Saints+Sinners

by Saints

  “No,” I reply. “Thanks, no.”

  We zip off our hoodies and sit on Lonny’s prized sectional.

  “Just tell me if I’m doing it…wrong or not like you like,” Reed whispers.

  Lonny begins air fisting to the 1980’s beat. “All right, cuties. Whenever you’re ready.”

  I poke my left eye. Another lash has fallen away, searing, tormenting my pupil.

  “I don’t know if I can do this, Dusty.” Reed places his hand on my chest and drives his face toward mine. “I mean I want this. I really want this, but maybe…not like this?”

  “You’ll be great. I know it.”

  “But like, the internet is forever.”

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re gonna feel so good.”

  My sight blurs and I attempt to blink away tears.

  “I knew you could do it. See, you cry just like everyone else,” Reed says. “You’re thinking about Benji, huh? Or your mom?”

  “I think I’m thinking about me. And about you too,” I tell him.

  The Importance of Being Jurassic

  Daniel M. Jaffe

  Bill understood Quinn to be whispering “dirty,” but in the raspy, heavy brogue, the word came out as “dehrty”: “Yer a dehrr-ty, dehrr-ty man,” Quinn flicked out his tongue and sucked it in, frog-like. With a thurping sound: “You’re a dehrr-ty, dehrr-ty man.” Thurp thurp thurp.

  This encounter was moving beyond anything Bill had anticipated, yet he found the strange intimacy seductive. He was excited.

  A journalist for the Boston Globe, Bill had arrived in Dublin this morning to write a human interest story on the upcoming gay marriage referendum. Polls anticipated Ireland becoming the first country to authorize gay marriage by public vote. Traditional, Catholic Ireland.

  Not having slept on the plane—and his body reminding him that he was older than he used to be—he spent the day napping in his Jury’s Inn Christchurch hotel room, studying local newspapers and webzines, making notes and listing questions for his article. He supped in his room on take-away from the “great wee chipshop” around the corner, Leo Burdock Fish & Chips—greasy, salty, thick-crusted smoked cod accompanied by more fries than he could possibly consume. Later on, he trimmed his grey beard, donned jeans and a button-down blue shirt that showed off his squarish pecs without appearing too obvious—his decades-old uniform whenever scoping out a new city’s gay life. Bill always enjoyed these forays most of all, surveying the terrain before his newspaper’s photographer arrived and hovered, thereby preventing Bill from conducting his most enjoyable background research.

  Passionate encounters with locals were the secret to Bill’s success as a human interest story writer. Even in his late 50’s, he could still get laid with fair enough regularity, especially as an exotic foreigner. Few journalists’ articles contained the under-the-skin insights Bill’s did, revelations feeling like disclosure to a trusted confidant. Bill’s interviews read like intimate pillow talk because that’s precisely what they were.

  Bill put little stock in ethical baloney about maintaining journalistic distance: if you want to get an inside story, you need to get inside. Repressed countries were Bill’s specialty because they burst with scared horny locals who had few other bed partner options. Want a journalist to cover police harassment of Russian gay activists? brutality against gays in Iraq? death-threats against gays in Uganda? Send Bill with a pack of condoms to ferret out the under-cover(s) scoop. Only a matter of time before he’d win a Pulitzer. He sure was having fun trying.

  Bill headed out in the cool evening for George, the nightclub touted on all Irish gay websites as Dublin’s primary gay hangout. He’d undoubtedly find some trick to “interview.”

  Strolling down Dame Street—odd, he thought, how historically grand the word “Dame” sounded in Ireland, whereas in American ears it came across as outdated Al Capone cheap. He walked the narrow sidewalk past restaurants, pubs, cafés, repeatedly bumping shoulders with those walking toward him until he realized that the Irish walked the way they drove—on the left, unlike on-the-right Americans: head-on collisions were inevitable.

  A scan around the cobblestone courtyard of Dublin Castle, a mix of red brick Georgian palace, grey medieval fortress, and white-grey Gothic revival chapel. A quick look-see at City Hall with its white-grey granite columns and triangular pediment. On the corner of South Great George’s Street, a main shopping avenue, he faced an enormous mural covering the entire side of a grey building: two young men, one in white sweater, the other in black, snuggling in romantic embrace. Larger-than-life gay love, four stories high. And tacked to a lamppost on the corner beneath it—a bold, green-lettered “Yes For Marriage Equality” poster sporting a rainbow flag. All this smack in the center of Catholic Dublin. A more in-your-face public display than he could recall having seen in Boston.

  That must be the place, with the rainbow flag over the entrance and a thick bouncer staring into Bill’s eye. He nodded at the guy and stepped inside. A low-lit cavernous space with stairs to the right—the upper level looked closed…well, it was a Sunday. The music was fast-paced and louder than he liked. Bill walked to the far end of the long bar with men and women in their 20’s chatting, noted the stage behind the bar, empty now of the drag acts he’d read about. He grabbed a black leather barstool, asked the muscular barman for a pint of Guinness, one of those touristy must-do’s. He savored the thick molasses foam, the mix of bitter and heavy sweet, then turned to the lean young man beside him, a handsome fellow with close-cropped blond hair, and introduced himself, knowing that his accent would lead at least to a where-are-you-from conversation. Bill slapped on his personae of naïve visitor: “All I basically know about Ireland is leprechauns and four-leaf clovers.”

  “And all I know about America is that you all carry guns and shoot black teenagers when you’re strung out on crack.”

  “Point taken,” said Bill, impressed by the cleverness, sour as it was. He switched strategies. “Of course I also know Shaw’s plays and Beckett’s, Joyce’s Dubliners and Portrait of the Artist—as a teenager, I even won an award at an oratory contest for declaiming the fire and brimstone sermon.”

  “A literate American? Who’d believe it? No doubt you’ve read Angela’s Ashes, too, loving every page that confirmed your image of downtrodden Ireland.”

  Not unusual for younger men to be disinterested in bars, but hostile?

  “And,” continued the young man, “surely you were self-righteously appalled by that movie, The Magdalene Sisters?”

  “The one about Irish nuns enslaving unwed mothers? Of course I was appalled.”

  “Makes you feel all superior, doesn’t it? Like you Americans don’t have pedophile priests and other such.”

  Bill held up his hand like a stop sign. “Didn’t mean to offend by my mere existence.”

  The young fellow dropped his head. “Three pints and I turn jackass. Sorry. Guess I’m pissed because I’m out of commission.” He grabbed his own crotch.

  Should Bill ask?

  “A fucked-up piercing in San Francisco a year back,” volunteered the young man. “Every now and again, my Prince Albert splits the head of my dick. The healing takes weeks, so all’s I can do is look and drink and grouse.”

  “On behalf of all guilty American piercers, I apologize.” Unusually frank for a first conversation. Is such openness typically Irish?

  The young man extended his hand. “Declan.”

  Firm handshake. “Bill. I’m here on assignment for a newspaper. To cover the gay marriage referendum. I’d love to know your thoughts. It’s a remarkable turn of events.”

  “Because we’re such backward Papists?”

  Bill stared at him.

  “Sorry. I’m being a dick: yah, it’s damn exciting.”

  “It’s always the legislature or the courts authorizing gay marriage, never the people themselves.”

  “Never thought I’d see it. Ten years ago, I’d have said you’re daft. Even five years ago
. In a perverse way, the Magdalene sisters and child-molesting priests are to thank.”

  “Really?”

  “They lost the Church its authority to order us around on moral issues. This is a bit of a backlash.”

  An observation that would make its way into Bill’s article for sure.

  “You’re not bad looking, you know, Bill, with your fuzzy grey beard. For them that goes for daddies.”

  “Do you?” Flirtation was fun even if it couldn’t lead anywhere.

  “A bit of vanilla with a cuddly Da would be good for a change. Too much fetish play, and I can only get hard with extremes.”

  Bill raised a naughty eyebrow. “Why do you assume all daddies are vanilla?”

  “Ahah…you like some smacks with your cuddles eh, Da?”

  Bill winked.

  “If only I were healed,” said Declan with a sigh. “You might go to the Boilerhouse, back in Temple Bar across from City Hall. The baths. If you don’t mind drunks. There are two gay Irelands: us lads under 40, comfortable in public. And the over-40’s—mostly closeted, grew up squashed under the Church’s thumb. They need half a dozen pints before they can bring themselves to grope around in the Boilerhouse dark room.”

  “Quite the recommendation.”

  “Or you could just try Jurassic.”

  “Where?”

  “You don’t know it? Next door. Jurassic Park, we call it. A quiet bar for the few out older gays and young lads that likes ’em.”

  “‘Jurassic,’ huh? Flattering.”

  “It’s just our way—playing with names. The James Joyce statue off O’Connell, himself with a cane, we call ‘The Prick with the Stick’ because he was a randy bastard. And the needle statue there—it’s the poor part of town, you know, immigrants and such—we call it ‘The Stiletto in the Ghetto.’ Fun knicknames. ‘Jurassic.’ Right through them doors at the back of the bar.”

  “Join me?”

  “Nah, one look at me by your side and nobody else’d dare approach. I’m too good looking.”

  Bill laughed.

  “If I were healed, old Da, I’d fuck ya sure.”

  “A true romantic.”

  Bill chugged the last of his Guinness, swiveled off the bar stool, gave Declan a peck on the cheek, sauntered over to the double wooden doors and through.

  Immediately calmer—softer music. A small, cozy, long narrow room, wooden floors, chipped grey-green paint on the walls, large gilt-framed mirrors. Bill sidled up to the dark wooden bar in desperate need of polishing, scanned the dozen beer taps, ordered a Tuborg from the young blond barman in a “Staff” black tee shirt. He then stepped over to a corner seat against the wall, from where he could survey everything.

  Bill noticed a short tubby in his late 60’s with a young fellow tugging on his arm now to get him to leave—hustler or daddy’s boy? Only three other patrons, in their late 50’s. One, hunched on a barstool—black-framed glasses, thick grey hair, a bit of a paunch—gave a quick rabbit glance. The shy type were often the hottest once you loosened them up. The conversation with Declan had gotten Bill worked up. Besides, business had its demands, too: pillow talk with a man his own age could offer helpful insights, especially after what Declan had told him about the over 40’s.

  Bill took the lead in the standard bar stepdance: he stared stiffly until the hunched guy met his eyes and darted his own away; then Bill looked aside to give the hunched guy a chance to size Bill up; then both met eyes, momentarily stared, looked away; then both met eyes, stared, held gazes long enough for one of them—Bill—to risk rejection and smile. The hunched guy returned a sheepish half-nod. Bill walked over, extended his hand for the as-expected limp-fish shake.

  “Hi there, I’m Bill.”

  “Quinn,” the fellow said. From the heavy aroma of beer on his breath, Bill knew he’d been drinking a while. “An American, are ya?” A heavy brogue.

  “My accent give me away?”

  “That and yer boldness.”

  “Not too bold, I hope.”

  “No no. Boldness is quite welcome, actually.”

  Bill gave Quinn a light kiss on the lips. Quinn cringed, pulled himself back.

  “Sorry,” said Bill. Too bold. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen anyone kissing in the larger room next door.

  “What one might shun in public,” said Quinn softly, “one might enjoy in private.” His eyes darted around the small room.

  “Ah. Got it. No PDA for you.”

  Quinn’s eyes scrunched.

  “No public displays of affection.”

  “By no means.” Quinn’s hand reached out and gently grasped Bill’s forearm. “However, if yer up for it…it’s a pleasant walk to my apartment on a cool night such as this.”

  Bill smiled. “Now who’s the bold one?”

  “Well,” said Quinn, grinning shyly, “the evening’s getting on, and I’ll need to wake early…”

  “And you’ve got no other prospects,” Bill teased.

  Quinn squeezed Bill’s forearm. “I’ve always been partial to them with beards. Besides, yer smile radiates needed warmth.”

  Bill was a sucker for honest vulnerability. He clapped Quinn on the back. “I’d love to come to your apartment.”

  Quinn said little more than “this way,” on the walk down the street in the direction of Trinity College, simply hunched his head tighter into his shoulders, a turtle drawing into shelter. Bill respected the discomforting silence, noticed that as they turned onto Nassau Street and proceeded along the university’s outer perimeter, Quinn’s quick gait slowed. They passed shop windows displaying now traditional woolen vests and caps, now unsold pies and scones that would be of questionable freshness tomorrow morning, and red brick Georgian era buildings recalling a wealthier past.

  Quinn hesitated at a building on a particular corner, pointed at the wrought-iron-fenced park across the wide avenue. “Merrion Square.” He then glanced up to the building behind them, typical with its white-grey stone first floor façade and upper story red brick, glanced at a round plaque too deep in shadow for Bill to make out, crossed himself, continued walking, took out his keys, hobbled up a few steps, fumbled, let Bill into a white-walled vestibule and up to the second floor apartment. The moment the door shut behind them, Quinn breathed in deeply and stood tall, as if having stepped out into fresh country air. “You are very welcome to my home,” he said. “A refuge of safety because…” Leading Bill by the arm to the living room window, he pointed. “There.”

  “Merrion Square?”

  “Inside the fence. The corner.”

  Across the wide avenue, beyond the park’s fence and shrubs, Bill made out a huge rock supporting a reclining male figure. “Is he real?”

  “At one time he was most surely. A statue now. My patron saint.”

  “St. Patrick?”

  Quinn chuckled, freely. “Tourist cliché. No.” Quinn turned Bill by the shoulders and faced him toward a photograph hanging over the bricked up, white-manteled fireplace. “Here: A photograph I took. A close-up of Himself on the rock across the street.”

  Bill examined the replica thin, sunlit man reclining on a rock, legs spread wide with left knee propped up, right hand saucily holding red lapel of green smoking jacket, wavy hair covering ears, long face offering a wry smile. Totally recognizable. “Oscar Wilde.”

  “Himself. Born and raised just a few doors down this very block, on the corner. It’s American College now. They don’t allow tours. At least there’s a plaque where one can pay respects. Every morning and evening I gaze out my living room window at the patron saint of all Irish homosexuals. And on Sunday mornings—early before others are about—I sneak over, reach up and caress his feet in those black Oxfords. He suffered for our sins, did poor Oscar. Imprisoned and shamed. But now eternally young in resurrected state. Watching over me, showering me with ever grace. And permission.”

  This guy was more than a little strange. Creepy even. Bill hoped to lighten the mood. “Quite the coincidence g
etting this apartment.”

  “Coincidence? For 10 years I struggled to find a flat in His Holiness’s aura.” Quinn slipped his hand into Bill’s, brought it to his lips, kissed it, slid Bill’s index finger into his mouth, rolled his drooling tongue around it, slipped it out. “You wouldn’t be wanting another Guinness, would ya?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bill, retracting his hand and wiping it on his jeans. “I—”

  “Not to be rushing, but…tomorrow I must wake early so as to reach school before students and faculty.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m Vice Principal, ya see. Discipline is my bailiwick. Rules and regulations. Moral order.” He turtled into himself again, looked out the window. “If one shows up late or bleary-eyed, there’ll be questions. Mustn’t give reason for questions. No suspicion of any kind. Not any.” He brought right thumb and first two fingers to mouth, pressed them against lips while whispering, “No suspicions. If they find out, they’ll sack ya, and then where will ya be?…Shamed before the community. Utter humiliation. Penniless. Living on the streets you’ll be, and then—”

  Maybe this was a mistake. Unless…could this be Irish normal? Bill lacked perspective. If only he could ask that younger fellow, Declan, who seemed normal enough. Bill should shift gears, turn this into a simple interview, then make his “I’ve got a headache” excuse and leave it at that. “The school would fire you?”

  Quinn snapped his head and straightened up as if coming to.

  “They’d fire you for being gay?” pressed Bill. “But the country’s about to approve gay marriage.” Contradictions, inconsistencies, and injustices made for dramatic newspaper stories.

  “I’m Vice Principal in a Catholic voluntary school, ya see. The Church is the last venue where it’s legal to fire a sinner. That will never change. I fight temptation best I can, but…the Devil’s a strong one, he is.”

  Yes, a great angle for his article. But Bill should definitely forget the sex—the poor guy was traumatized. Bill took a step backward. “Listen, I know I was pushy at the bar. My American way, that’s all. I’m really just looking to meet some folks and get to know Irish life a little better. How’s about we sit and chat…Unless you’d rather I just leave.”