Faggots (28 page)

“It’s going to be all right!”

“Uncle Richard?”

“What?”

“If I come and lived with you, I wouldn’t have to go home. Then we could do it again.”

“We mustn’t do it again
ever!”

“Uncle Richard I like it so why can’t we do it again you’re the crazy one!”

“Hey, Cliff, you two must simply calm yourselves down,” came from nearby.

Dead silence.

Richard was still thinking.

Penultimately, the Nephew said to the Uncle: “Uncle Richie, you are a mess.”

Then, finally, the Nephew broke the news: “Uncle Richie, Grampa Abe is here.”

Junior Stage was also a bit of a mess. The winners of the contest, Mister Thick Dick and Mister Long Dong, both of whom had been hired weeks ago, were having a spot of trouble with their act, which, like Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts, they were to be allowed to perform now that they’d been acclaimed the winners. Mister Thick Dick was meant, ever so slowly, to fuck Mister Long Dong, and then, ever so slowly, since both instruments were extremely beautiful to watch in action, vice versa. However, Mister Thick Dick was too thick to enter Mister Long Dong, no matter how much Crisco, how many poppers, how many impatient catcalls from the crowd of uptown slummers, no faintings tonight, was this the best the fellows could trot out?, perhaps it’s time to pack it in and head back to Regine’s, and the vice versa was not working either because Mister Thick’s asshole was very tight tonight, having been overfucked the night before and over-Sanforized with Preparation H.

Fred and his housemates now all stood by the punch bowl, which was located adjacent to the Green Door. Tarsh was reporting on his explorations.

“Martha Mitchell is all full of toilets. And Crabb and Weissmuller is full of showers! And they have those new attachments where you switch the lever and instead of water falling on your head you can douche it up inside of you. It’s the very latest and a big timesaver on the old-fashioned kind.”

“I must get one,” Mikie said, adjusting his hooded sweat shirt and then remembering he didn’t have a shower to attach it to, one of these days he’d find a home, tomorrow at the Island would certainly be a start, and wasn’t he glad he didn’t bring his tambourine this evening, there was so much else to do with hands.

“It sounds a bit excessive to me,” said Gatsby.

“What’s excessive?” asked Dom Dom.

“Somebody who does it more than you do,” Josie answered.

Maxine rushed up, flying high, not only in seven-inch Ferragamo’s, not only in a sequined Elizabethan turban three inches higher than any he’d floated before, not only with padding that bosomed him six inches further forward than he had previously protruded, not only in swathed and tufted and quilted taffeta thirteen dollars a yard more than he’d ever splurged, but also on a full contingent of his favorite Mandrax. He spoke to the group in general, none of whom he knew personally, just as faces from Balalaika’s past: “We simply must not forget Balalaika, fellows,” he said. “We’re still open! Don’t be monogamous. The raid only closed The Pits. You must come back and dance! And one of these days we’ll finance a complete take-over of the Village from Christopher Street to the River and call it ours, just like they did in
Passport to Pimlico,
and soon we’ll have our own senator and our own President and our own university and our own medical center starring Chad Everett…” and off he went, still looking for Patty, where was Patty? He thought he saw Patty! He hobbled faster, his lips pursed out to call: “Where have you been!” It wasn’t Patty. I don’t care.

“That one is going round the bend,” Fallow said, looking after him. Tonight he was dressed in tight khakis, gray-flannel jacket, striped broadcloth shirt, neat rep tie, work boots, best keep it simple with so many straights in view. Then, looking around at all the beauty, in person, in the slides of last summer’s glorious fun projected on the walls and ceilings, mementoes to remind them all of what commenced again tomorrow, he sighed: “I was in love three times last week. But tonight, oh Mary, do I not forget them all! Are we not constantly assaulted by so much beauty! Click! click! click! New York is a marketplace! And the next one is more gorgeous than the last. Oh, Fred, I forgot to tell you. Feffer’s back in town. He called me and said he’d see you later.”

The time bomb that was Fred’s stomach reactivated. Evidently, after all these years, that beauty could still affect him, even though it was over, and long ago. So Feffer’s back in town. And where was Dinky?

“Excuse me,” Fred said to them all, almost knocking over Bilbo, who was precariously perched next to Mikie and Bo Peep, who were next to Dom Dom and Josie, who tonight wore matching Levi pants and Levi shortie jackets, and if Bilbo fell over, the whole line of dominoes might go over with him, “but I think it’s time for me to go and explore.”

“Good for you!” said Tarsh, brushing a red-bearded kiss across Fred’s mustache. “Dig you later.” Tarsh was always most supportive whenever any of his friends, particularly Fred, who could be most critical of their stylish lives, showed any inclination to be a Lewis or a Clark.

Fred caught Gatsby looking at him. “Boy, am I ever strong enough,” Fred said.

The entire Dixie Disco Dancehall became slowly covered in wisps of mist. It was a magical, mystical fog, clouds gently obscuring a heaven that obviously was up there. One moment everyone was earthborn, and the next moment everyone was flying in jet planes all his own. In seconds, the enormity was layered like a Scottish low-land at dawn. Swathes and sheets and cumuli of turbulent smokes, all made from dry ice and carbo-orthodranite, which produces twice as much haze with half as much carcinogen, wrapped each and every dancer in his own world. It was eerie and it was wonderful and special and personal and impossible to recognize your nearest neighbor.

And as the music got louder and the mist began to clear, gigantic columns polka-dotted with tiny, blinking, spinning lights were lowered from the sky. Slowly they came toward earth, like some ancient Baalbek revisitation. Then the columns themselves began to twist and turn and the hordes of dancers threw up their arms, awaiting them, come closer come closer, I spread my legs to embrace you, and fifty of these idols came closer and hundreds of drugged-out dancers rushed to straddle them as best they could, humping them like neutered dogs.

Winnie Heinz—in his half-naked Indian costume and further angel-dusted out of his tits, so that even his leather nappie and modest yellow feather and softest Pachogie moccasins seemed not there, he felt completely naked for this world, his own perfect body carrying his spirit and soul, like ancient braves, breaking new paths, to be followed by the rest of the tribe—weaved in and out and round and under the approaching columns, in a happiness he had not felt since…oh, who could remember when?, spinning, reaching, dancing, moving, the freedom of his spirit on this night was a lesson to all imprisoned souls. And as he weaved and threaded among the columns, he was followed, as he knew he would be, by scores of worshippers, fans, admirers of his self,
the
model, oh he did love moments such as these. Who needed love or lovers or cigarettes or Irving’s kisses when this whole wide world is mine?

He heard whispers: “He’s so gorgeous!” “One night with him is all I wish!” “Him and to have his figure!,” he could never hear enough, and he pretended he was one of Mr. Ziegfeld’s favorite stars, coming slowly down the highest stairway ever built, anywhere, one step at a time, magisterially, my kingdom at my feet. He reached out and softly touched faces that hovered near. Hands reached out to touch him back. To receive my blessing. My magic. My sacred beauty’s spark.

Then he embraced a column, holding tightly on to it as it gently started its ascent back to that heaven. The columns were rising again! And Winnie, one arm and one foot firmly holding on, waved to his kingdom, as he slowly twisted back to heaven, too.

The crowd went wild. If this were a planned event, then it could not have been better staged. If it was spontaneous, then wasn’t this what nights like this were all about, what we’ll talk about in years to come? The night that Winnie Heinz ascended up to Heaven.

And watching him ascend was Timmy. He’d made entrance at last, still wearing his jeans, his T-shirt advertising his Nation’s Capital, still no time to shop, after waiting hours on the ground, pushing and shoving to keep from being pushed and shoved, the outside line now stretching to the very River itself, throngs still panting to get in. dreaming of the orgiastic paradise that awaited them Up There, still out of reach. He might be one of the stars of the evening, but R. Allan hadn’t given him one of the special v.i.p. tickets.

And now there was Winnie still out of reach, too. Oh, still so far from reach!

“Ladies and Gentlemen…boys and girls…men and MEN…our next event, our feature film of the evening, rush rush rush to our main arena, adjoining Rancho Notorious, past the Lusitania Lounge, to the left of the Green Door, yes, rush to our Fucketeria as it premieres this evening our very own triple-R-rated cinematic extravaganza…
Babes in the Wood!…”

Randy Dildough’s dark glasses made The Fucketeria appear more shadowy than it was. But he’d been in back rooms before—The Anvil, The Mine Shaft, the late Toilet, after which tonight’s flushings were perhaps meant to be a commemorative stamp, and of course, just…whenever it was, The Pits—so he was not unfamiliar with the gladiatorial yells and screams and urgings, boys will be boys when having so much fun. And, yes, he could vaguely see the banked risers tiered from floor to ceiling and yes, he could sense these risers rising with pure male flesh. It was good to be back. Though he couldn’t see his Timothy. And it was of course for Timothy that he’d come.

A slight bend in the road had occurred upon his return from Dordogna. As if she hadn’t been enough, he had then been summoned by his Pan-Pacific boss, Myron Musselman. Initial audience reaction to the blanket, coast-to-coast release of
Bronty, The Last Survivor,
was slightly less than reassuring. Too early to tell, nothing definite, mind you, but best to huddle all P-P and Marathon top brass, strategize, plot new plans and ploy new possibilities. That dinosaur simply must heave itself into profit or else there’s trouble. Randy had performed like a wizard, it was his dinosaur he was saving, shuffling new ad campaigns, realigning theaters, switching A plans with B plans, dealing out New Deals. Now they could only pray that nature would take its course.

So where’s Timothy? Now that I’m ready!

All eyes were on the ceiling, and why not?, for projected on this ceiling was tonight’s feature film. It was a co-production between Stud Studios, R. Allan Pooker Productions, One Touch of Penis, and Gemeinschaft Brüder Grim, certainly all pantheonic names in this particular firmament, and starring that young ass of the moment—Randy had forked out one hundred bucks for that one, little Paulie’s—how astounding that Paulie’s looked better in the movies, ah the technological wonders of my beloved cinematic craft, what an incredible ass, rounded, upswept, globular, milk-white, so smooth, talk about wanting to eat something with a spoon, Randy’s tongue and taste buds teetered momentarily in infidelity, but wait!, young Paulie is co-starring with the naked and gorgeous body of…no, it can’t be!…my Timothy! My Timothy a Fuck Star!…R. Allan had underlooked his promise in order to show the world Timmy’s…whose eyes, realizes Randy, on screen as off, radiate that huge gap between reality and fantasy, which all the great stars’ do, my talent scout’s eye is still intact, but wait!, what am I seeing?, what’s happening? Full Frontal Nudity? How can I make a James Dean out! of that! My Timothy is soiled! This act will go into international distribution. What a truly tawdry lad. Declining dinosaurs are bad enough. I simply won’t let myself fall in love with a porno star! Dildough, get a hold on yourself, man. You’ll never become Irving Thalberg this way. Get out of here. Go on! Get! Ignore the fact that your cock is getting hard just watching those two young lads performing…

On the screen, immortal words were being spoken.

Paulie said: “I want you to punish me harder hardest hardingest!”

To which young Timothy replied: “This is the most wicked awfulest most punishing pole stick I ever seen and I am going to punish you so good you will never forget it!”

Well, thought talent scout Dildough, perhaps his diction needs a little work.

And Paulie answered: “Now that you’ve a real strong weapon, you must punish me the most!”

As long as I’m here, thought Randy.

So he settled back into a lower loge, craning his head back to look up at his rising star. Hadn’t Marilyn Monroe a pornographic past she had overcome? Listen to this audience reaction! Look at this audience reaction! That’s the true test. The seat of the pants test. Watch young Tim push the pole in. What grace of movement.

Then the clever cutaway from the pole to Paulie’s now paler ass receiving it. Receiving what appears to be a major starring portion of tree.

And so as the tree went in—or is the expression “if the tree fits?”—Randy leaned back even farther to enjoy the show. Have to keep abreast of what the competition’s up to. It’s the least I can do.

While we’re projecting on the ceiling, and while Randy watches Timothy, and Tim watches for Winnie, and Fred is looking for Dinky, and Irving is looking for Dinky, and Abe is looking for Fred, and Boo Boo and Wyatt are hiding from Abe, the heretofore unseen Billy Boner peeks his head into The Fucketeria and looks up and catches a sight of Paulie, an even paler Paulie, the look of the now near-dead Paulie, just the way Billy Boner likes them, I must call R. Allan and get a date with that one, he looks infinitely more attractive than that dusky dinge I diddled discreetly with in Doubleday’s Non-Fiction, even if the song looks to be a hit.