Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short (8 page)

Three

July 1972

T
im rushed in from the rain. The July thunderstorm had not been predicted, so of course he had no umbrella or raincoat. Who would wear a raincoat in Manhattan in July? His light tan, khaki suit was soaked and clung to him like a second skin. He’d had to walk from the subway station at Astor Place to his apartment on West Tenth Street. He’d just given up and let the rain pour over him. Now in the front hallway of the brownstone where he had a third-floor one-bedroom walk-up, he shook himself off like a cocker spaniel just coming out from a river swim. He looked at himself in the mirror that hung over the gateleg table in the entryway and laughed.

What a fucking mess!
His hair clung to his forehead, dripping rain into his eyes.

Tim sifted through the mail sprawled out on the table, sorting it out for the other tenants in the building, stacking envelopes into small, neat piles. Since everyone else just let the mail sit there, Tim had come to assume the unofficial role of mail sorter.

He noticed an unusual envelope addressed to him in a plain brown legal-size envelope with a London postmark and no return address.
Curious,
he thought as he walked up three flights of stairs to his apartment. Once inside, he peeled off his suit, leaving his clothes in a soggy pile by the front door—another big dry cleaning bill. Once he was stripped to his boxer shorts, Tim fixed himself a drink, sat on the sofa, and started through the mail. He picked out the mysterious envelope with the London postmark first and opened it. There was no salutation or personal address. He had no idea who had sent it or what mailing list he might be on, but he was fascinated by the content. The title was “Three.”

It was a game that first became popular in London, before spreading to New York and Los Angeles, and then reaching other urban areas. In most cases threesomes are not equal. One partner usually gets short-changed. The objective of this game is to avoid that. It began in gay clubs in London, but quickly spread to the hipper swinging bi-sex clubs.

Here are the rules:

First, the three partners get naked. They shower together to get familiar with their bodies. Bath gel is recommended. Slow-moving hands, and no aggressive behavior. Touching and kissing are encouraged. The players emerge from the shower, dry off, and move to a comfortable area, a bed or sofa, where they can observe and touch each other’s bodies.

The next stage is shaving. The players shave off each other’s pubic hair, so that everyone is brought to a prepubescent state. Hot towels and lots of scented shaving cream are recommended. This process can be quite erotic, and it should not be rushed. Some participants may become aroused during this stage. They may even experience an orgasm, which is fine. This should be a total sensual experience.

Then the vote: oral or anal. Each member casts a written vote on a piece of paper and places it in an envelope. The ballots are drawn and counted, and everyone has to act on the winning two votes if it is not unanimous.

Then a sequence is established. There are six variations written on paper and put in an envelope. Example: Number one does number two. Number two does number three. And so on. The game progresses as numbered ballots are drawn. No one is allowed two turns in a row. If such a ballot is drawn, it means an automatic turn to the next ballot until all six positions are finished.

At the conclusion, the players masturbate on each other, followed by another group shower.

Tim was overwhelmed. He had no idea where this had come from or who had sent it. But he was fascinated. He poured himself another drink and read through “the rules” again. He’d never participated in group sex, although such a fantasy had often been in the back of his mind, fueling many lonely masturbation sessions.

The boys in the front apartment on Tim’s floor were constantly flirting with him. They had been partners for about five years but were obviously open to exploring other things. They were both attractive and they both had real jobs. Tyler Young, blond and trim, worked on Wall Street. He dressed in Brooks Brothers suits every morning and went off to work as a clerk at Morgan Stanley.

Tim affectionately called him Young Tyler, which the Wall Street clerk liked, and always responded with a devilish smile. His partner was Robert Sanders, another buff young man who worked in retail sales at Macy’s men’s department. They seemed happy together, but at twenty-something, how long would that last?

Tim slipped the mysterious letter from London under their door, attaching a yellow pad note with a big question mark and “What the hell!”

It was after midnight when the knock came at the door. Tim had fallen asleep on the sofa. Tyler and Robert were standing in front of Tim in the open doorway with big smiles.

“Yes,” Robert said as they came into the apartment. “We got your note.”

The three formed a circle and embraced.

“I don’t know where that letter came from,” Tim said, kissing young Tyler on the lips.

“We don’t either, but it doesn’t matter,” young Tyler said, spearing his tongue into Tim’s mouth. “We’ve been watching you for a long time.”

Tim broke away for a minute, surprised at what was happening. “Let’s be up-front, guys. Do you really want to do this?”

“Why not?” they responded in unison.

“Okay! But we’ll have to follow the rules,” Tim said teasingly.

“We’ll play,” said Tyler as he shut the door. Robert was right behind him stripping off his clothes. In minutes all three were naked.

The shower position was exciting and affectionate. The shaving was quietly erotic. Robert was first, then Tyler, and finally Tim. They were very gentle and personal. It was a first for all three.

Next was the vote, and it was unanimous: three for oral. Safest for the first time, Tim thought. After their six-round rotation, the three erupted simultaneously, Robert and Tim splattering on Tyler’s face, and Tyler exploding on his own hairless chest. The three exchanged slow, deep kisses. The final shower was lingering and tender.

“Well, we
did
follow the rules,” Tim said as the three toweled off.

“Yeah,” Robert said, putting his arm around Tim and patting him on the butt. “Next time we’ll have to vote the other way.”

“Sure,” Tim said, a bit embarrassed. “Whatever you guys are up to.”

“Nice to know your neighbors,” Robert said as he and Tyler picked up their clothes, not bothering to get dressed, and walked down the hall to their apartment. Tyler turned and winked, giving Tim a thumbs-up. “Next time!”

Lion

August 1973

T
he Polo Lounge was busy, even though it was just five o’clock in the evening. There was only one empty stool at the end of the bar where someone had placed a briefcase, as if saving it for someone.

“Excuse me … is someone sitting here?” Tim asked.

“I guess she’s not coming,” the young man said as he removed the briefcase from the barstool. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” Tim sidled up to the bar. He was aware of the look of astonishment from the young man who was fixated on the scrapes and scars on his face and hands.

“I know, it’s not pretty,” Tim said, trying to relieve the young man’s anxiety. “It’s a long story … Nick!” Tim nodded to the bartender. “Double Dewar’s, rocks, splash of soda.”

“Shit! What the hell happened to
you?” Nick asked incredulously.

“Tell you later. It’s really good.”

“Jeez … what does the other guy look like?” Nick said, putting down Tim’s drink.

“Cheers,” Tim toasted his bar mate as he sipped his drink. Tim had checked into The Beverly Hills Hotel in June, and it was now approaching Labor Day. The hotel had upgraded him to Bungalow Seven, since he was going to be staying most of the summer. As VP account supervisor on the Ford automobile account, Tim was responsible for coordinating car deliveries, each one of them prototypes, for the television shoots for the new Pinto and the introduction of the Mustang II. Besides living at The Beverly Hills Hotel, with a seemingly unlimited expense account, Tim was given a new red Mustang II convertible, custom-built, since it was not yet available at Ford dealerships. The valet parking guys, in their starched khaki shorts and pink polo shirts, always left Tim’s red Mustang in one of the few coveted spaces at the
porte cochere
entrance of the hotel, bringing attention to this new model that no one could yet buy. There it sat, next to the Rolls-Royces and one Ferrari owned by the movie executive who hung out at the pool and the Polo Lounge. Even though Ford was paying all of Tim’s expenses, which by anyone’s standards were high, the public relations value of having a handsome young man driving in and out of The Beverly Hills Hotel daily in this sexy red convertible was not lost on the company.

“So what happened to you?” asked the young man who’d removed the briefcase from the barstool where Tim was now sitting.

“I was mauled by a lion.”

“What the fuck! Are you kidding?”

“Who could make that up?” Tim took another sip of Dewar’s. Nick, the barman, had overheard and was listening intently.

“Nick … another? And buy my friend here a drink.”

“Jeff … Jeff Faldo,” he identified himself.

“Tim Halladay,” he returned, shaking hands.

“Thanks. They sure seem to know you here,” Jeff observed.

Tim smiled at Jeff—blond, curly hair, tan, and very trim. “I’ve moved in for the summer.”

“That must be a nice gig.” Jeff smiled.

“I’m shooting commercials for Ford … Pinto and the new Mustang II.”

“That red convertible parked out front?”

“Yeah, but it’s only on loan during filming. It’s a prototype.”

“Nice.”

Tim and Jeff picked at the bowl of peanuts on the bar, sipping their drinks.

“So what happened?” Jeff asked.

“Well, some jerk copywriter had this idea for a commercial to show the storage capacity of the Pinto—a reasonable concept for a small car with a few existing image problems.”

“I guess, yeah,” Jeff agreed.

“The concept was for one fraternity to steal the mascot of a rival fraternity, a three-hundred-pound female lion cub, and to stuff the animal into the back of the Pinto Hatchback.”

“Interesting concept.”

“Right! Until you try to actually shoot it. The lion cub was getting testy. It was a hot, smoggy afternoon, and we were on the back lot of Universal Studios. We’d done four takes. Any one of them could have worked, but the director kept insisting we do one more.”

“You weren’t in charge?” Jeff asked.

“Yes … and no. When you hire a high-profile director from the most expensive production company in New York, they pretty much have their own say. They want a cut for their own reel, regardless of what the agency or the client has approved. It’s all part of the bullshit of shooting TV commercials.”

“Wow! No wonder they put you up here at The Beverly Hills.”

“So for this last stupid take, the lion was getting really worked up after being stuffed in the back of the Pinto four times, and the handler lost control. The animal lunged at me and pinned me to the ground, clawing at my face, hands, and legs. The crew was on her in a minute, but not before I was a bloody mess and had three cracked ribs.”

“Jesus!”

“Luckily we were at Universal, and the studio paramedics were there in a minute. They cleaned me up and put bandages on my head and arms. I looked like a terrorist hostage. They offered to take me to a hospital, but I just wanted to come back here. And that was a wrap for the day. So much for the storage capacity of the Pinto Hatchback!”

Nick was captivated by the whole narrative and without asking brought them another round of drinks. “On me, guys,” Nick said.

“You staying here?” Tim asked Jeff.

“No. At the Hilton. My company won’t pay the rates here, but I like hanging out at the Polo Lounge. Lots of scenery.” He gave Tim a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Yeah, lots of scenery. What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I work for Bache & Company. I’m an analyst. It’s pretty boring, but it beats getting mauled by lions.”

“Maybe,” Tim said, drifting off.

“How much longer are you here?” Jeff asked.

“Maybe another week. I’ll check the dailies to make sure we’ve got everything. Then I want to get back to New York. The paramedic suggested I see my personal doctor when I get home.”

“Are you in pain?” Jeff asked, concerned.

“I’m kind of stiff, and then there are the ribs. When I turn over in bed it’s like someone putting a sword in my side. But they don’t tape you up or do anything. Ribs have to heal by themselves. Thank god for Vicodin.”

“I’m a trained physical therapist. It’s what I do when I’m not reviewing annual reports. I have some clients—mostly actors and athletes—here in LA and in New York. I’d sure like to do that full-time, but it’s hard to give up the benefits of working in the corporate world.”

“I know. I’m kind of locked into the whole agency business.”

“Would you like a massage?” Jeff asked. “I’m pretty good, and it could make you feel better.”

Tim hesitated. Was Jeff making a pass? He was certainly attractive enough. “Sure, why not? Couldn’t hurt.” Tim laughed.

Tim signaled to Nick to put the drinks on his house account. Then Tim and Jeff left the Polo Lounge, walking down the corridor lined with green and white banana-leaf wallpaper and plantation-shuttered doorways, over to the exit leading to the bungalow gardens. Jeff put his arm over Tim’s shoulder.

“This is cool,” Jeff said.

“It’s where Liz and Burton fucked,” Tim said as he opened the door to Bungalow Seven.

“Wow … this is something else! It’s like a whole fucking house.”

“Yeah, and they even make up the beds. You hungry?” Tim asked as they moved into the suite.

“Okay.”

Tim phoned room service without asking Jeff what he wanted. “A junior club sandwich, a chopped McCarthy salad with blue cheese dressing on the side, and two Heinekens.”

“Sure, Mr. Halladay. Coming right over. Any ice cream tonight?”

“Yeah, two scoops of plain vanilla, with lemon cookies.”