by Don Schecter
A few months later, I was changing into my gym clothes while chatting with a jovial black man named Harold—who had mopped up the court with me in a recent match— when Andy burst in, carrying his valise-sized gym bag. He looked for an empty locker, greeted Harold enthusiastically, and selected one to the other side of me where he immediately began to shuck clothing. My ebullient friend embraced both of us in his loud conversation, but Andy directed all his responses only to Harold, bypassing my presence as though I were invisible to him. They laughed about the stock market and how Andy had a really easy job because he talked all day to John Q. Public, whereas Harold handled only lawyers and other professional men, and they were hell to sell stocks to. All I had to do was slow down and pretend interest, confident that Andy’s speed would soon reveal the prize.
He hung up his tie and jacket, he stripped off his shirt—a beautiful sight—removed his shoes and socks, and dropped his trousers. Well, he wears jockey shorts! Snow-white briefs stood out against his even, dark tan, Calvin Klein emblazoned on their waistband.
He paused to put his pants on a hanger, and I waited for his next move.
He dropped the red tank top over his head. Oh well, it had seen so many washings, it hardly covered anything, and certainly didn’t come down to his navel. Now, what’s next?
He slipped his black shorts on.
What?! He doesn’t wear a jock? He uses a weight belt but he lifts in CKs? I couldn’t believe my eyes. Beep, beep! The coyote slammed into the canyon floor again. I gave up in despair. Utter, utter, black despair.
Weeks later, after not seeing Andy for a reasonable time, I cautiously asked one of the trainers if he knew what had happened to him. “You know, that fellow who always wore the red tank top. Worked out as regularly as a clock.”
“Oh, you must mean Andy. He’s gone. Two weeks now. Moved to Phoenix. Got a job transfer. Said he needed more sun.”
I was forced to conclude I had miscalculated. Time was not only not on my side, it had run out. Andy had won, had beaten me at my own game. I shook my head in wonder.
It was simply incredible the lengths to which a consummate cocktease will go to keep his admirer dangling on the string. I could hear Andy laughing all the way to Arizona. To my mind, it sounded remarkably like, “Beep, beep!”
Blake’s Progress
Blake Holman was thirty-four years old when his boss gave him the power to hire and fire. He said no one knew better than Blake what kind of assistant he wanted, so he should go out and hire one. Blake put an ad in the paper and interviewed several applicants. After seeing five or six men and a woman, and asking what he hoped were searching questions about them, Blake came to the conclusion that he had found out more about himself than the applicants.
He didn’t want an older man because he didn’t feel comfortable telling an older man what to do, or earning more money than the guy; particularly if he had a family, because Blake was a bachelor. And he didn’t want a female assistant because he doubted he could ever trust her motives. Besides, Blake was a closet case, and he didn’t need anyone pressing him daily for a date after work, which sooner or later would end in disaster and, probably, exposure, which would surely lead to loss of employment: his, not hers.
But his hormones got the better of him in a way he hadn’t expected when his ad was answered by a glittering golden boy who also possessed intelligence and personality. In walked a tanned Greek god, with a square chin sporting the requisite cleft, and a jaw line that curved so cunningly it begged to be touched. His skin was flawless, his nose chiseled, and his teeth were even and bright. After seeing that winning grin, Blake could only carp that Matt Knowles’ eyes might have looked a bit more romantic had they been larger and more heavily lashed.
From the outset, Blake couldn’t get a grip. He stammered a description of the job and failed utterly to lead the interview. Matt didn’t seem to suffer at all from stage fright. He remained relaxed, and smoothly and skillfully guided the interview until he had elicited all the information he needed, made clear his strong points, and described what he was looking for in his first job. He extended his hand to Blake and said, “I have good vibes about working for you, Mr. Holman…er…Blake, and I hope I’m the successful candidate. I’ll be waiting anxiously for your call.”
Blake shook Matt’s warm, strong hand, and forced himself not to swoon. He hadn’t expected movie-star material but, having gotten it, he was willing to be totally swept away by the handsome and engaging young man. He noted Matt was wearing an alarming beige blazer that sported bright multi-colored stripes crossing to form a box pattern. Only a well-built man could get away with the design, he thought; only a cocky kid would wear such a loud jacket to a job interview. For the moment, Blake couldn’t recall what the other applicants wore or, for that matter, what they looked like. His voice scratched over a dry throat, “Matt, you’ve got great credentials; I think I can safely predict the job is yours.”
After Matt left the office, Blake sat quietly replaying the interview in detail. Despite how it was conducted, it wasn’t all that bad a meeting: both sides found out in the end what they required. Specifically, Blake had asked Matt, “How are your computer skills?”
Matt replied, “I built a rudimentary one for myself in college.” That was a great answer.
Now Blake found himself musing over some extra-curricular questions he would never ask— like what’s under Matt’s jacket, and what are his pants hiding?
In 1957, when Blake, fresh out of college, applied for his own job, his boss asked what he knew about transistors. Blake, fully versed in vacuum-tube technology, answered truthfully, “Not much. At the end of the final semester, my professor handed out a ten-page pamphlet on transistors to insert at the back of our texts. Apparently, too little is known at this time to merit reprinting an expensive textbook.”
“Well,” said his boss, “that’s what you’ll be working on. We’ve got some problems that transistors seem made-to-order for, but no one here knows much about them.”
So Blake went to work in the lab, reading up on solid-state devices, and building and testing circuits until he had some degree of mastery over them. In a few years, transistors —grouped to perform specific functions—came mounted on rigid circuit cards. To solve a problem, an engineer assembled cards in any sequence he needed. These circuit boards were the elements that made up the first practical computers—room-sized processors, housed in many floor-standing cabinets, that performed unheard of mathematical feats because they operated 24/7, with no time off except for malfunction.
Blake was named Project Manager of the installation of a massive electronic computer designed to replace a man-intensive, totally mechanical system. Three hundred operators and maintenance men were sent for retraining in expectation that their skills could be upgraded. The fellow who ran O&M was a fifty-year-old named Walter G.
MacDonald. He was a stern and fair supervisor; but not the kind of man one ever called Walt. He was Walter to his peers and Mr. MacDonald otherwise. One Friday, he stopped Blake in the hall and, in an uncharacteristically chummy manner, quietly asked, “Blake, do you know how the hell that thing you’re building out there works?”
Blake replied, “Not entirely, but I’m learning. The contractors are teaching me on the job.”
“Look, I run that shop. I ought to understand everything about it. But I don’t sleep at night because it’s all Greek to me.”
“I could set up a class for executives.”
“I can’t afford to go to a class; what if I still don’t catch on? I’m supposed to be the big boss; I’m expected to know everything. My people have to look up to me.”
Blake thought a moment; he could see the man was extremely perturbed. “Look, Mr. MacDonald, think of it like a transistor radio. You may not know what goes on inside, but you do know how to switch it on and operate the knobs.”
“That’s pretty simplistic, Blake. And it doesn’t give me a warm, fuzzy feeling.” He squeezed his eyes shut
and shook his head. “My nerves are frazzled. I think I’ll get away, go hunting this weekend to get my mind off it. I may just have to retire.”
Blake put his hand on MacDonald’s arm. “C’mon Sir, it’s not all that serious. Give yourself some time. You’ll pick it up.”
“That’s easy for you to say; you’re young. I’m not so sure.…Forget we had this chat, will you?”
Blake didn’t give it another thought until Monday, when he found that, over the weekend, Walter G. MacDonald had put a rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. When Blake could think clearly about what had happened, he decided it was time to hire a new man, someone younger, who had been brought up on printed circuits.
Matt Knowles was the perfect selection. He seemed to live and breathe electronics, and handily kept abreast of the latest technologies coming down the line. Blake spent more time in the lab than his duties required just to see and be with Matt. In the summer, Matt’s biceps’ bulged seductively below his sleeves, and on really hot days, he wore white T-shirts that molded to his chest. Blake recognized that he had become addicted to the young man with the gold waves in his hair. He visited the lab often to relax when he felt stressed, just as other men took a drink to relieve the tensions of a harrowing day.
Not surprisingly, Matt was a natural athlete. He played golf on weekends, and was a valued member of the company softball team. It gave Blake many unforced opportunities to spend time in Matt’s company and to feast his eyes on the object of his desire. But the best times, those that afforded the most chance of closeness and possible contact, were the after-work weekly jaunts to the local bar which Matt organized for the lab technicians. Matt had guzzled beer all through school, and was good for four or five bottles in an evening. His already rosy complexion flushed red after the third beer, and he became the happier, noisier, star of his own party, much to the delight of his co-workers.
He was always at ease; but with alcohol in him, he became a back-rubbing, arm-around-the-neck, thigh-slapping good ol’ boy: a trait that endeared him to everyone.
It was not so easy for Blake; the supervisor/employee relationship stood between them. When Matt threw his arm around Blake’s shoulder, it usually ended abruptly as one or the other remembered the pecking order. Blake couldn’t decide whether the dampened blanket that settled over them was more his fault since he was always concerned that his feelings for Matt would become obvious. But he convinced himself that Matt was used to being liked, and probably didn’t think Blake any more forward than the other men in response to his aggressive style.
The thing that frustrated Blake was that all these contacts were relatively public.
Unless he was giving Matt his performance appraisal, he never got a chance to spend one-on-one time with him. But company growth, and another revolution in speed and miniaturization of components, provided that opportunity. Blake’s boss told him to take Matt along with him on visits to contractors until he learned the ropes. This suggestion was not greeted with total enthusiasm because certain pitfalls accompanied the assignment.
Years ago, Blake himself was sent on trips with a mentor. He found it was company policy to sleep two to a room, and that after work it was common practice for the two men to spend the evenings together at dinner and then a bar. This caused him some embarrassment because his mentor was invariably some overweight older man who smoked, and spent all of his free time salivating over women who passed by, detailing what he would do with them if he weren’t a happily married man. Blake learned to smile and sound interested, and to say as little as possible, while always implying that he sympathized with the plight of the married man.
On his first trip to London, in 1960, he was guided by a fellow who extolled a bistro on Bayswater—where they had to eat lunch each day—called the Paint ’n’ Palette. Blake was surprised to find the window of the restaurant occupied by a woman in a chair at a mock table for two, wearing only a pair of spike heels. His mentor explained that a loophole in English law permitted the public display of nudity on the condition that the model remained stationary as though posing for an artist; if she moved, it was considered pornographic. Every fifteen minutes, the model robed herself and exited, to be replaced by another girl who dropped her robe and froze in a different pose. At transitions, all eyes were salaciously locked on the window because movement was unavoidable. The food wasn’t good, and the novelty wore off quickly for Blake. He remembered he was also obliged to eat several pedestrian dinners there as well.
In this manner, Blake was introduced to Chinese and Thai prostitutes, and the red- light district of Amsterdam. He always selected the least attractive girl, the one none of the other men wanted, and was always rewarded. The girls he spent time with were exceptionally grateful to him because he was young and handsome, as opposed to the dregs they were usually stuck with; and they didn’t mind in the least that he preferred body massage to intercourse.
The one exception was his first trip to Thailand with an experienced group of technicians in their forties. They decided their twenty-five-year-old boss needed a proper initiation, so they informed Blake they were going to pay extra to buy him Triple-nickel.
There was lots of laughter but not much explanation.
At the back of a bar in Bangkok, ten girls sat in bright light behind a pane of glass, reading, chatting, or knitting, with their numeric designations on signs hanging around their necks. A girl, so elegant that she looked like a movie star playing a prostitute, sat crocheting in their midst wearing a placard that read 555; hence, the technicians, on previous visits, had tagged her Triple-nickel. Oddly enough, no one had had the courage to try her out because her beauty and carriage intimidated them. Thus, they thought it would be a great practical joke to set the novice supervisor up with her.
After the negotiations were completed—triple digits sold for a premium—555 demurely took Blake by the hand and led him away, only to find that he desired nothing from her but a massage. The massage was the ploy Blake relied on to pass the time the guys paid for, while they were getting laid. When she was convinced he was serious, her demeanor relaxed and she became the teen she was, full of excitement and fun. Laughing, they bathed each other enthusiastically, and Blake was introduced to skin so unbelievably smooth and unblemished that he actually found himself regretting he didn’t want to use her. But he could enjoy the feel of her, and delighted in her silkiness just as she found his hairy strong body a joy to play with. He caught the worst cold of his life wrestling and laughing with Triple-nickel on a drafty shower floor for two hours, covered by nothing but foamy suds.
When she returned Blake to his cohorts, her eyes were sparkling, and she giggled like a schoolgirl as she rubbed up against him and peppered him with kisses. After that, the young engineer’s reputation was firmly established.
But traveling with Matt Knowles was going to be different. Blake was now in the lead, and he was more interested in a restaurant’s food than its gimmick; but he anticipated that being in the same room with Matt would present problems. He had considered attempting to book two rooms, but abandoned the idea when he feared that making a fuss about bunking with his travel companion might draw unwarranted attention. On the other hand, he suffered guilty pangs because he intended to enjoy himself in complete secrecy at Matt’s expense.
Dinner went well, and Blake learned that Matt expected to get married in a few weeks. After a nightcap at the hotel bar, they returned to their room very much aware of each other. For the first time since hiring him, Blake had an impression that Matt was somehow uncomfortable. He shrugged; after all, the feeling was mutual.
Although he was no exhibitionist, Blake knew it was up to him to set the tone; so he stripped, threw a towel over his shoulder, and said he’d shower first. When he finished in the bathroom, he put on a T-shirt and a pair of jockeys, and sat in a chair pretending to watch television, but actually getting excited by the hope that Matt would now take his shower.
“I’ll shower in the morning,” an
nounced Matt. He brushed his teeth, stripped to his T-shirt and boxers, and climbed under the covers. After a few idle moments, Blake switched off the set and lay down in the adjacent bed a few feet from Matt. He spent some time purposely not playing with his erection and fell asleep.
In the morning, Blake awoke to find Matt in the shower. Matt exercised the usual locker-room propriety and reentered the room wrapped in a towel. Oh well, thought Blake, at least I see his chest. It was high and firm, with a dusting of honey-colored hair across the smooth expanse of pectorals. A trail of darker hair dove under the towel at Matt’s waist. Blake’s heart leapt at the sight of Matt’s washboard abs. But that was it: Matt dressed from a seated position on his bed, with his back to his supervisor. Blake found it worrisome that an active young man should remain seated while putting on clothes; but he didn’t think he would win any points by asking Matt about it.
That night was a repeat performance, but in the morning Blake took aggressive action. He barged into the bathroom the moment he heard the shower turn off and announced he had to take a wicked piss. Matt was trapped. Blake got what he wanted, and it was worth it, even at the cost of forcing urine to flow through his semi-hard shaft while Matt was watching him. It was satisfying to know that the object of his affection was beautiful all over and everywhere.
Rapid change was the nature of things. No sooner was something new and advanced installed than there was something smaller, faster, and more efficient waiting to take its place. It wasn’t Blake’s responsibility anymore; he had slipped into the management end of things as the organization grew, and Matt took over Blake’s old job. Blake bestowed the power to hire and fire on Matt, who demonstrated a knack for attracting engineers and technicians who tended to be near carbon copies of himself. It was all very delightful, while frustrating, for Blake, because he could never quite be one of the guys. He was constantly aware he was looking at them in a completely different light than the one in which they regarded each other.
