Hot Valley

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks to Mark, John, and Itzy
for New England hospitality.

This book is dedicated to the memory
of Richard Amory (1927-1981)
author of
The Song of the Loon.

UNLIKE MOST YOUNG MEN, I NEVER LONGED FOR GLORY OR adventure on the field of battle. The outbreak of hostilities between the North and the South in 1861 meant nothing more to me than the interruption of the long, hot, eternal summer of my adolescence—a season that had already long overstayed its time. At the age of 21 I was still behaving like a boy of 17, interested only in my own pleasure, unwilling to face the fact that I was now a man. Manhood meant responsibility, and responsibility meant work, and work meant an end to my diet of lotus flowers.

When war was brewing, I simply ignored it. Even when the fighting began, I thought of it as something far away, like the action in one of the novels I loved to read. But the war would make a man of me—even me, the spoiled son of a prosperous New England family, a pampered dilettante who exploited his social position for the most ignoble ends. It would find me in my comfortable backwater, it would pull me out and knock me off balance and throw me into the fire. It would change everything about me—so much so that
I hardly recognize my 21-year-old self now, viewed from a distance of five years.

Much to my parents' disgust, I had little interest in the family business, the grandly named Hydropathic Establishment, which my father had built up from a modest little bathhouse to a major New England visitor attraction. I had no desire to learn bookkeeping, or contract law, or any of the other dreary subjects that would make me into a useful, dutiful son. I had some vague idea that I wanted to be a writer, for which I could hardly be blamed, having been educated at great length (and no little cost) in the finest schools the East had to offer. And so I spent my days with my nose buried in a book, or sleeping, or staring out the window, or swimming at the lake, or daydreaming about a glorious future, crowned with laurels and lionized in the literary salons of New York, London, and Paris.

Such were my days. My nights were very different. At the age of 19, I discovered the workingmen's bars and rooming houses on the wrong side of the tracks—literally on the wrong side of the tracks, as the railway that arrived in 1849 had carved the town of Bishopstown in two. On our side were the quality stores, the town square, the nicer hotels, and the pleasant residential streets that fanned out into the woods beyond. Beyond the tracks were the run-down boarding houses, the dubious bars, the obvious whorehouses, and a crazy assortment of buildings, some of them old and decayed, others new and already falling down, where dwelled the workers and drifters to whom I was drawn. The Irish arrived with the building of the railroad; some of them settled and became prosperous, even moving to the nice part of town, where they were tolerated for their money. Others drank and gambled, wasted themselves and their wages, and put up with visits from well-intentioned churchwomen and preachers who tried, without much success, to win them over to righteousness. Added to that was an indigent population of salesmen, engineers, and others of no apparent occupation at all who sat in the bars awaiting opportunity.

In a town like Bishopstown, it was hard for men of that class to meet women; even the whores who worked in the two rival houses were beyond their reach. Most preferred to spend their money on liquor, rather than saving it up for a loveless half hour with one of our downtown demoiselles. And this was where I saw my chance. I would do all the things that the professional women would do, and more—much more—without a dollar changing hands. In fact, as some of the better looking laborers quickly learned, I was willing to spend a little of my own cash if I felt it would increase the yield.

My first real foray was on the night of my 19th birthday, after a dreary dinner at home with family friends and relations. There was much table talk about my future, about the glorious career I would make in the Bishopstown Hydropathic Establishment and Mineral Spa Center, the pride of the town (said my father) and foundation of the Edgerton family fortune. “Jack,” my father said, downing another of the endless toasts, “make me proud, make me rich, make me happy.” To which my mother added “and make me a grand-mother!” which caused a great deal of giggling among my sisters and the daughters of a neighbor whom we'd known since we played together as infants. I nodded and smiled and drank more than I should have.

When the plates were cleared I announced that I was going into town to meet some school friends. “Go ahead, son!” my father said. “Raise a little hell!” My mother tutted and shushed, but I could see by the indulgent smiles around the table that they were happy to think of their young man making his way in the world, sowing a few wild oats before settling down as a fine upstanding member of the community. Little did they know that the only fine upstanding members in which I was interested were encased in dirty corduroy work pants in the downtown bars where I was headed. I had
promised myself that, after months of fantasizing, I was finally going to take advantage of the opportunities available to me. It was my birthday present to myself.

The town center was about 20 minutes' walk from the house, and by the time I got there the cool evening air had taken the edge off my bravado. I sauntered with my hands in my pockets, I whistled a merry tune, but my stomach was turning over and I thought I was going to piss my pants. Why hadn't I relieved myself in the woods before I emerged into town? Oh well, it was too late to turn back now—I knew that my courage would fail me—and so I pressed on and crossed the railway tracks, letting my feet lead me, trying not to have second thoughts.

I'd already identified the bar that would be my first port of call, an establishment in an unremarkable clapboard building, called the White Horse. The dirty first-floor windows bore the legends “imported wines” and “Kentucky sour mash,” while the upper story advertised “clean rooms.” I knew from earlier reconnaissance missions that there was a steady traffic of workingmen in and out of the White Horse, and judging by the state of some of them as they wove their way unsteadily from the bar at night, they shouldn't be too difficult to befriend.

Without breaking the rhythm of my stride—I knew that hesitation would be fatal—I walked straight up the steps, across the shabby porch, and through the swinging doors of the White Horse. The first thing that hit me was the smell—stale whiskey, tobacco smoke, and the sharp tang of unwashed bodies. It was too dark to see anything much at first, but gradually my eyes, watering from the smoke, made out the lights above the bar and a few tables illuminated by lamps. Twenty pairs of eyes looked up at the newcomer, registering little more than faint surprise. I was obviously out of place—but the drinkers in the White Horse were too wrapped up in their own problems to care much about anyone else. A lone customer in the far corner, a heavyset man of about 40 with a thick yellow moustache and a denim work shirt, raised his glass in acknowledgment of my presence. That was the only welcome I received at the White Horse.

I might have turned on my heel and run home, but for the fact that I was now desperate to piss, and so, once more using my nose rather than my eyes, I found the unsanitary lean-to that passed for a bathroom. Pushing through the battered wooden door that separated it from the main bar (but which did nothing at all to contain the smells), I found two buckets, some torn-up newspaper, and a three-legged stool with a hole in the seat. At home we prided ourselves on the latest word in sanitation; this was like a return to the Dark Ages.

I unbuttoned my pants and pulled out my cock, and within seconds I was pissing like a horse. The noise as it hit the metal bucket was tremendous, but all I was conscious of was a relief to the sharp pain that had tormented me since I got to town. I was so engrossed in “making myself comfortable,” as we said at home, that I didn't hear the door open behind me. I sensed the presence before I saw it—and some instinct told me that it would be the man from the corner table.

“Guess you needed that, son,” he said, leaning against the wall.

“Er…I guess so…” I was still pissing, and found it hard to make small talk.

“I could hear you way out in the barroom.”

“Oh. How embarrassing…”

“No need to be shy,” he said, making no pretense of being there for any reason other than to talk to me. “Sounds like you got a healthy constitution.” His voice was low and gravelly, a smoker's voice. I couldn't yet turn fully around to look at him; my sidelong glances caught the blue of his shirt, the yellow of his whiskers, the glint of belt buckle caught by the light of the single guttering candle that illuminated the pisshouse.

“Well, I've finished now,” I said, hating the prim tone of my voice. I started to put my cock back in my pants.

“Now you hold on a minute there, boy,” he said, stepping up to the bucket beside me. “Don't do nothing in a hurry. Make sure you shook it dry.”

I made a halfhearted effort to obey him—but, even now as my most feverish fantasies were coming true, materializing beside me, so close that I could smell the whiskey and tobacco on his breath and feel the heat from this thick arms—I wanted to bolt.

“You can do better than that. Come on, show me that it's nice and clean and dry.”

I continued to shake it as he made gruff sounds of approval.

“That's better. Don't want piss stains on those pretty pants, do you?”

“No.”

“Well now, all this talk of pissing has got me thinking I need to take a leak myself. You don't mind, do you?”

“Of course not.” I stepped back, thinking he meant for me to vacate the room.

“Well, that ain't friendly,” he said, “seeing as we've only just become acquainted.” With one hand he unbuttoned his fly; the other he extended toward me. “My name's Mick. What's yours, boy?”

I shook the offered hand. “Jack, sir.”

“Sir. Ain't been called that for a while.”

He must have seen me staring down at the hefty piece of meat he'd just hauled out of his pants; it looked like a gourd.

“Big, ain't it?”

“Yes…sir.”

“Too big for those railroad whores.”

“Oh…”

“Bigger than yours, I reckon.”

I suddenly remembered that my own cock was still hanging out of my fly. I must have looked ridiculous as I stood there with my mouth open. Thank God the lights were low, and Mick couldn't see me blushing.

“It's heavy, too. Want to feel it?”

He took my hand, which he was still grasping, and guided it down to his prick. I had an urge to run, to tell him that he'd got me all wrong, that I'd just come into the White Horse to make myself comfortable, nothing more, that I must be getting home… But then my hand made contact with the silky-smooth skin of his huge, fat cock, and I knew that I would never really be able to go home again.