Tamburlaine
by
Gregory A. Kompes
Fabulist Flash Publishing
Las Vegas, NV
Copyright 2017 by Gregory A. Kompes
All rights reserved worldwide.
ISBN: 978-0-979361272
Editor: Leslie E. Hoffman
Cover Design: Gregory A. Kompes
The material in Tamburlaine represents the artistic vision of the author published herein and is their sole property. No part of this text may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the author. The author may be contacted through
Fabulist Flash Publishing.
Fabulist Flash Publishing
PO Box 570368
Las Vegas, Nevada, 89157
For more books by Gregory A. Kompes,
please visit www.Kompes.com.
Dedicated to:
Rusty Warren.
Thanks for the inspiration and the laughter.
Tamburlaine
by
Gregory A. Kompes
One
Disappointed with the bar’s take for the day, Chris Marlowe closed the accounts book and locked it in the safe with that evening’s receipts. “Your time is coming,” he said to the painting of streetwalkers on the wall. An image of Jimmy sitting in the boss’s chair flashed into his mind. Chris breathed deep, pushing those memories back into the depths; he turned away and left the office, locking the door behind him with a series of turns to the combination-lock doorknob.
The short hall, lit only by the dim shadows of red light from the emergency exit sign, led to the red-dark dining room and into Tamburlaine’s main barroom with the piano and small performance stage, a dozen chipped Formica tables, most of which wobbled, and a long wooden bar that had aged incredibly well. A neon beer sign cast yellow dimness over the room. After a sigh that only he heard, Chris placed the chairs, one after another, upside down on the worn table tops. He questioned again why he even bothered taking them down in the afternoon when he arrived; no one sat in them anymore except the occasional stray who wandered in and, after realizing where he found himself, wandered out just as quickly, head ducked low in embarrassment, maybe his own, or maybe for Tamburlaine.
Benny, the part-time bartender, had already upended the barstools. Those balanced atop the long bar and the chairs, with feet in the air, like of turrets and fences, not that there was a need for barriers to keep folks out, or protection for those inside, for that matter.
The old tile floor, chipped and cracked and worn with the movement of thousands of feet, lay cluttered with napkins and debris. How could so few patrons make such a mess?
He considered one more drink; he considered gasoline and a match; he considered walking off the nearby pier into the dirty water of the Hudson River. Chris shuddered at the thoughts.
“Snap out of it, old man,” he said to his reflection in the long mirror behind the bar. His lipstick was smeared, his wig slightly askew. His image was one of those tired drag queens he’d made fun of in his youth.
He had been beautiful, once. He’d had suitors, once. People who were famous now, important now these twenty, okay, thirty years later. He’d used his wiles to build a career…and Tamburlaine. With both hands, Chris straightened his wig. What had happened? How had he fallen when all he believed in was happening now, equality, openness, positive laws. So far had they all come from those early days, scraping and clawing, defending against nightsticks and blackmail. And yet, he, a community leader in his own right, at the time, was now earning a pittance. But, still he kept it open, Tamburlaine. He’d promised all those years ago. He’d always kept his promises.
Chris offered himself that signature wink, oversized with a dramatic turn of the head. “No tears.”
A light tapping at the glass door pulled his attention. It was that young fellow from earlier. Another stray hoping for… tap…tap…tap.
Chris waved and pointed toward the side alley; that’s where he’d exit. The boy with the strong, aquiline nose nodded, his unkempt auburn curls bounced in rhythm, but then he didn’t move. Chris studied his reflection for another moment before turning with a click of his heels. He strode across the barroom, through the dark dining room, and into the dismal kitchen; he pushed the panic bar, exited into the alley, and slammed the door closed.
The cool evening air caught up with him. Chris pulled his crimson wrap tight around his shoulders as he passed the Dumpsters. There the man stood. What was his name? Did it matter? They were all the same, these boys on the street. Boys. They all seemed like children to him. Chris chastised Benny to check identification before serving these men in training. Yet, the vast majority were of legal drinking age. This one had been drinking at Tamburlaine, hadn’t he? He was there; Chris remembered that. For some reason, he thought the guy might have actually spoken to him, but frankly, after his nightly bottle of bourbon, all bets at memory games were off.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.” Chris smiled at the thought of waking up next to this one. How old must he be? Twenty, twenty-two, nineteen?
“Buy me a drink?”
“The bars are all long closed. The sun will be up soon.” How many times had he heard and said these lines? It was like some bad Logo movie. Imagine that, a gay television station. Drag queens on screen every week. Difficult to believe all the fighting after Stonewall had come to that. Television reality shows for queers; looks like they’d made it.
“Take me home with you.” The young man ran nimble fingers with well-manicured nails through natural auburn locks. He smelled of tobacco and whiskey.
“Is that really what you’d like?” Chris barely had the energy to flirt. It had all been done so very many times before. Yet, it would be nice to sleep with a warm body next to his. It had been so long since anyone he found attractive had propositioned him. He missed propositions; they reminded him of his youth. They didn’t just remind him; they caused him to feel young.
“Yes,” the boy whispered.
“What’s your name, kid?”
The man’s demeanor stiffened. “Don’t call me that. Don’t call me kid.” He took a step closer to Chris. “Understand?”
Unthreatened, Chris said: “Sure. What’s your name?” Without waiting, he turned and started to walk away.
“Ingram,” he said without attitude, now aligned at Chris’ side.
“How old are you?”
Ingram took Chris’ hand and slid it into the crook of his arm. “How old are you?” He was back to flirting.
“Is this illegal? That’s all I need to know.”
Ingram laughed. “Like that would matter to you. Aren’t you flattered having a guy interested in you? Wanting to fuck you.”
It was Chris’ turn at indignity. He stopped short, pulled his hand away from the boy who turned back. “Listen,” said Chris in a hissing whisper. “I’ve been on this planet a long time without you, and I really don’t need you now. I make up the rules. I’m the top to all you baby boys who only think you’re tops, who only think you’re men, who only think you know how to fuck.” He wiped spittle from his lipstick-smeared lips. “Now, if you want a place for the night, fine. If you want to fuck, we’ll see how it goes. If you expect to get cash from me, forget it.”
Squared, eye-to-eye with Ingram, Chris faced off with the slighter man. A game of chicken. It might end in violence. It might end in embarrassment. It might end in romance. No matter the outcome, he
would not be the one to blink first.
A harsh wind came off the river. “It’s cold,” said Ingram, his voice soft and seductive. “Do you live close?” The boy wrapped his arms around his body against the cold.
“Around the corner.”
Ingram turned toward home and held out his bent arm. Chris walked up and slipped his hand once again into the warmth of the bend. For a moment, he felt twenty-two. They moved as one. Now, in silence, Chris lead by slight tugs and pulls of Ingram’s elbow. The kid knew how to follow someone else’s lead. Promising. If he could follow from a tug of elbow, imagine how well he’d do in bed.
At an unmarked, steel door Chris stopped. He freed himself, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a key ring with two keys. In a swift action, he shoved one of them into the industrial deadbolt, turned it, and pulled hard on the door. It opened with a loud creak.
“Is this it?” Ingram asked.
Chris enjoyed his skepticism. He held the door for the kid, and once they were both inside, he pulled the door closed with a bang, taking the time to check that it was secure by pushing against it. The air was warmer here, but not by much. Chris pulled on the shawl, but it was as close to him as the fabric could get. He breathed deep of the mossy, earthy scent of the alley. That smell had whispered home to him for more than thirty years.
“We’re still outside!” Ingram pointed to the night sky.
“This way, my little waif.” Chris’ heels clacked on the paving stones in a self-assured rhythm. Ingram’s trainers made a thudding sound as he quickened his pace to keep up.
Down the walk, into a dark, open area, left turn, and another door. This one unlocked. Chris pulled on the door, it opened easily, and he held if for Ingram who entered and stopped. Chris hit a switch near the door and blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the brutal kitchen light.
“Wow!” As if drawn by an invisible force, Ingram moved a step more inside. Then another. “This is all yours?”
Chris always liked when newcomers took in his home. The twenty foot ceilings, ancient hardwood floors, exposed pipes, duct work, and crumbly brick walls of what was once a motor shop. Some days, there was still a hint of machine oil in the air: the idea of workmen in overalls lingered. He let the door close and moved to the counter, throwing his wrap over a chair. “Coffee? Beer? Something stronger?”
“A beer would be great. What was this place?”
“Frizer Motors.” Chris opened the fridge, handed Ingram a beer, and twisted the top off his. “They built all sorts of motors and engines, mostly for machinery. The building had been abandoned for years before I bought it. That was—”
“You own the building?”
“Yes.”
“How many other tenants?” Ingram took another step and whistled up toward the high ceiling.
“None. It’s just me.”
“What’s upstairs?” He pointed across the room to a large staircase.
“We’ll leave that for another time. Come on.” Chris led Ingram through a maze of partitions; they arrived at a walled-off area. He spun a knob and soft lighting revealed a large bed, overstuffed dressers with their contents leaking out, and walls covered with large canvases. Among the pieces were Warhol, Pollack, Lichtenstein, and Jasper Johns.
“Are those real?” Ingram pointed a finger at the paintings while turning toward Chris.
“What do you mean? Oh, the art. Of course they’re real.” Chris thought for a moment of sharing the story, how they’d arrived here, but he’d just met this, damn, what was this kid’s name. Chris knew he couldn’t.
“Shouldn’t they be in a museum?” Ingram’s demeanor softened, his shoulders drooped a bit. The ruffian from the street became a smaller, awestruck, wide-eyed kid. “I mean, isn’t that where all art ends up?”
“Not all of it.” He walked to an open arch and left the room. He had to get the makeup off his face. It felt like a lead mask by this time of the morning. He hated 4:30. Not enough night, but no bagel trucks on the street yet to signify day. Chris sat at the vanity and opened the cold cream, it’s cool velvety smell bringing him a moment of joy.
Ingram followed him. Chris watched his face as he entered the massive bathroom. “Wow!”
“You really would do well to come up with something more original to say. Your ‘Wow’ is almost as bad as the ‘Oh, my Gods’ on those makeover shows.” Chris had already removed his blouse. He took a seat at the vanity, flipped a switch, and a bright light revealed wrinkles and lines caked with makeup. He tugged off his wig and placed it over a wooden head—three similar dummy heads held different red wigs—within moments, he had a coat of cold cream on his face.
“I thought you’d be wearing…”
“What?”
“Well, women’s under…a bra.” Ingram continued his tour of the bathroom, touching each fixture and tile.
“Not with this outfit. Not on a Tuesday. I don’t pull out the big guns until the weekend.”
Ingram laughed and turned on the water in the shower. “Do you mind?”
Chris eyed him in the mirror as Ingram kicked off his shoes. “Not at all.” And, as he stripped off what remained of the night’s makeup, he watched Ingram undress, no seduction now, just the promise of a hot shower. Chris remembered those days, so long ago. They’d all looked like this kid at one point, hadn’t they? Flat and hard, mostly hairless, the way men were now. Chris missed hair on men, hairy chests, hairy stomachs, hairy balls. Lately, everyone was…what were the young people calling it these days? Manscaped?—trimmed and shaved and ripped.
Chris wasn’t any of those things, anymore. He’d never had much hair, so he never needed to shave his chest. Chris wasn’t a hard body by any stretch of the imagination, but he was still thin, except for a little paunch and those horrible love handles. His days of working out daily long gone. He tried to avoid the carbs, but he loved bourbon. Performing nightly, even to an empty showroom, did keep him in shape, more or less. Running the empty Tamburlaine caused enough stress to keep him nearly thin. He thought again about the promise: “Really, I’ll keep it running,” he’d pleaded with his dying, what was he, friend, lover, boss, an asshole, that’s what he was, but it had been a deathbed promise.
As he watched the boy shower, Chris removed his skull cap, then, hairpin by hairpin, he released his head-full of pin curls, his natural hair a sweaty mess. He ran a brush through the curls, pulling them back out to a normal length. Was that another new wrinkle in his brow?
Just before Chris joined Ingram in the shower, the water turned off and Ingram luxuriated in a large, thick bath towel. Chris held out a plush robe, which Ingram slipped into; he left it open, his dick, now slightly hard, was smaller than Chris had imagined based on the kid’s foot and hand size. He quickly removed his slacks and panties and slipped into the shower.
The weight of the day took hold. Chris barely made it through the quick shower without falling asleep standing up. He dried himself and pulled on a silky robe that extended to the floor. He ran a finger over the frayed cuff. Ingram wasn’t in the room so he went back into the bedroom. There was the boy, naked, stretched out on the bed, snoring, his cock still exposed, but retreated. Chris was pleased about that. He got what he wanted, a warm handsome body without the effort of sex. He changed out of his Victoria Secret robe and into a long nightshirt with the image of a bear hugging him.
With a small effort, he gathered the boy under the covers and pulled him close, wrapping his arms tight and protectively around Ingram, who moaned softly his acquiescence. Chris felt his own dick stiffen slightly against Ingram’s ass, but he knew he’d be asleep in a few moments. All of that would have to wait. For now, it was a last moment of enjoying the warmth of a man against him. It was knowing that he’d somehow survived another day, as he had survived so many others before. He snuggled tighter to Ingram, enjoying his rhythmic breaths and fresh-from-the-shower, I
vory-soap scent.
Two
Chris Marlowe awoke to the smell of bacon. Hungover and momentarily confused about who could be fixing breakfast, he considered that this waking moment might be a dream, but the intoxicating aroma seemed so real. Chris further considered that he might be having a stroke or a drug induced memory lapse. Both might be possibilities.
He pulled himself out of bed, wrapped his favorite silk kimono around his body, folded over the cuff with the frayed edge, and slipped into a pair of flip flops; their unmistakable sound followed him along the polished floors. For just a moment, Chris regretted giving up cigarettes. The first one of the day had always brought clarity.
Oh, it was him. Chris couldn’t conjure the young man’s name. It was something old-fashioned. Slender, naked under that open, plush robe. He remembered that from the previous night. “You really should close up your robe while frying bacon. Most don’t like to suck a cock with burn scars.”
“Bacon flavor. Don’t knock it till you try it,” he said with a wink. “Bacon and eggs? Toast and coffee? Sit. I’ve made plenty. It’s my cure for a hangover.”
“At least I’m not the only one feeling a little rough this morning.” Chris took a seat at his kitchen table and allowed the man to serve. “Have we actually met? I’m Chris Marlowe.” He held out his hand to the handsome exposed stranger in his kitchen.
“Ingram,” said the boy. “We did meet last night. It was the end of a very long day.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Chris added a spoon of sugar to the coffee mug, stirred. He watched Ingram beat eggs in a bowl, add some salt and pepper, beat some more, his cock and balls bouncing in the rhythm. It was nice having someone take care of him, even if it was only bacon and eggs.
The kid flipped the bacon, placed paper towels on a plate, beat the eggs some more. As his wrist worked the scramble, his small dick and balls once again bobbed.
Chris wanted to comment, to make fun of the guy, but he didn’t want the scene to change. “Why did you come home with me?”
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 1
