by David Stukas
Was David putting me on the spot by saying nothing, letting me get nervous so that I would blather endlessly, exposing my fear and gauging my honesty and sincerity? Or was I letting my paranoia get the best of me? It was hard to tell ... I was entering new territory.
“Yes, Frank. He spoke in total confidence to me, since he knew that I was cool.”
Oh shit, I thought. Cool. That, in itself, should expose me as a pretender. Cool is exactly what a faker like me would say, trying to sound worldly and easygoing. A novice like myself wouldn’t say words like cool. I should be nervous, apprehensive. I’ve blown it, I thought to myself. I was ready to scream and hang up the phone then go hide in a closet when I did the sensible thing.
“Mr. Bharnes. Could you excuse me a second. There’s someone at my door. Could you be so kind as to hold the line a second?”
“Yes, certainly,” came the voice on the other side of the receiver.
I put the phone on mute then slapped myself across the face. Then again. It was only then that I could pick up the phone.
“I am so sorry for the interruption, Mr. Bharnes. Now, where were we?” I asked.
“Frank,” came the short answer.
Jesus, I thought to myself. This guy wasn’t going to give an inch, was he? Well, at least he wasn’t going to be any good at verbal humiliation—he couldn’t seem to speak more than a word or two.
“Yes, I was telling Frank about my fantasies, and he said I should get in contact with you.”
“Perhaps. Maybe you should start by telling me your name.”
I had no intention of using my real name. Not only was I shy, but I was getting to be known around town, both as the holder of the treasured sex CD and now as the Guy Who Can’t Zip Up His Pants.
“My name’s Brad Willoughby. You still fulfill these kind of fantasies, don’t you?”
“I might. Tell me what you’re looking for, Brad.”
Shit. I didn’t expect to be asked this question so early on. I thought we’d meet for drinks or I’d go to some oily car repair shop in lower Manhattan, where he’d ask me a litany of questions. Q and A, if you follow.
I looked around my room in Michael’s apartment for some kind of straw to grab on to. Nothing. It was difficult to imagine that I was staying in Kinky Sex Central and I couldn’t think of a thing. Just when I thought David was going to hang up on me as simply another crank call, I saw something. Next to my bed was the picture of Monette that I had brought with my few other belongings during the exodus from my apartment on the Upper East Side. Monette was in her Leaping Lesbians of Park Slope soccer uniform, holding the trophy that I had, ironically, chucked out the window of her apartment a short time ago trying to thwart a burglar/assassin and that had been creamed by a passing cab. Life’s a bitch then you get flattened.
“I’m into soccer fantasies,” I blurted out.
“I see.”
“Yes, soccer uniforms.”
“And Brad, what do you fantasize about doing while you are wearing this soccer uniform?”
“I, uh ...” I stuttered, not knowing where to go from there.
“C’mon, Brad, you can tell me what you want. There is no need to be ashamed or uncomfortable with me. I have worked with many men and seen many things.”
I looked at the picture of Monette again. She was holding the trophy in one hand and had a soccer ball underneath her other arm.
“I’d like to be tied to the goal posts and have someone kick soccer balls into my groin,” came the answer before I had the chance to think about what I was saying. Shit. Okay, think fast. Cover yourself—literally. “And I’m wearing a protective cup at the time.”
In a few seconds, I figured the vice squad would break down my door and arrest me for unspeakable perversions, but the response I heard from the other end of the telephone line was rather comforting.
“Oh, that. This is a very common fantasy, Brad. There is no need to feel that what you desire is out of the ordinary.”
This was very weird. When I called, I had visions of having kinky sex in a garbage-strewn alley with prostitutes looking on, their scabby lips and torn pantyhose bearing witness as I had tawdry sex atop garbage cans while rats and cockroaches vied for supremacy at our feet. But this was nothing like what I had expected. I felt like I was sitting in a comfortable Park Avenue office full of Oriental art and rugs—and David Bharnes was a Jungian analyst.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Bharnes. Could we meet to play out my fantasy?”
“Did Frank mention that my services aren’t inexpensive?”
At hearing the words aren’t inexpensive, I, like most New Yorkers, assumed we were talking fees that only royalty and captains of industry could afford. But I had to have answers, and answers didn’t come cheap. This was my life I was talking about.
“Frank said that you hadn’t seen each other in a while, so could you illuminate me as to your fees?” I proposed.
“Eight hundred an hour. Cash. Upfront.”
We were back to skanky prostitutes in raunchy alleys. Cash. Upfront.
I winced and said okay. Eight hundred dollars! I would make it short. One or two kicks and I’d hightail it out of there.
“Excellent,” David said. I formed a mental picture of him sitting in a leather-bound wing chair next to a roaring fireplace and tenting his fingers in a display of Victorian horror that only Vincent Price could emulate.
“How about tomorrow at nine P.M.?” I asked.
“That sounds fine. Come to 101 1/2 West Broadway, loft number five. Bring your gear in a gym bag, and BE ON TIME!” David shouted. “You understand, Brad?”
For some reason, I answered automatically, “Yes sir!” My answer startled me. Was it something in the distant-yet-commanding presence of David Bharnes, or was it some hidden persona inside me that I’d wanted to release for a long time?
I sat in the gathering darkness of my room in Michael’s apartment and wondered if I were beginning a long day’s journey into night. But at the same time, I wondered why I was titillated at the same time?
“Michael, I need some advice—and I need you to keep an open mind about what I say.”
Michael looked at me as if I had told him that I belonged to a neo-Nazi organization bent on destruction of the world as we knew it. I told him what was about to happen tomorrow night. I advised him to sit down.
“What the fuck are you telling me?” he yelled exasperatedly. “You’re going to wear some soccer clothing and have a guy kick soccer balls into your groin and you think that’s kinky!? God, Robert, are you boring!”
“Michael, I’m not as sexually experienced as you are!” I explained. “I don’t have a proctologist and urologist on call twenty-four-seven like you do.”
“They’re not on call twenty-four-seven, Robert! They’re on retainer!” Michael spat back.
“My mistake, Michael. Just give me some pointers,” I begged.
“Robert, I can no more teach you how to have wildly exotic sex than Michelangelo could teach an orangutan how to paint. It’s a gift that you have, or you don’t.”
I decided to whine a bit. It’s worked before. “Michael! I don’t know what to do.”
“Robert, I know that this is going to sound like outrageous advice, but JUST BE YOURSELF!”
“But I don’t want to! If I’m myself, I won’t have any fun!” I said back.
“Holy shit, Robert! What would Freud say?”
“What?”
“Robert, you just said that you wanted to have fun.”
“I did not,” I replied in the best tone that would convey that I was absolutely certain of what I had said, even though I quickly realized my Freudian slip was showing.
“Oh yes you did!” Michael laughed.
“Okay, maybe I did. But what I meant to say was that I wanted to look like I was having fun so that my character would be convincing.”
“Robert, you go ahead and tell yourself whatever you like, but the cat is out of the bag. You have a kin
ky side.”
“Michael, you know the only fantasy that interests me is having Russell Crowe play Phalus Maximus the gladiator with me.”
“He’s married now,” Michael added.
“I know. Pity. I guess I can take consolation in the fact that he’s not happy with his wife. I can see it in his face. It’s me he really wanted. I just know it.”
“Now we really are talking fantasy here,” Michael quipped.
“Oh shut up, Michael. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to call my boyfriend in Palm Springs and tell him that I’m going to cheat on him tomorrow.”
“Hello, Marc?”
“Yes? Oh, Robert! God, I’ve missed the sound of your voice. How are things going?”
I decided to tell Marc straight out. “Marc, I’m going to cheat on you tomorrow.”
“Okay, so how did you get Russell Crowe to leave his wife?”
I wondered if Michael’s apartment had been bugged. “Funny you should say that, because Michael and I were just talking about him.”
“The gladiator thing?”
“How did you know?” I was astonished at Marc’s psychic abilities.
“You told me that one night you were out here and got drunk on margaritas.”
“Oh,” I replied. “I didn’t say anything else embarrassing, did I?”
“I’m not telling you, Robert. I’m saving up that ammo for when we have our first big fight. So what’s this about you having an affair on me?”
I confessed my plan to Marc. He didn’t get angry. No shouting. Not even a veiled threat about stalking me for days then jumping out of the bushes and blowing my head off. Nothing. The guy was emotionally mature. “Go ahead—you have my blessing!”
“So you’re not angry?” I asked just to make sure.
“No, Robert. This is something you feel you have to do.”
“Well, now that you’re practically tossing me at this guy ...” I replied.
“Robert, listen. When you were here, you and I connected like long-lost soul mates. We’re now thousands of miles apart—but the connection is still there. If you told me you wanted to go out and experiment a little, I’d say go ahead. Robert, I want you to grow as a result of us being together. What I don’t want to do is stifle you and stunt your growth. Simone de Beauvoir once said about her forty-year relationship with the existentialist Jean Paul Sartre, that wasn’t it amazing that our lives have coincided for so long? I interpret that she saw the bond between them as something that was held together by strengths, not weaknesses. And when it was necessary to part, that she would do so. That’s the way I see a relationship—all relationships, in fact. I don’t believe in Barbie and Ken heterosexual relationships where high school sweethearts see each other across a crowded room, fall in love instantly, and live happily ever after. I can’t think of anything more revolting. People change in a world that’s constantly changing around us. Everything is so dynamic. Go, try things, experiment, become the most Robert you can be! That’s my definition of love: helping you become the most Robert you can be. I can’t define love as ‘Oh Robert, you make me feel secure’ or ‘I need you.’ That all sounds so selfish. I’d rather help you and be giving to you. It’s not all about me!”
I wanted to burst into tears right then and there. What Marc had said was so mature, so inspirational, I couldn’t believe I had snagged a guy this good. Before I met him last Easter, all I could see was an endless stream of losers, freaks, psychopaths, and sociopaths. Like almost every single gay man in America, I wanted someone intellectually challenging, capable of helping me grow and vice versa. I wanted this so badly, and like many gay men, I jumped at a lot of bad choices because I was so desperate. And just when I was about to give up my search and move into a nunnery, Marc picked me up—literally—and threw me in a pool in Palm Springs, clothes and all. Love comes looking when you least expect it.
“Marc, I just love you so much.”
“And I love you, too. And Robert?”
“Yes, what is it, Marc?”
“If you fall for Soccer Guy, I will crush your balls in a vise, then drop-kick them all the way to the state line with steel-toed boots.”
“Oh, gosh,” I gushed, “Marc, I love you too!”
“Just be careful,” Marc warned me.
“Believe me, I have to be. No matter how you look at my situation with you and Soccer Guy, it looks like I’m going to get a kick in the balls regardless of what happens.”
12
The World Cup
I stood patiently outside a dusty-looking loft building in Tribeca, having pressed the door buzzer. I waited fifteen thousand years for an answer. Or was it three seconds? Time had warped out of existence as I stood there watching the flow of cars going uptown, carrying their payloads of corporate ants north toward apartments on the Upper West and Upper East Sides.
“Yes?” came a voice so suddenly that it almost made me jump backward into the street.
“Brad Willoughby here. David Bharnes?”
“Yes, of course. Fifth floor. Take the elevator at the end of the hall ... on your right.”
The door buzzed and I pushed it open to reveal dark, dingy hallways that looked not unlike those of my decrepit apartment building on the Upper East Side. As I trudged down the hallway toward the elevator, I fought that little voice in the back of my head that told me to run away; you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I got in the elevator and pressed five. The ancient contraption contemplated whether to ascend or stay put so long, I pushed the five again. Then again. Then again. Satisfied that it had exacted some sort of revenge on me by pushing some of my buttons, the elevator ground upward, delivering a neck-wrenching jolt as it passed each floor. When it reached the fifth floor, the door rolled back and the elevator went into a stupor. Or perhaps it was paying homage to its master, David Bharnes, having delivered another victim into his gaping jaws.
There was only one door on that floor—straight down the corridor I was now traveling. At this point, I was glad I had left my whereabouts on a sheet of paper on the kitchen counter in Michael’s apartment. If anything happened to me, Michael would tell Monette, who would set in motion a chain of events that would end with a team of four thousand SWAT officers dropping from airplanes, rapelling down from the building’s roof, and climbing up the walls of the loft building with suction cups on their knees. I would be safe.
I knocked on the door and waited. To pass the time, I looked down at my leather gym bag, which was filled with soccer clothing that I would probably end up wearing only once in my life—in the next hour or so, to be exact. I was studying the tiny creases in the leather when the door opened.
The thing that startled me about how the door was opened was the fact that it wasn’t kicked open in surprise like a police raid. Nor did it creak open slowly, pulled, no doubt, by a desiccated mummy hand with long fingernails grown over thousands of years in a granite sarcophagus in lower Egypt. No, this door just opened like I was being welcomed to a Park Avenue terrace cookout with Mitsy Binkerman.
The man holding the door open was none other than Sean Connery. Or at least that’s what he looked like to me. He was in uniform already, his soccer shorts a little tighter than would probably be allowed on playing fields at the World Cup. I guessed his age to be about fifty-five, judging from his salt-and-pepper hair (for which I have a distinct weakness) yet he had a remarkably athletic body, the leg muscles nicely toned, his forearms strong and capable. He was, like Sean Connery, distinguished looking—even in his soccer gear.
“Come in, Robert,” he said, shaking my hand in a very gentlemanly manner. Gone was the gruff exterior I had expected. At any moment, I assumed that he would invite me to sit in a leather wing chair and have a Montecristo cigar and a snifter of priceless brandy. I couldn’t imagine that in a short period of time, this erudite and urbane man would be firing soccer balls into my groin. As I’ve always said, life is a contradiction.
As he invited me into the loft, I was s
truck by another contradiction: The loft, instead of being littered with filthy, stained mattresses and sordid sexual instruments, more precisely resembled a Hollywood storage warehouse. There were legions of clothing hanging on rolling racks all around the cavernous space. Football uniforms, doctors’ white coats, Greek Spartan warrior getups as well as uniforms from the U.S. Marines, other branches of the military, and police departments from around the United States and the world—even superheroes: Spiderman seemed to be the most numerous, followed by the homoerotic gear worn by the caped crusaders in the last round of Batman movies. Scattered around were also things that could only be considered props. Rifles (did they really work?), ambulance stretchers, lockers, locker room benches, spears, horse saddles, cowboy lariats, gloves—even a mechanical bull. I began to feel very prudish.
“Mr. Bharnes, before we—” I began to say, but was cut off.
“Mr. Willoughby, I know that you’re new at this, but before we begin, I ask all my clients to pay up front.”
“I understand,” I said as I handed over an envelope containing eight hundred of my hard-earned dollars. What the hell—it was only money.
David opened the envelope, made a cursory count of the bills inside (fifties), and put it into a back pocket of his shorts. “Good, shall we begin?” he said. “You can put your sports kit on in that room there.”
“Sports kit?”
“That’s what the Brits call it. I have several clients that have been in the World Cup. Mostly the Brits—they’re some of the kinkiest people on earth. Followed by the Dutch, then the Germans.”
“Oh, well, that must be wonderful,” I managed to reply. What else could I answer to such a comment? On the world tour of kinkiness, I had definitely missed the bus. “Mr. Bharnes, David ... I’m new at this, so could we take this slowly? Could we talk a bit beforehand?”
“Certainly. Brad, I get a lot of novices and a lot of them like to talk first. It helps to break the ice.”
The two things New Yorkers never tire of talking about are real estate and what they do for a living. I guess I could have quizzed David about his loft space, but I was more interested in the fact that someone did what David did for a living, and seemed to live quite well by it. My interest was more than just an attempt to shed some light on the Case of the Airborne Bodybuilders, but another desperation that I had in life: the desperation to get out of advertising and do something that didn’t so closely resemble the life of a dung beetle.
