“I suppose.”
“Not because of ‘the guys’?”
“I just heard about ‘the guys’ while driving over here . . . It’s not true, is it? What my pal told me?” Vic asked.
“How could I tell, stuck here in the foyer?”
Andy chose that moment to reappear. He was in small square Nautica boating shorts and nothing else. He took Vic aside and said, “It’s insane. In five minutes I’ve ingested two sizable loads of man-juice. When are you coming?”
“In a minute. I’m busy.”
Andy looked over Mark. “You’ve got the eye, my pal. He’s a beaut.” He sized up Mark, who was now talking to two new arrivals, and said, “Not quite a beer-can dick, but almost. You may not be able to handle it.”
Vic laughed. “How could you possibly tell that through Dockers?”
“All the cock I’ve seen in my life, Honey? Please! I’m a professional. Little secret: the give-away is the guy’s ass. The size, shape, but mostly the angle of the ass. See, his is good sized and firm looking, which already is an important indicator for size given his waist is only about thirty inches. Mmmmm mmm! But see how his ass angles up, not down? That’s because those upper glute muscles are needed to hold a larger male member than normal in front.”
“Oh, please.” Vic was blushing. “Even so, how do you know it’s not long instead of thick?”
“Now that’s where experience, and even more, instinct come into play,” Andy lectured.
“I’ll bet.”
“You’ll see that I’m right.”
Vic changed the topic. “Are the B_____ brothers here?”
“I thought I saw one. Maybe not.” Andy then named three music stars whom he’d already encountered around the house in “embarrassing positions.” Vic would grant him two, but of the third:
“Isn’t he married to a famous bikini model?”
“All I know is he pushed me away from the two, I said two, large, tubular, fleshen objects he was taking turns having his way with. I’m going to have to let _____ _____ (naming a British singer known to be fey), who’s holding court in the foot baths, do me. Just to tell everyone he did. Although he’s done everyone else here too. Toodles!”
Vic went into the other room and came back with a Vodka Tonic for himself and a Gerolsteiner bottled water for Mark.
“Thanks, I am supposed to stay here.”
“I’ll take over if you need a men’s room run. I’ve almost learned your spiel by heart.”
“Very funny.” Mark looked at Vic more seriously and began, “Look I know that you’re famous and all. But I’ve never read any of your books.”
“The whippings begin at nine on the dot,” Vic said darkly. “Of course if you read one of my books before then and can pass a simple, hundred-question true or false quiz, you’re safe.”
“I’m not seeing Will,” Mark added. “Nothing against him. I’m just not.”
“Cool. Okay,” Victor replied and suddenly felt that a door had just wedged open. “My next book is out in three months. Read that one. It’s my best. Based on a historical incident in the midwest around the turn of the centry.”
“I see people reading your books all the time. I’m just into other stuff. The Ballets Russes. I’m reading about Diaghilev now.”
“The Russian impresario?”
“There’s this new book out on him and Nijinsky. And another on Nazimova, the ’20s Russian film star.”
“Rudolf Valentino’s beard,” Vic said. “I saw her film, Salome.”
“Wasn’t that great!” Mark enthused. “Those art deco costumes. Even when she was at rest, the feathered points of her crown were in wavelike motion all the time!”
And so between new arrivals, they talked about Stravinsky and Ida Rubenstein, Debusssy and Rimsky-Korsakov, Ravel and Lotte Lehmann.
Andy would reappear at intervals of fifteen minutes, with news flashes from the infinity pool or lower spa, saying, “Took two more loads. While I was busy rimming this hot, shaved-head Brazilian named Emilio, one of the B_____ brothers suddenly began porking me! Without even asking my permission! Of course, once I saw who it was halfway up my anal canal, I let him.” And at a later check-in, Andy reported “_____ _____,” naming the married musician, “is really going to hell. Coking, tripping, and sucking. Super slut!”
By four-thirty the new arrivals were down to a trickle. By four forty-five, they were non-existent. Mark and Vic got chairs and fresh bottled water. They were comparing Beecham versus Toscanini’s conducting style, and whether Gieseking or Michelangeli was the Beethoven pianist of the century, when the host came out in quickly thrown-on street clothes, distress apparent in at least one small, relatively undrugged region of his face.
“Had to phone an E.M.T. unit. Let me know when they arrive!”
“Someone almost drown?” Vic asked.
He named the rock star. “He’s got killer cramps and is vomiting.”
Five minutes later the emergency vehicle arrived. Hal Dern appeared and gave minute-by-minute updates from the bedroom hallway as they pumped out the guy’s stomach and installed a five minute drip against dehydration then left.
One of the E.M.T. guys came back and called for the host to sign some papers. Mark went to get him, leaving Vic alone with the med worker, a tall, red-bearded fellow.
“You seem pretty blasé about a near drowning?” Vic said.
“Near drowning in semen, you mean!”
“No?” Vic asked.
“I’m blasé because it happens once a month.”
“You’re kidding.”
“At least. Hetero amateurs!” The med worker sneered. “They all want to take a walk on the wild side. Think it’s so cool. Tomorrow night they’ll surprise their friends in public telling the whole dinner table how they starred at a homo bash. What they don’t realize is that a guy’s jizz is chock full of amino acids. Mix that with drugs, and whammo!”
Luckily, Andy was used to them, given the rate he was going today.
When Mark returned, the Med worker said, in a voice only they could hear, “Look, the home owner and that other guy are pretty busy partying. You two look sober and responsible. You ought to get this guy,” meaning the rock star, “back to where he lives. Drive him. Give him these if he gets woozy in the car,” he handed Vic some Dramamine. “Can I count on you?”
“Don’t worry,” Mark assured him.
“I’ve got a car and driver,” Vic said.
“Good men! Go in half an hour at the latest,” the med worker said. “I put sedative in his drip. He’ll be going under.”
“There goes your three minutes in the pool,” Vic said when the E.M.T. guy left. Then, “Why not get your bags and all, and we’ll drive this guy home, and then I’ll have my driver take you right to the airport?”
Andy came out to report that the Gay Brit tenor gave passable head, but “nothing to sing about.” And that it was rumored that someone famous had overdosed.
“Everyone’s fine,” Mark said, trying to dampen the rumor.
Meade helped them with the singer, getting him out to the Caddy without anyone else seeing. He looked short, thin and craggy, exhausted, pale, and already very drowsy. Vic’s driver surprised them by saying, “I know where he lives. Took them home from an event once,” emphasizing the word “them.”
In the back seat of the car, the rock star fell asleep sloppily, first on Vic’s shoulder, and then when he moved him gently to the seat, onto Mark’s chest. Mark let him lean against him. What a nice guy.
Mark and the driver half carried the rock star up the few stairs and into the foyer, their ring had been answered by a blonde in yoga togs and a Mexican housekeeper, both of whom seemed concerned.
After Mark came back to the limo, Meade remained talking with the wife a moment and wrote something down on a piece of paper for her.
“I left your name and your hotel number,” he reported to Vic back in the driver’s seat. “Just in case he’s a good guy and wants to
give you something.”
“Come on! He’ll be too embarrassed.”
“Well, I did it anyway,” Meade said.
Traffic was easy going west, and Mark relaxed for the first time and shut his eyes. Vic let him lean on his shoulder, not minding the pressure one bit. He thought Mark was dead asleep until Meade announced they were at L.A.X. and asked what airline they needed. That’s when Mark took Vic’s hand in his and answered the driver. Vic couldn’t believe how oddly exciting that was, suddenly feeling his hand clasped so . . . affectionately? proprietarily? in Mark’s. And Mark held it until the car stopped for him to get out.
“See! You’re on time! As promised,” Vic said when they were getting out Mark’s luggage.
Mark kept looking at him. So Vic asked, “What?”
“In New York? Two weeks from now—you’ll be back by then, right? There’s a performance at Lincoln Center. A double bill of Stravinsky’s Rossignol and L’Histoire du Soldat, in English. They’re very seldom done.” He named a well known English actor who would narrate the latter chamber opera.
“Okay. Sure, I’ll go with you.”
Vic wrote his phone number down for Mark, who put it into his shirt pocket, by his heart.
Meade went to park the limo. Vic walked Mark to his plane and waited with him in the departure lounge. When his seating section was called, Mark hugged him quickly, hard, so that Vic was suddenly enfolded within the strong solidity of his arms, shoulders, and upper back. Vic felt the oddest little flutter in his chest.
Mark stepped away without another word and without looking back.
Still unhinged by that little flutter, Vic waited until, watching from the floor to ceiling departure lounge glass, he could see Mark’s 707 taxi along and then ascend safely into the air and stash itself inside L.A.X’s perpetual clouds.
I’m just a hopeless romantic, Vic told himself. Here I go again!
In the car, Meade commented, “He seemed like a together guy.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Vic responded, amazed in retrospect by the entire afternoon.
CHAPTER NINE
Vic had no idea why they were having this meeting at Silver Screen Films. Only that it was planned for in his schedule and Meade called for him at the hotel. So he’d gotten dressed, gotten his little scenario kit together, and was driven here.
He arrived second. Tim was already at the conference table, and he quickly got up, confidently strode over to Vic, grabbed his hand, and, shaking it, dragged him over to the window.
“Gotta thank you, Vic. You were totally on the ball.”
“Thanks!” About what, he wondered.
“It was harsh when you said it. But you laid it on the line and even though it was like being socked in the kisser at the time, the way the other guys were silent and all, even at the moment it happened, I knew you were dead-on right.”
Vic fumbled toward the side table to get coffee and try to figure out what in hell Tim was nattering on about.
“Stan backed you up a hundred percent. So, soon as I got home, I faced her right away. Told her that it was my fault, and that I’d been a weakling and a fool. But I also said it was her fault and that she was a bitch because she was taking advantage of the situation. I told her I’d pack my bags and get out right then. We could have our lawyers do the rest.”
Oh shit! What Vic had said about Theo. In Justify My Sins! Tim had taken that to mean himself, with his erring wife, instead of Vic’s blanket condemnation of straight romance.
“She broke down and asked me not to leave. Fell apart totally. She admitted she’d acted like a spoiled brat. We talked for, I don’t know, maybe three hours. Everything came out. Her side of it. My side of it. She said I was finally acting like the man she thought she’d married. We’re fine now. God, you are good! You know women inside out, don’t you?”
Vic tried not to keep from sputtering his coffee onto his shirt front. He could see the headline:Queer Saves Shaky Marriage.
Luckily, Sam came in at that moment, got his coffe and sat down. Tim quickly moved to his usual place at the conference table, but the receptionist buzzed him and he left to take a call in his own office.
Sam looked around and in a most conspiratorial tone of voice said, “Not a word to anyone, right?”
Vic crossed his heart, wondering what Sam could—
“This girl I’m seeing? Two days ago I get home and I catch her in the sack with another girl. She say’s they’re just fooling around. I was like, stunned. Had. No. Idea. What. To. Do.”
Vic almost laughed: Queer Abby was more like it.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Well, nothing. The other one got dressed and left and she and I had a dinner to go to, so . . .”
“Was she hot? The other girl?”
“Hot enough.” Sam’s eyes danced a little.
“Why not bring it up sometime. Wait till it’s a good positive situation, when you’re both having fun. Then say something like, ‘Oh, you know that Christina, or whatever her name is, is really cute. Why not ask her to join us for after-dinner drinks some time?’”
Sam blinked a half dozen times.
“You mean and have, like, a . . . three way?”
“Or whatever, Sam. It is the 1970s!”
Sam laughed oddly and Vic could guess that behind his eyes all kinds of scenarios were rushing past. One scenario evidently scared Sam and he suddenly asked, “Well what if, like, we do that. And then my girl wants to do it with me and another guy?”
Ah, the ultimate fear: two dicks in one bed.
“Well, Sam, turnabout is fair play,” Vic said.
“So, I’m guessing that kind of stuff happens all the time in that Plato’s Retreat? Right? That sex club you’ve got in New York? I just know you’ve been there. You maybe even have a membership.”
Vic admitted he had been there, recalling but not saying that it had been with his agent Marcie, of all people, pre-Rick. But he didn’t have a membership.
Vic added, “I prefer things to happen a little more naturally, myself. That way no one gets embarrassed and no one has to explain anything to themselves or each other later on. I mean, Sam, that’s the problem. Not what you’re doing. But how to square it later on. Because it’s just like electricity otherwise. Know what I mean? All a matter of plugs and sockets.”
“Oh, wow!” Sam enthused, and he might have added, Leaping Metaphors, Batman! “Like, our plugs are made to go into a lot of different sockets. The plugs don’t know the difference. They just know that they’re in a socket!”
Vic couldn’t leave it alone. “Right. And, Sam, we’ve all got sockets for those plugs. Because they’re all pretty much the same size and the plugs fit anywhere.”
“Wow!” Sam recognized it with a little edge of thrill in his voice. “Oh, man!”
Vic thought, Fuck Your Mind For a Nickel!
Stan and Ed came in then and Sam quieted down. Tim joined them, still in a good mood, and Trefethern took a phone call.
Stan held out an envelope with Vic’s name on it. “This just arrived for you at the front desk.”
Vic opened and found three pairs of tickets to the rock star at the orgy’s next Los Angeles concert, a month from now. No note, natch.
“Who likes _____ _____?” he asked the table, adding, “I’ll be back in Nueva Jorck when this happens,” and when Ed, Sam, and Stan all said they did, he handed around the tickets.
“You make friends fast, don’t you?” Sam asked. He looked at Vic with a new respect. “Interesting friends!”
Stan and Ed told them that they had just come in from a ‘pitch session’ at one of the networks, and Ed confessed, “I think we made a real hash of your book there, Vic. Although the truth is, it was the only project of ours they were interested enough in to ask to hear about in any detail. There’s no question that you’ve got to come to the Network with us when we present it. If not, there’s no saying how we’ll junk it up.”
It was at that point
that, as they no doubt had carefully planned it not ten minutes previously, Stan brought up the “question of the to-some-folks downer ending” of Vic’s novel. He and Ed began introducing what they termed “a few vague possibilities” for how “the story might be less of a downer,” and were joined by the others, allowing Vic to know that this had been planned by all of them together. Maybe if there was a moral, or a lesson learned, or something really hopeful for Theo’s future that Vic might emphasize while he discussed the story at the network?
Having been with them long enough to figure out how this table-talk game was played, Vic said sure, he’d definitely think about all the “great ideas” they had suggested, not one of which he thought was of any relevance to his book, and not one of which he planned to give any credence at all, never mind present to anyone else.
Despite that, he was still tickled about being the romantic advisor for these loser guys just because he’d written a novel. And on top of that, Mr. Generous in giving them third row seats at the Coliseum
As the meeting was breaking up, Ed took Vic aside and told him that the British movie star from dinner had “liked Vic a lot,” and had suggested that he join her and her b.f. sometime. Another British actress, a friend of theirs, was in town and J_____ would like her and Vic to meet—and doubtless argue, Ed added. “This lady is also, quote, fiercely intelligent, unquote,” Ed said. “Which doesn’t seem to bother you one bit in women. She’d probably spit out these guys,” looking at the office where they’d gathered, “in four seconds flat.”
CHAPTER TEN
”Officially, it’s Will Rogers State Beach. But of course, we all call it Ginger Rogers.”
So saith Andy as he parked the Assassination Vehicle in the parking lot. The trunk held the enormous assemblage of Surf’n’Sand requirements Andy had: way beyond chairs, towels, and umbrellas, but fortunately just short of tubular surf-horsies. Vic let himself be heaped with half of it until he was blinded by too many towels and garments and had to be led forward to the spot Andy stopped him at, close enough to the water.
It was a perfect day. No clouds. Seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. Tiny breezes everywhere. Little wavelets in the ocean. Hot guys in ones, twos, and threes on blankets all around. The sweep of the beach to his left, over to the amusement park on the big public pier; to his right, miles further across the multihued blue bay waters, past Malibu, and up to Point Zuma. Behind their heads, picturesque little Santa Monica Canyon breaking for a moment into the regularity of the scenic cliffs, topped with residences barely visible within so much green, and then the formal majesty of an avenue of huge, Washingtonia palm trees along the tippy top of the Ocean Avenue Promenade.
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