bends to kiss his Dinky “’Bye” and he turns to leave.

He couldn’t go very far. He walks into the trees and bumps into a group of fellows all relieving themselves in a hole. Holes are quite popular this evening with some of the boys.

And said baptismal by golden showers has awakened our sleeping prince, our Boo Boo Bronstein, from his nap. He thinks some coffin thoughts. Am I buried? Am I dead? Is this Heaven? It’s raining in Heaven. What’s happening? It’s happening! All those gorgeous handsome men up there are looking at
me!
I like it. I like it! I’m a Number! It feels so warm and good. It feels like Candlewood Lake. It doesn’t hurt at all! He stretches. He opens his mouth to taste. Am I dreaming? No…I’m tripping! My mouth tastes bitter. Wyatt’s…somebody’s come and put some drugs into my mouth! I’m tripping. I feel wonderful. I’m in the Pits of Sexuality at last!

And he jumps up and rips off his clothes. And stands tall neath the showers. And holds up his arms like a winning player after the winning game. And his fellow players, fellow teammates, fellow helpmates, help him from his whole. Fanny Brice in the single spot about to become a star. Twenty stage-door Johnnies here to claim all starring parts of him! He’s pulled up and out and into these many many many arms of many many men and many mouths. Much love. He lies back into arms. Many arms. Much love. He’s passed around like the football in a secret and intricate play. He yells out to all as he’s shouldered and hipped and handled. He yells out to all as he displays his hardly earned perfections, one by one. “Take my big delts! Take my big lats! Take my obliques! Take my rippling stomach! Take my fatless calves! Suck my tits! Suck my medium-sized cock! Take my medium-sized cock! Take all of me! My name is Richie Bronstein! At last I’m a Fire Island Star!”

And again crowds cheer! Irving’s party runneth over into this! And Boo Boo’s cheering, too. He’s a crazy kid in a candy store with unlimited choice. All fantasies are here to suck, and suck and suck and suck. He throws himself further and farther in and among, letting arms cradle him, letting arms hold him, letting arms love him, and he feels their stomachs, their big round stomachs, so full of much experience and life. And thanking God that he likes older men. There’s lots and lots and lots of older men. And he loves these older hands on his young cock. And loves them feeling his fine hard youthful body, all over, all over, yes definitely all over, as he rushes now into another fat man’s arms. A fat man standing by his graveside’s edge. With an old suitcase. Oh, this one feels good, too. This one feels so good. “Hey, Mister, I’m yours, I’m all yours, you feel good, hey, Mister, can I come and live with you?, would you please get down and suck my cock!”

“Oh, my Richie!”

“Oh, my God!”

Was it not ever thus? Well, not quite ever
thus
. Yes, watching on the one hand and dropping his son’s cock with the other, Abe Bronstein now wonders if this is finally his last plotz. What more is there to take? My kleine Wyatt leads me into this! My kleine Richie in a pit of piss! The only thing that’s missing is Wyatt’s kleine cockalah as well! Oh, God, you are being naughty to your Abe tonight!
Please tell me what to do!
Or else these Nazi natives in the jungle kill! These Nazis come too close!

Richie’s trying to run but Abe is holding him tight.

And Richie, the son, the heir, what thinks he of this moment in time and space? Do I: wish I were dead? or…

“Pop, just give me a wrist watch and we’ll call it even-Stephen!”

“Oh, my Richie, you make for yourself a world more awful than the one you try so hard to escape!”

Richie is bawling, heaving heavy tears. I’m tripping, yes, I’m tripping, this isn’t really real!

“No, Pop, it’s your world! I’m just living in it. In the suburbs.”

Ah, the age-old conflict.

As the Nazis move in closer for a better view…

“Richie! Please to come home with your Pop! Look, I bring you money!” Maybe I don’t show him. These Nazis will steal it away!

“One million bucks!?” Richie knows now that he’s really tripping.

“Only now ten thousand,” Abe tries his best to whisper. “A holiday weekend. The bank was undercashed.”

“What do you mean only ten thousand! I didn’t go through all this shit for only ten thousand! I want my one million dollars! I want my one million dollars!” Richie’s still trying to run, but Abe’s still holding him tight.

“That’s it, Cutie, hold out for the one million!”

The simply riveted audience roars and cheers! What an act! Irving, can you throw a party! Importing live actors for such a scene as this! Though why didn’t he hire two pretties? That old one’s pretty ugly. But the young one!…The crowd moves closer in to get a better look.

“I want my one million smackarolas!”

“I give you smackarolas on your tush!”

“Mary, you better be rich because you ain’t pretty enough to go home to on your own!”

“Richie…,” Abe tries to whisper softly again, “we are perhaps in some concentration camp?…”

“It sure as hell ain’t Australia! Let me go! Let me go!”

“I promise you to make me like you better!”

“You promise! You promise! Who can believe your promise!”

“Sweetie, that’s telling her exactly how it is!”

Richie’s still trying to run and Abe’s still trying to hold. Storm Troopers, S. S., Gestapo, Himmler, Goering, Ilse Koch are all just over there!

“You will believe me! You must believe me!” Forgive me God my Father for I have sinned!

And God gives now his answer to his Abe, who takes his younger son and hurls him to the ground. And pins him under his girth of years of living and food and knowledge. And the son knees back in protest and suffocation and not quite so experienced heft. And together they toss and they turn, like some biblical nightmare brought up to date. Over and over and side to side and up and down and round and about. “Richie, come back!” “Pop, let me go!” “Richie, listen to your Father!” “Pop, you don’t understand!” And now the Pop starts swatting pop flies at the fence. Finding the tuchas and hitting to right field, hitting to left, splaying his mitts. Splat and splat and
Splat
! Take that and that and That! And oh the crowd is cheering! Spanking’s such a turn-on! Such a pretty ass is showing! “Pop, you hurt!” “Richie, you hurt!” And Richie and Abe are intertwined as ne’er before. Or as e’er before. Hitting and elbowing and kneeing and scratching and off sides and on sides and slugging it out and who’s got the penis, who’s got the testicles, where is the rectum, where is the scrotum, who is the Master, who is the Slave, which one the Top Man, which one the Bottom, who the Dominant, who the Submissive, who the S and who the M, and which one’s got the BALLS!?

Abe is spanking his Richie and Fred is watching his Abe.

Echoings…of Lester…

“Pop, you’re too heavy! Get off of me! I’m shitting in my pants!” Yes, where now were Sidney Greenstreet, Coburn, Laughton, and Eugene Pallette? On top of him. “You hurt!”