On Archimedes Street (30 page)

“Hmmm. Thinnin’ a little here at the crown.” She frowned as she lifted strands of his fine blond hair on her comb. “But with a little teasing and a little hair spray, no one will be able to see that!” She downstroked sharply on the strands with the teeth of her rat-tailed comb, teasing it into a fluffy cloud. She poked and fiddled with it until it formed a domed cushion over the balding patch. She finished by lacquering everything in place with about half a can of hairspray. Manny wrinkled his nose and scrunched his eyes during its application.

“There!” She twirled the chair toward the mirror and handed him a hand mirror so he could see the back.

He did look younger, he had to admit. How had his hair gotten so
big
? It looked like a helmet, almost. Manny, who never paid much attention to fashion, much less to fashion history, didn’t realize the perfect sartorial complement to this hairdo was a beige, one-piece, self-belted pantsuit from 1968.

As he was leaving, Claire gave him a hairnet. “Put this on before you go to bed tonight, to hold the shape. And stop by the shop for five minutes tomorrow before your meeting. I’ll give you a quick spritz, make sure everything is right.”

Manny accepted the hairnet with mistrust.
I’m wearing hairnets now? Frenchy is turning my life upside down. Next thing you know, I’ll be wearing a truss for my belly.
Of which, really, there was not very much.

“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that offer.”

F
LIP
TOOK
his rage and heartbreak to La Fruit’s, as he remembered Googs had called it that night of the street dance in the Quarter with Mimi. His first thought had been to hook up with some guy in revenge. Some guy who would suck him off—some guy he could throw in Dutch’s face. He revisited that plan as soon as he made his tentative way into the gay bar. Conversation stopped the moment he walked in. All eyes were on him. He ordered his beer and sat quietly at the triangle-shaped bar. The patrons were whispering to each other, looking him up and down. Soon, they found excuses to walk past him and brush up against him. He’d unfortunately placed himself near the electronic poker machine, and suddenly there was a crush of men lining up to play poker.

“Hey, hotsome,” said Rick, the bartender. Flip looked uneasily at the legend on Rick’s T-shirt—“Giddy up, Giddy on, Giddy off.”

“Here’s some beers.” Rick lined up three beers in front of Flip. “These courtesy of your admirers.” Flip looked around. Three pairs of rapacious eyes were on him, blatantly devouring him. Rick pushed the beers to one side and placed a frosty bottle of a premium artisanal lager on the bar. It was still capped. “And this is courtesy of me. It’s usually me who’s accepting drinks,” said the muscle-bound, tattooed Rick, “but baby, you are the fly-est thing I’ve seen yet. What Hollywood flick did you bust”—he looked down Flip’s body—“out of? If you want a ride—or if you want to ride it—I’m your man. Also, hotsome, don’t be accepting a beer unless you see it uncapped before your very eyes. Just a word to the wise.” Rick uncapped the lager and turned away, to be cool. But he sure felt like begging, for the first time in his short life.

This had been a big mistake. Flip had never been so self-conscious. He stared straight ahead and hoped no one would approach. That hope soon proved vain. A man in leather chaps, midthirties, with two-day stubble, drew near.

“New in town?”

Before Flip could answer, an obese man in a Hawaiian shirt and obscene short-shorts interposed himself between Flip and the stranger.

“Oh, go peddle it elsewhere, Eddie. He may not know that you stuff socks down there when you aren’t wearing your prosthetic peenie pretender, but everybody else does. Off with you.” The fat man made effeminate shooing gestures. The leathered Eddie scowled and stomped away.

“Hello, honetta. You
poor
lost lamb coming into this den of
wolves
. But don’t worry any more. You are now officially under the protection of Diminutiva,” he raised his high-pitched voice for the whole bar to hear, “and no one messes with anyone under Diminutiva’s protection!” He lowered his voice to a confessional tone. “Because my tongue is
too
wicked. I’ve got the goods on every queen in
this
joint and every other one in the Quarter. Hee, hee.”

Flip was appalled. Surely this ancient, perfumed blob of fat didn’t believe he could talk him into bed. “Er—er….”

Diminutiva read the horror and disbelief on his face and started to laugh. For some reason, the raspy guffaws, unlike the speaking voice, were basso outbursts. They lasted for a long time and drew annoyed glances from the other patrons.

“Oh—heaven help me. You didn’t think that I—that I was after….” More rasped hilarity. “Honetta, what would I ever
do
with you if I got you in bed? Lord!” Diminutiva struggled for breath. “You’re a regular laugh riot. Don’t worry, huntie. My age makes me immune to your charms.” Flip relaxed some and began to actually be grateful for this “protection” Diminutiva offered.

“Let me introduce you to the cast of characters. I’m Diminutiva, as you already know, but Louis during banking hours. The guy slouching over his cocktail? That’s Fred. He’s an attorney at a high-power firm. Harmless and very funny, but a raging alchie.

“Over there—that’s Brownie. Likes to hang out at movie matinees and lie in ambush in the men’s room. Attorney also. He and Fred have been on the outs since last week. Brownie accused Fred of being full of booze, and Fred shot back that at least he wasn’t full of matinee popcorn. Eddie you already met. Into bondage but can’t even tie his shoelaces, much less a granny knot. Over there….”

Two hours and three beers later found them ensconced in a booth, exchanging confidences. Flip had laid out the whole story.

“You got a picture of this two-timer?”

Flip pulled out his phone and swiped the screen to a shot he’d taken of Dutch on his bike. Diminutiva reached for the phone. “Oooh wee! You lucky stiff. Can I swipe through them?”

“Go ahead.”

“Holy frijole guacamole!” Diminutiva’s eyes widened as he swiped from picture to picture. Too late, Flip remembered there was one of Dutch sleeping naked and one of his own cock, fully erect and bearing no resemblance to a pencil, which he’d sexted to Dutch as a joke.

“You’d give this up over one teensy-weensy BJ?”

“Oh, he’s handsome, all right. Problem is, he knows it.”

“Chileen! How could he
not
know it? He’d have to live in a house with no mirrors! But he’s not as handsome as you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Just my bias, babycakes. Always been a sucker for blonds.”

“What really ticks me off? He swallowed it. He admitted it to me.”

“Why in the world should that make a difference?”

“That’s what he said too. I guess I see it as the most intimate thing you can do. Guess that’s why I’ve never swallowed his. Keeping something in reserve for someone else, in case I’m hurt. Which of course I’ll be. Asshole! Prick!”

“Does he kiss you, honetta?”

“No.”

“Newsflash, girlfriend. In gay circles,
kissing
is the most intimate thing.”

“How can that be? In high school, when I dated, kissing was expected. Everybody necked. Doesn’t do all that much for me. I mean a kiss—well, it’s just a kiss.”

“A siiiigh is still a siiiiigh….” Diminutiva broke into loud, off-key song.

“Hush! Everyone’s looking.”

“Everyone’s been looking, sugar pie, since you walked in. So tell me, what do you two get up to?”

“Well….” Flip hesitated, but what the fuck, he’d never see Diminutiva again. “He fucks me, mostly. I’ve fucked him, but only twice. And sucking. Love that; he doesn’t so much, but he seems more into it than he was at the beginning. I won’t swallow his, like I said, but he swallows mine and seems to like that a lot. Love rimming him. Wish he’d rim me. Maybe I should force him. Sit on his face….”

“
Stop
, huntie. You’ll give this old queen an embolism. Eh-la-la! To be young!”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, I do. March yourself right back there and listen to what he has to say. Have you considered this: he didn’t have to tell you. If he was a real snake, he would have kept his trap shut. He made a commitment and broke it, and he thought enough of you to come clean.”

Flip flashed on Dutch’s words as he was leaving the house in fury: “At least wash your dick off. Hygiene, Flabbott, hygiene.” And then he started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Something he said as I left. He can be pretty amusing sometimes.”

“Lemme get this straight, or maybe not so straight—hot, hung, handsome, tall, muscled, rich, generous,
and
funny? What is
wrong
with you, girlfriend?”

“Maybe I overreacted…. It was just a scrawny little kid, a childhood friend.”

“But, huntie, you need to even the playing field some. You should fuck him just as often as he fucks you. More.”

“I don’t know. I like bottoming, really. And he can get pretty demanding and toppy. Likes to talk trash when we do it.”

“Oooh, child! Pass me my smelling salts! To be a fly on the wall.” Diminutiva fanned himself with a cocktail napkin. “But, here’s the T. I’ll teach you a little
truc
. So simple really. He’ll be bottoming soon enough.” Then Diminutiva leaned forward and whispered the secret in Flip’s ear.

Chapter 42

F
LIP
WAS
hearing Dutch out. “Manny? The guy with the woodshop—whatshisname’s father?”

“Dominic’s father. One and the same.”

“But. But….”

“Frenchy will be butted no buts. He’s determined. I think maybe he’s looking for a father figure. He lost his dad when he was about twelve, you know. And this guy Manny looks a lot like his dad used to when Frenchy was a kid.”

“So, he comes out buck naked with the camera?”

“Yeah, and he asks me to show him my cock, I guess so that his would get a little bigger for the photo shoot.”

“And did you?”

“No. That’s when I hauled his legs over my shoulders and started doing him with my mouth.”

“But
why
?” Flip pictured those matchstick legs and arms flying all over the place. Maybe Dutch had done this out of pity and concern for Frenchy after all. “So are you saying it meant nothing to you?”

“Of
course
it meant something. It was
Frenchy
. And about to get his heart broken by some geezer smelling of woodchips and boiled cabbage.”

“So Frenchy means something to you.”

“Of
course
he does! He’s the little twerp I tormented throughout my childhood, goosing him during his Boys’ Choir solo, locking him in the utility closet.”

“You
didn’t
. Even
you
wouldn’t be such a shit.”

“W-e-e-l-l-l….”

“Oh, typical.”

“And then he got leukemia, and he was sick for a long time, and I didn’t go to visit him or anything….”

“Considering the circumstances, I’m sure he was grateful.”

Dutch ignored this. “And yes, I felt I had to make it up to him. And soften the blow when things fall apart with the sawdusted Methuselah, as they’re bound to. So at any rate, I did him. Really well, in fact. He’ll never forget his first time.”

“Oh, typical again, Mr. God’s Gift.”

“No, I’m serious. Inspiration struck.” Dutch got a look of wonder on his face. “Flip, I swear I
bench-pressed
the spunk out of him.”

“What? How?”

As Dutch explained the acrobatic details, Flip could feel his dick blooden up a bit in spite of his resentment. How would that feel? He wondered whether Dutch was strong enough to do that to him too. At the end of this narrative, Flip said, “Well, no need to be bragging on yourself so much. He’s skin and bones. Can’t weigh more than thirty pounds, and he wasn’t even a dead weight. As for deep-throating that little pecker….”

“W-e-e-l-l-l. It’s not really that little.” Remembering that Dutch had applied “pencil penis” to his fat seven-and-some, Flip evaluated “not that little” in that light and came to the correct conclusion. “And he’s been working out with Mimi for some time now, so he’s not exactly skin and bones anymore.” Knowing that Frenchy would be at the farmers’ market tomorrow, and that the likelihood of Flip’s laying eyes on him was high, Dutch opted for the truth once again. Since Flip hadn’t asked, he didn’t volunteer the last unconfessed transgression—that he’d been so turned-on he’d pulled it out, rutted against Frenchy’s thigh, and made a mess of his $400 jeans in three short strokes.

“Oh, I get it now. Consumed by guilt over the sickly, pitiful orphan you tortured”—Flip raised his tenor to a roar—“
you made the supreme sacrifice of sucking off
a ripped stud-muffin with an enormous schlong
!”

Dutch winced. “W-e-e-l-l-l….”

“When was the saint and martyr going to spill that little detail? Tell the truth! Would you have sucked the Frenchy that I first saw on a pogo stick?”

“W-e-e-l-l-l. Maybe.”
If a gun had been held to my head.

“Now! You’re going to suck me now! I’m gonna sit on your nose and work my sweaty crack into your lying face! You’re going to swallow it to the ball sac and bench-press me while you do it, you bogus, lying sack of shit!”

“Oh, yee-aah.
Talk
that talk, butch boy!
But
—have you washed it off yet? Hygiene, Flabbott, hygiene.”

Flip was determined to fuck Dutch through next Wednesday, even if Dutch refused to rim his ass. “You wash it off for me, fuckwad! Adoringly!”

Oh yeah.
“’Kay. Adoringly it is. First with soap and then with my tongue, right? That’s what you want, isn’t it, macho man?”

Whew! Dodged that bullet
, thought Dutch.

P
ERHAPS
M
ANNY
had picked up an unconscious knowledge of fashion history by osmosis or from skimming old magazines. After the touch-up hairspray spritz by Claire, he rooted in his closet and decided on khaki pants, a beige shirt, and a nearly neutral belt, in a pretty fair replication of a sixties pantsuit. His desert boots completed the monotone, echoed by the dirty-blond shellacked helmet. He scanned his image in the mirror. Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He decided to mitigate the defect he couldn’t name by a liberal application of the cologne Dominic had given him for Christmas, never stopping to consider how parsimonious Dominic was with his Christmas budget. He looked at himself again. Yes, the bald spot was camouflaged, but something was still wrong. He decided to apply more cologne for good measure. He became exasperated with himself. Manny had never been one for mirrors or clothes.
Just let it go. Don’t be late.