Hot Valley (15 page)

Mr. Harold Chester, or “Captain” Chester, as he likes to call himself (I don't believe he's any more of a captain than I am, despite his pseudomilitary uniform), is an impressive man of about 45 with the finest moustache I have ever seen, a luxuriant nut-brown thing that curls over his mouth, sweeps down in two elegant curves, and sits perkily up at the ends, thanks no doubt to a good deal of daily tending. He is a handsome, shifty-looking fellow, deeply tanned, his hair a little too brown to look natural, tall, and strongly built. It does not surprise me that Billy was down on his knees within five minutes of being in the Captain's office; he's just the sort of father figure that appeals to boys like Billy.

Captain Chester introduced himself to us at the stage door, gave us all warm handshakes, and took us straight to the dressing rooms. As it was only ten in the morning, they were empty—but the odor of sweat, tobacco smoke, powder, and alcohol lingered from the night before. Costumes and underwear hung from rails and over the backs of chairs—and, from the gaudy, scanty nature of those
garments, I had little doubt that Captain Chester's theater was not dedicated to the serious dramatic arts. Charlie's eyes were out on stalks—the scent was having an aphrodisiac effect on the poor, pussy-starved boy—and even Billy was examining the gowns with an appreciative eye, although perhaps for somewhat different reasons.

“Now, which one of you boys is the best at cleaning up?” asked the Captain, winking at Billy, who smirked winningly. “You reckon you can get this place cleaned up and fit for human habitation before the girls come in after lunch?”

“Where do you keep your broom?” Billy asked, already rolling up his sleeves.

“Now, young man,” Chester said, turning to Charlie, “you look like a presentable young fellow.”

Charlie puffed out his chest like a good soldier; he seemed to have forgotten that he's actually a deserter. “Yes, sir!”

“But can you be trusted, that's the question?”

“Yes sir, I can be trusted.”

“With money?”

“Sure.”

Now, I would sooner entrust my money to a habitual thief than hand it over to a pussy-chaser like Charlie, but I kept my own counsel.

“Well, it just so happens that I have a vacancy in the box office, after my last employee…found an alternative position,” the Captain said, ruefully rubbing his chin. (I suspect some young fellow made off with the week's takings.) “But you'll have to fill in all the paperwork, hand me the takings when we close up each night, and it had better all be there, every damn penny of it, or I will—” He coughed, composed himself. “You think you can handle that?”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie answered. “I learned bookkeeping back home in…er…Pittsburgh.” Charlie could always think of a plausible lie. I knew right away that I'd be helping him cook the books before the night was out.

“And that leaves you, my fine friend,” the Captain said, walking around me, measuring me up like a piece of livestock. “Does he speak?”

“Sure he speaks,” Billy said, already rolling up stockings and hanging discarded dresses.

“What's your name, sir?”

“My name,” I said, “is Aaron Johnson.”

“Whoa! That's a fine voice! You ain't from around here, I guess.”

“On the contrary, I grew up not twenty miles from here.”

“Well, here's my advice, Aaron Johnson,” the Captain said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. People around here like to think they know what's what. An educated Negro, that's something they just won't understand. What they want is this.” He squeezed my shoulder and ran his hand down my arm. “A bit of muscle. Think you can provide that, Aaron Johnson?”

“Sure, if that's what's needed.”

“I need someone to exercise a little control over the drunken bums that spend their money in my theater,” he said. “Someone who inspires, shall we say, respect.”

“A doorman?”

“That's the idea. I guess you can handle yourself.”

Charlie and Billy both spluttered, trying to suppress laughter.

“I guess I can.”

“Good, then you're hired, all three of you. Got myself a cleaner, a desk clerk, and a doorman. That's the best bargain I done all week.”

“And the pay?” I asked.

“You get your lodging and one meal a day, and I'll give you…let me see…a couple of bucks a week. That's enough to get drunk on.”

“Hey, that's—”

I interrupted Charlie, “That's just fine, Captain Chester.”

“Good,” he said, shaking my hand—having realized, I suspect, that I was the ringleader of our ill-matched gang. “We have a deal. And Billy? When you've finished in here, come to my office. I got a few jobs that need attending to back there.”

 

And so we find ourselves employed in the world of entertainment—which, to my astonishment, not only survives but thrives in Richmond. Never has the appetite for distraction been greater, according to Captain Chester, who walked me around the premises and shared a smoke with me on the theater roof, which commands a good view of the city. It was late yesterday afternoon, and the Alhambra was about to open its doors for business.

“Each and every one of them has a secret,” Chester said, waving a large hand across the horizon, a trail of fragrant smoke in its wake. “The highfalutin folk in the big houses, the clerks and the scribes and the honest shopkeepers, the soldiers and the sheriff, the drifters and bums in the streets. They have their public face, and their private face. And who's to say who's the good guys and who's the bad guys?”

I was surprised to find the Captain in such a philosophical frame of mind, especially with me—the hired muscle—and I wondered what he was leading up to. I suspected that Billy had said something to him while attending to those various “jobs” in the Captain's office earlier in the day.

“I've learned one thing on my travels,” I said, to break the silence as much as anything, “and that's to trust no man but myself, to take my pleasure where I find it, and to endure injustice with as much fortitude as I can muster.”

“That sounds mighty fine, Mister Johnson,” the Captain said, leaning over the low wall that capped the Alhambra's facade, “and a good philosophy of life in this uncertain world of ours. Young Billy told me you were a wise man.”

“Did he, indeed?”

“Good lad, young Billy.”

“Very good.”

“Obliging.”

“Extremely.”

The Captain stared out over the town, and silence fell again.

“Pleasure…” he eventually said, after smoking another half-inch of his cigar.

“Ah, yes.”

“The quest for pleasure leads us to interesting places.”

I began to hope that the abstract conversation would soon resolve itself into something more positively carnal, but I supposed that Captain Chester, like many married men, took his time to work around to what he really wanted.

“It leads a paying public into your theater,” I said.

“It sure does, and they pay well, as you'll find out.”

“I hope so. And shouldn't I be down there on the door?”

“Not yet, Johnson. The fun never starts much before ten. That's when I'll be needing your strong arm.”

“And what should I do with the rest of my time?”

“Man like you, never short of opportunities.”

“That's as may be.”

The Captain turned his back to the town, and faced me, leaning against the rampart. Surely he didn't expect me to get down on my knees for him?

“Thing is, Johnson,” he said, “that young Billy's given me a few ideas.”

“Oh yeah? Showed you a trick or two, has he?”

“He certainly has. I mean, he done things that no woman ever—Well, I expect you know what I mean.”

“You mean he sucked your cock?”

The Captain looked around—which made me smile, as we could not possibly be overheard, or indeed overlooked, ours being much the tallest building in the neighborhood.

“He sure did. And not just, like, mumbling on it, like some of those lads. I mean, he really seemed to—”

“Enjoy it?”

“Yeah.”

“He's a fine cocksucker, my Billy.”

“You mean he's—”

“Sucked me? Many times. And I've fucked his ass too. Which he loves.”

“I bet he does, the little—”

“Don't worry, Captain,” I said. “You're not stealing anything that's mine. Billy's a greedy boy. He'll eat you and he'll eat me and he'll still want more.”

“Never knew a man could be so…hungry for it.”

“Perhaps you've never tasted it yourself.”

“Well…”

“It's good,” I said.

“Really?”

I had finally figured out where this was leading, and I knew that within a minute the Captain would be down on his knees tasting his first (or he'd say it was his first) cock. Perhaps just his first of the day.

“Oh yeah, man. You ain't lived till you've sucked a big, hard, juicy dick.”

“Mmm-hmm…”

“Tasted it in your mouth, and felt it shooting off in your throat.”

“Is that so?”

“Say,” I said, as if the idea had only just occurred to me, “you can taste mine if you like. Nobody would know.”

“Well…”

“And besides, who's going to believe me if I say that Captain Chester is a cocksucker?”

“Good point.”

I went and stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and took the cigar from his hand, stamping it out on the gravelly rooftop. He stood motionless, waiting for a clear lead from me—so I unbuttoned my pants and hauled out my cock, which was already half hard from our talk.

“It's so big,” he said, under his breath.

“You can take it. Go ahead.”

He squatted at my feet, unwilling, I suppose, to sully his trousers on the dusty theater roof—and his thigh muscles bulged impressively in the thin dark cloth. He took my prick in a firm grasp, feeling its girth and length, and moved his mouth toward it. I leaned back, my elbows on the wall, and pushed my hips forward.

The first thing I felt was the Captain's splendid brown moustache tickling my cockhead. I looked down and saw a drop of sticky juice smeared across his whiskers. He winked, opened wide, and went down.

For all his acting, this was not the Captain's first blow job—either that, or he was a natural. For the next 20 minutes, he fed on my cock, now fast, now slow, now sucking, now licking, now running his hands all over it. Finally he kept up a steady assault with his hands, and I hit the top. I had just time to warn him that I was about to come—and he opened his mouth and engulfed me. I shot a big load into the back of his throat.

Afterward, he wiped his moustache with a clean white handkerchief, brushed down his trousers, and fished a couple of bills out of his wallet.

“Now, that's money well earned,” he said. “But don't expect more where that came from. I'd be ruined within a month.”

“Hey, Captain,” I said, stuffing my half-hard cock back into my pants, “you can have it for free anytime you want.”

“You ain't never going to get rich that way, Johnson. And there's money in that dick. Lots of money.”

And so I settle down to my new life in Richmond, a whore by day, servicing the gentlefolk of Richmond, or any who can afford it. By night I keep the riffraff out of the Alhambra, and accept drinks and dates from those who are interested in buying a little of my time.

As I hit my straw mattress at six o'clock this morning, I realized that I had found just the right hiding place in which to wait out the war. And, as I drifted off to sleep, I found myself thinking of you, Jack, far away in Vermont, in a world that now seems impossibly remote, a fond, foolish dream. And so I picked up pen and paper and wrote you this letter that will never be posted. The old Aaron, as you see, is dead and gone. In his place is a creature of the war. How could I ever have thought that a man like me, for all my education and refined tastes, my politics, my belief in justice, my hopes for a better world, could make his way and lead a life that was both just and honorable? Goodbye, dream. Goodbye Jack, God bless you. And good night.

 

Your friend,
Aaron

BENNETT YOUNG'S CAMP WAS CALLED HARMONY, AND FOR the first few weeks it seemed an apt name. It was positioned in a broad river valley south of Montreal, about five miles from the nearest town, with fresh water running nearby; well-drained soil that not only supported the huts and tents we slept in, but also sustained some small crops of fruit and vegetables, provided grass for the horses, and space for a few chickens and goats. It was sheltered from the wind, sunny in the mornings, and cool in the evenings. Nobody could approach it without being seen—there was a constant look-out at the head of the valley to warn of visitors—in short, it was the perfect location for a band of brothers to live out a modern version of Eden.

Young's merry band consisted of some 20 men, sometimes more, from all parts of the country. Some were Southerners, with broad, drawling accents and pleasure-loving temperaments. Others were from my part of the country, although none was from my class. They seemed, like Young, to be associated with the army, for they all sported some
version of a uniform, and the camp was run along military lines. A bugle sounded at 6 A.M., although the tunes it played had more to do with the popular stage than with West Point. Before breakfast, there was drill on the “parade ground,” as Young rather fancifully called the area of flattened earth beyond the encampment. There was a quartermaster, a big jovial New Yorker called Hutchinson who somehow dished out excellent, plentiful meals three times a day. There was beef, pork, and chicken, fine fresh eggs, milk and butter, coffee, tea, and sugar; it never occurred to me to wonder how a bunch of “special” soldiers managed to acquire such good rations when their brothers in arms in both Union and Confederate camps were, the newspapers said, starving on bread and water. Meals were eaten around the campfire in the evenings, as we told stories and sang songs and passed the bottle until everyone was tired and fuzzy and ready for bed.