The Days of Anna Madrigal (20 page)

“I don't remember. Just be yourself, Amos.”

Regrouping, Amos shook out his arms like a runner before a marathon. Then he grabbed his cock and snarled out his words backwoods style.

“I spit on your alien corn,” he said. “I curse your zombie alfalfa, your amber waves of . . . whatever.”

Jake laughed and threw a sneaker at him.

Chapter 23

LIFE AFTER ME

M
ichael and Ben had done molly twice in the course of their eight years together. One time during a hike in Pinyon City, the other during a Norah Jones concert in Golden Gate Park. It was a snuggly drug, like the old ecstasy, which had once carried a warning label about impromptu elopement while under the influence. The
new
ecstasy, on the other hand, was laced with speed—or so they had heard—so it was vital to obtain pure MDMA if you had any interest whatsoever in avoiding tooth loss and eventual madness. Ben knew a guy who knew a guy, so they ended up with several doses of molly for the trip to Black Rock City. One of them they would take on the night of the temple burn (a more spiritual experience, Ben said, than the actual burning of the Man); the other they were taking tonight at Comfort and Joy.

You could spot this camp from almost any place in the “gayborhood.” Silky pink and orange banners—the colors of a desert sunset—streamed from poles around the perimeter of the village. It felt medieval, but not the granite-dark, ominous medieval of
Game of Thrones
—more like the Necco-colored fairy scenes in
True Blood
. This
was
a fairy scene, come to think of it—or rather a faerie scene—so it seemed to Michael as welcoming a place as any to wait for the molly to come on. He was not quite a faerie—just as he was not quite a bear and, in his distant, slim-hipped 501 youth, not quite a clone—but he liked the gentle energy of faeries. They had lots of sofas, too, here at Comfort and Joy. That was a big plus.

“Is that the orgy tent?”

Ben shrugged. “That's not quite the word for it. It's really laid-back and mellow. A lot of cuddling. Like the club in
Shortbus
.”

“As I recall, the people in that were fucking their brains out.”

Ben rolled his head over and smiled at him. “You don't have to go in.
We
don't have to. We can stay right here on the sofa.”

“For a while, at least, okay?”

“Of course.”

Silly old coot!
Michael had been in hundreds of sex spaces over the course of his adult life. Thousands, maybe, if he counted glory holes and Lands End and back rooms and the woods along Wohler Creek and Dick Dock in P-town and the Warm Sands resorts of Palm Springs and, okay fine, the men's room at Penn Station one sultry midnight in the late 1970s. It had been as easy as falling off a log. Or falling onto one, as the case may be. So what was so different now?

You are old, Mr. Mouse. Nobody wants to see you doing it. And if they
do
see you, you'll be met with rolling eyes and wrinkled noses.

If he were to express this to Ben, he would receive a reprimand, since Ben still found some fun in this body and wanted no part of Michael's sporadic self-loathing. But this tent, for some reason, filled him with irrational fear. It felt like the end of something, the whimper instead of the bang. It was as daunting as his very first gay outing when he climbed the stairs to the Rendezvous on Sutter Street to confront the unimaginable sight of male couples slow-dancing to Streisand.

How many more shots did he have at this? With Ben even? With anybody?

“Look!” cried Ben. “Let's try that!”

It was an open-air walkway hung with silvery Mylar streamers. A simple concept, but one that enchanted as soon as you were in the midst of it.

That was still the trick, wasn't it?
Just jump into it, babycakes.

“Woohoo,” said Michael, turning around for the return flight through the streamers.

Ben laughed. “Did I hear a woohoo?”

“Must've been somebody else,” said Michael.

B
ack on the sofa now. An indigo dusk. A breeze tickling the pastel banners. Ben slumped against him, still shirtless and warm. A palpable unwinding.

“You feeling it?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Michael.

“Nice, huh?”

“Mmm.” He kissed the side of Ben's head. “Let's just live here.”

“We couldn't have Roman here.”

“Oh, fuck, you're right.”

“What good is a city without dogs? It's doomed to be temporary.”

“So right.”

“He would love it though. All these funky crotches to sniff.”

“I hope the Dood is happy with the new dogsitter,” said Ben.

They let time pass between them like a breeze.

“I've been so selfish,” Michael said after a while.

“About what?”

“The whole baby thing. I wasn't being honest with you. I wasn't grossed out by the idea of you helping Shawna out. I was just scared.”

“Of what?”

“Oh . . . people making plans for a future I won't be part of . . . the whole idea of Life After Me.”

“There is no life after you,” said Ben.

“Well, that's what I think, but the universe may have different ideas.”

Ben chuckled.

“It took so long to find you, Ben, and now I don't want it to change. I want it all set in amber. I want us and nobody else in the most selfish way you can possibly imagine. I can't help it—I'm old-fashioned. I believe marriage is between a man and a man. And if there's a baby to be taken care of—frankly—I want it to be me.”

Ben said nothing.

“You see?” said Michael. “Selfish. Even a little creepy.”

Ben pulled him closer. “I understand, though. I might be the same way.”

“If you were old?”

“Yes.”

Michael tweaked Ben's nipple. “I'm not
that
old.”

“But, sure . . . I think of life after you . . . I do.”

“Of course you do. You'd have to. Who wouldn't?” He paused. “What do you think of exactly?”

“Oh . . . living in Europe maybe.”

Michael saw it: Ben selling his armoires in some trendy Roman neighborhood. Trastevere, say, or near the Piazza Navona. Ben's sandy hair flecked with a gray that matched his eyes. Ben going home on a Vespa to a roof terrace and a man.

“What would he be like?”

“Who knows? Somebody younger, maybe.”

“Younger than me?”

Ben chortled. “Younger than me, doofus.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I dunno. Because I haven't before? Because you've shown me it's possible?”

“Well . . . thank you . . . but that wasn't my intention.”

Ben gave Michael's leg a shake.

“The young can be difficult,” Michael added.

“So I've heard.”

“And Rome is expensive.”

“Who said anything about Rome?”

“Holy shit, those flags are beautiful,” said Michael. “Just rippling across the sky like—what?—sorbet and cream?”

“I'll be there, Michael.”

“What?”

“I will be with you. I'm here with you now, and I will be with you then.”

Michael hesitated. “That's not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is. How many times do I have to marry you before you get it?”

He leaned and kissed Michael.

“Is this the drugs talking?” asked Michael.

“No. But the drugs are asking the questions.”

Michael chuckled. “We could do it in Ohio now.”

“What?”

“Get married.”

“Do you really want to get married in Ohio?”

“Not especially, no. I just want to Be. Here. Now.”

Ben laughed. “Good. Call Shawna. She'll be so happy.”

“We can't call her. We can't call anyone.”

“That's right.”

“I
am
here now.”

“You are. And so is he.”

Ben was pointing toward a buff and nearly naked youth prancing past their semicircle of sofas. “ ‘Evening of the Faun,' ” said Ben.

The guy had goat horns sprouting from a mop of blond hair. His legs were trousered with some sort of faux fur through which an actual penis was spiking heroically. It wasn't huge, but it was finely formed and completely stole the show.

The guy pranced closer and stopped.

“Greetings,” he said.

“Greetings,” they replied, almost in unison.

“Do you mind?” He was asking to sit down.

“No . . . sure . . . of course.” They shimmied apart to let him sink onto the sofa between them.

The faun pulled a goatskin wine bag from around his neck and guzzled from it before offering it first to Michael, then to Ben.

Seeing their hesitation, he said, “It's water.”

They both accepted swigs and returned the bag.

“You can hold it if you want.”

He meant his cock. Michael glanced at Ben and grinned.

Shrugging, Ben seized the guy's cock at the balls and squeezed it.

“Nice,” he said.

“Thanks.” The faun turned to Michael. “Your turn, Daddy.”

Michael obliged him—because . . . why the hell not? The shaft was warm and roped with veins, a fistful of life.

Another endorsement seemed redundant, so Michael said, “I used to have a pair of those.”

The faun gave him a clumsy, boyish leer. “Bet you still do.”

“No.” Michael laughed. “The pants, I mean. I had a whole Pan outfit. Long time ago.”

“No shit?”

“Home Yardage. Mock chinchilla.” He was still holding the guy's cock, having just noted that it was markedly thicker at the base. “I never thought of this, though. The open-air thing. I guess because I had to ride a cable car to the party.”

The faun giggled, but that's the way it had happened.

Mary Ann had sent him on his way that night. Squeaky clean out of Cleveland, she had already begun to accept his brand-new randiness as if it were her own. “Go find a nice billy goat,” she had told him with a playful shove, and in some ways that was the version of her he still maintained, the smart girl creeping up on adventure with one eye covered, not the liberal rich lady from Woodside taking Zumba lessons at the Zen Center. He had come to like the latter-day Mary Ann, but never with the intimacy of old. She probably felt the same about him—that stodgy old queen fussing in his garden, holed up with his younger husband in the Castro.

“Those are nice, too,” said Michael, letting go of the cock to touch the guy's horns. “Did you make those as well?”

“No,” said the faun with a grin. “Those are real.”

Chapter 24

IMMACULATE CONCEPTION

O
n her way to Coinkydink, Shawna stopped at an installation that had caught her eye from a distance. It reminded her of one of those carnival Tilt-a-Whirls, a slanted spinning disk that held its contents by centrifugal force. In this case, though, the contents were not people but little bonfires that scattered sparks as they orbited through the night sky. It was a simple concept—all iron and fire—and its operation was even simpler: two people on the ground alternately throwing muscle into a giant crank. Two people, it suggested, could do wondrous things working together.

Was she totally out of her mind, chasing down a stranger who had lured her with graffiti and promised to disappear? Had this offer of no-strings-attached sperm so caught her fertile imagination that it had destroyed her ability to reason?

She stood for a while and watched the whirling embers, partially to absorb their magic, partially seeking postponement of potential folly.

That was when Otto appeared.

“Well, hello, ladylove.”

He had called her that back in the day. Ladylove. It had bothered her with its faintly sexist overtones and corny echoes of his stint at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. Tonight, however, she found it curiously reassuring. Go figure.

“Oh, hi,” she said. “I was just heading to Seltzerville.”

“To see
me
?”

“No. Ronald McDonald.” It was a nervous response, but it came off a little snide, so she added: “I wanted to tell you how amazing the temple is, Otto. Really. Just stunning. You guys did an amazing job. Seriously. It's the best one ever.”

He pressed his hands together and touched his fingertips to his red rubber clown nose. She thought for a moment that he was going to say “Namaste,” and was hugely relieved when he didn't. She could not have suppressed the laugh.

He turned and looked at the flaming Tilt-a-Whirl. “This is unbelievable, right?”

“Truly,” she said. “So primal and . . . elemental.” She scrounged for something else to say. “So how's Ottawa coming along?”

He shrugged. “I'm still going.”

“Well, that's good. I mean . . . I know how much you want to.”

He nodded. A long silence followed.

“Do you think we could talk for a bit?” she said finally.

“Sure. What about?”

“Just . . . things. I'd like to get your take on something.”

“You wanna go to Seltzerville? It's not far.”

“Perfect.”

Otto looked genuinely pleased. “We can kick back. Drink some tea. Ada makes a smokin' herbal tea. Calls it Moose Juice.”

Shawna blinked at him.

“It's kind of an Ottawa joke.”

She nodded, taking it in. “Ada is from Ottawa?”

“Oh, sorry . . . thought I mentioned that at Martuni's.”

“Nope. Nothin' about anybody being from Ottawa. Nothin' about
her
, actually. You mentioned two other exes since me.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Takes a while to get it right.”

“Yep. Sure does. I'm glad, though. That's cool, Otto.”

“Yeah.” He nodded with a look of surprising tenderness. “It is.”

S
he had to go to Seltzerville; there was no way around it. And there was no way she could ask Otto for sperm with an adoring Canadian clown-lass hanging on his every word—not to mention his leg. So they sipped that nasty tea and spoke with concern about a sixteen-year-old girl who had reportedly gone missing from her parents' camp, prompting the rangers to seal off the exits to prevent any attempt at abduction. Shawna wondered out loud who would bring their teenage daughter to BRC in the first place, only to realize how priggish and judgmental she sounded. She hated pretty much everything about herself at that moment.

When she had finished her tea, she bade them farewell and headed off in the direction of Coinkydink. Otto's new ladylove had been a sign, she decided, the final indicator that anonymity was the only way to go—at least, a form of modified anonymity in which she could actually lay eyes on the sperm donor and get a sense of what sort of person he might be. It wasn't so much a question of his physicality (though a degree of attractiveness would be nice) as the need to assess his spirit.

Coinkydink took a while to locate. There was no signage at all, just a ragtag circle of tents that she found troubling. She had not expected (nor had she desired) some grandiose Temple of Immaculate Conception, but this place was laidback to the point of disinterest. She had to ask around before she could even identify it.

“You've found us,” said a petite brunette with a gleam in her eye.

“Oh, thank God.”

“ ‘There's no such thing as Coinkydink.' ”

“What?”

“That's our camp slogan.”

“Well—I was beginning to think it might be true. I'm looking for someone named Dustpuppy.”

The woman frowned. “Sorry, I don't think . . . oh, wait . . . that might be Jonah.”

“Might be?”

“I just got here. I don't know everybody's playa name yet.”

“Ah.”

“Do you know what he looks like?”

“Sorry, I don't.” Shawna considered explaining the reason for her visit, then decided against it for fear of compromising the contract. Dustpuppy might not be out to his campmates about the nature of his gifting. After all, it would not be an anonymous act if other people knew about it. Not to mention the fact that the whole damn thing could be a hoax, a wild-goose chase perpetrated by a prankster.

“I'm afraid everyone's gone right now,” said the woman. “They took off in our art car.”

“And you're here all by your lonesome?” Shawna had just noticed the perky coral nipples punctuating the woman's loose fishnet top.

“I don't mind,” said the woman. “I'm glad for a little peace and quiet.”

“I know what you mean.”

“You're welcome to wait here for Jonah.”

“Uh . . . well, thanks. I'm not even sure that Jonah is the one I'm looking for. Could you tell me what he looks like?”

The woman shrugged. “Youngish. Blond. Kinda cute.” A kittenish smile flickered across her face before she added: “For a guy.”

Shawna smiled back, letting her know she got the message.

“I know you,” said the woman.

“Oh yeah?”

“Shawna Hanson, right?”

“Hawkins, actually.”

“Right. I saw you on
The View
.”

“Oh . . . yeah. That was fun. Whoopi was fun, anyway.”

The woman stood there for a moment, bouncing on her heels, hands thrust in the pockets of her loose linen trousers.

“So,” she said at last. “I haven't read your book.”

“I won't hold that against you,” said Shawna.

T
hey did it in Juliette's tent—that was her name, Juliette. Their lovemaking was all meandering mouths and fingers, with no purpose at all beyond pleasure. No bicycle couriers were involved, no artisanal twat cozies. It was way uncomplicated and hot. And there was something about Juliette that smelled alluringly of home.

They lay there together, sticky and dusted as fresh pastries.

“Holy shit,” said Juliette.

“I know,” said Shawna.

“Where do you live?”

“I'm staying in the gayborhood.”

“Not Beaverton?”

“No—just with some guys. I mean—gay guys. What's wrong with Beaverton?”

“Well—those gals are kinda tough.”

“Nothing wrong with tough sometimes.”

“No—I guess not. Anyway, I meant . . . where do you live in the default world?”

“Oh. San Francisco. Valencia Street.”

“Me too. Well . . . Sixteenth, just off Valencia.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Why uh-oh?”

“Well . . . you're just around the corner. I might come a-callin'.”

“That would be nice,” said Juliette.

“You're single, then?”

“Yep . . . in the way
you
mean, at least.”

“I don't get it.”

Juliette reached down and touched her faintly rounded belly. “Next year there will be two of us.”

Shawna was struck dumb for a moment.

“If that's too much for you,” said Juliette. “Just say so now. I promise I won't be offended.”

“No,” said Shawna. “It's not too much for me at all.”

She moved her hand to Juliette's belly and let it rest there as she gazed through a patch of tent mesh at the bursting blue moon she'd been promised.

Immaculate conception
.

Maybe there was more than one way to do it.