Tdye says: “Gentlemen, if you are quite finished, please allow the lad to fulfill his entertainment destiny.”
There was no ponderous assault after that comment, because Philip took this as his cue to recapture the stage. He began his slinky, seductive dance, giving peeks at his ass and, then winking with his dragon until the chatters whistled with their fingers and praise, none of it very refined. If the bishop were on tonight, he would need to wash his hands in the holy water in the morning, Jesus Marie.
Philip was keen for Tdye’s appearance over the next week, but the illusive grammarian wasn’t on every night. Finally, Philip snagged him for a One on One. It happened by surprise, because Philip thought that Tdye was probably a college student or a professor, and definitely an English-major, not that this would exonerate him from a private dose of the Flaxen One, but somehow Philip heard Ahab and Starbuck and Ishmael rumbling through his mind. That placed this chat-mariner on a higher plane than Asspounder. So while Philip was flirting with Asspounder leading his credit card to the One on One button, the flashing happy smile on his monitor buzzed. Before the monitor displayed the PRIVATE SHOW screen, a message displayed:
Monitor 1 says: “Tdye has entered One on One chat.”
The clock was running. Philip was taken by surprise. As PRIVATE SHOWSwent, it was standard on Philip’s side — a dance, a strip and a wank to full conclusion. However, Philip felt increased electricity that he hadn’t sensed with other voyeurs. Generally, the visitor would give commands and type raunchy words across the screen, but Tdye was silent. Still, Philip felt his presence as if he were in the room. In fact, Philip got more pleasure from this PRIVATE SHOW than any other he had ever given. What would Sprakie say? He needn’t guess. It would not be favorable. When finished, Philip typed:
Flaxen One says: “Tdye, are you still there? You didn’t pass out on me?”
Tdye says: “My name is Thomas.”
Flaxen One says: “You don’t need to tell me that.”
Tdye says: “I want to.”
Tdye says: “I need to.”
Philip’s breath hitched. He retrieved his underwear, preparing to return to the general chat. He eyed the clock to assure that he had made a good hundred bucks for manluv, but had a guilt pang for the enjoyment — and on someone else’s dime.
Flaxen One says: “Thomas, you say. You’re a student, right?”
Tdye says: “I write books.”
The tide engulfed Philip’s mind and he wanted to leap through the monitor and touch this invisible man, who writes books — this friend of Uncle Dean.
Flaxen One says: “I like books. Did you like me?”
Tdye says: “I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life than you in your complete unattire.”
Flaxen One says: “I work for tips.”
Tdye says: “I pay for art.”
2
Philip had been waiting for Tdye’s return. Now, as he sat at the edge of boredom with the attentions of Asspounder and Papuppy on the keyboard, the chat queue lit up:
Tdye has entered the chat room.
Philip forgot where he was. The room disappeared. He only saw that Tdye had entered the premises and the rest of the trolls became background noise.
Asspounder says: “You look so sexy tonight, mon Flaxen!”
Flaxen One says: “Evening, Tdye.”
Tdye says: “How are you tonight, my angel?”
Asspounder says: “Flaxen, are you ignoring me? You look so sexy.”
Flaxen One says: “Sorry, Asspounder. Thanks.”
Tdye says: “Philip, can we talk?”
He called me Philip. “Can we talk? Yes. Yes. I want to talk to you.” Philip knew that Asspounder’s mouse was hovering over theOne on One button. I need to move this along fast.
Flaxen One says: “Tdye, we can talk.”
Tdye says: “Private chat.”
Flaxen One says: “Yes, now.”
Tdye says: “If I can locate the button, I shall be there.”
Flaxen One says: “You found it before. Top right. Top right.”
Asspounder says: “I’ll see you first.”
“C’mon, Tdye. Press it. Press it. Press . . .”
The PRIVATE SHOW screen popped up. Philip focused on the monitor line. If Asspounder gets here first, I swear I’ll turn the fucking machine off.
“C’mon.”
Monitor 1 says: “Tdye has entered One on One chat.”
“Yes.”
Flaxen One says: “Thomas. You’re in.”
Tdye says: “I thought he would beat me to the button.”
Flaxen One says: “So did I, but you’re here now.”
Tdye says: “And I could spread you on bread, so lovely you look tonight.”
Flaxen One says: “Always the writer.”
Tdye says: “Words fail me.”
“Oh, my fluttering heart,” Philip said to the camera, but of course, it was mute and not communicated, unless Mr. Thomas Dye read lips.
Flaxen One says: “You better start commanding me or this will cost you a fortune.”
Odd thought as Philip had never discouraged long One on Ones — the Master Card or Visa ca-chinking away.
Tdye says: “No discounts?”
Flaxen One says: “Tempting.”
Tdye says: “ I just want to talk.”
Flaxen One says: “Talk or not, I’m getting naked for you.”
Philip yanked his shirt over his head, and then quickly wiggled out of his jeans. The jock strap was off in a flash. It wasn’t the kind of strip he performed for the paying public. In fact, it wasn’t any kind of strip at all. It was more the anxious shuck one does on a humid day on the beach, when it was high time to get to sea. To give this gesture some flare, Philip twirled his jock strap over his head like a New Year’s Eve party favor, and then plopped back down in front of the monitor. Suddenly, Philip grinned. A thought rushed him and he could hardly contain it.
Flaxen One says: “I want you to call me.”
Tdye says: “How is that managed?”
Flaxen One says: “Bottom left hand side of the screen. Phone tag. See it?”
Tdye says: “How clever. How . . .”
The screen flashed and the phone rang. Philip’s hand went for the receiver. The door opened. Kurt popped his head in giving the Flaxen One a thumbs-up. Perhaps the Porn Nazi would be rethinking his generous offer of not sharing in zie tipz. He disappeared as fast as he appeared.
“Hello,” Philip gasped. “Thomas?”
“Well,” said the caller, “there is an angel’s voice to match the body Adonis.”
“Say what? You’ll make me blush.” He stared into the monitor. “And you’ll be able to see it. Wait. I have an idea.” He pressed the Ctrl-F9 key and the screen turned a faded shade of green. “Since we’re just talking, I’ll go on a break. You can still see me, but all the others can’t. And . . . the meter’s not running.”
“Can you do that?” Thomas asked. “Will you court trouble? I do not want to cause a problem.”
“No problem.” He winked into the monitor — a long, deliberate wink. “I’m the star attraction. Lose me and they might as well close the place down.” He had a mental whiff of the Porn Nazi — Der straße hast mit kinder gefüllen. “It’ll be okay.”
“I am greatly honored,” Thomas said.
“Well, not so fast. I can’t be on like this forever. The meter’s not running, but my clock’s still ticking. So answer me this.”
“Shoot!”
“You’ve seen pretty much every part of me.”
“And then some.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think I may have glimpsed your soul.”
“How’s that?”
“I think somewhere between your backside and your pole polishing, I saw a twinkle in your eye. Now I cannot subscribe that that was your soul, but it may have been a glimpse of something beyond the flesh.”
Philip laughed. It was like listening
to his book. Had he strolled off the beach and onto the Nantucket wharves? He glanced at his watch, and thought he might take a long, long break — one that challenged the Porn Nazi’s time clock and Sprakie’s gloom and doom warnings about the losers in the dark.
“Well, maybe you did see something other than my art and ass. Whatever it was, did you like it?”
“I am here, am I not?”
“Am I not?” Philip laughed. “I love the way you speak, Professor.”
“Writer. In fact, an author.”
“What have you written?”
“What haven’t I written?”
“I read, you know. I’ve never seen your name on a book cover.”
“You do not know my name.”
“Thomas . . .” Philip laughed. He found himself trying to match the intellectual weight of this conversation. He was losing.
The caller filled in some blanks: “Thomas Mann. Thomas Wolfe.”
“Thomas’ English Muffins.”
Laughter now from the distant end. “Thomas Dye. I would not be insulted if you had never heard of anything that I have scrawled.”
Philip hadn’t, but felt to admit it would be an insult. Here he was on the phone with an honest-to-god published author. So maneuvering seemed in order.
“I read the good stuff.”
“Meaning my books are in the shanties?”
Philip didn’t follow this, but he knew umbrage when he heard it. “No, I mean, I’m reading a great book now.” He swallowed, and then smiled, recalling that Thomas Dye, author of unknown works, could still see his every inflection. “Moby Dick.”
“How appropriate,” Thomas said.
“Bitch!” Philip stood and waggled his own Moby, raising an approving laugh from the mysterious author. “I haven’t finished it, but I know how it ends. I couldn’t wait, so I rented the DVD. It was really . . . really . . .”
“Wet?”
“Shut up.” Philip flipped him the finger, and then punctuated it with a laugh and a wink. “No. Compelling.” Now that was a word he didn’t use every day, yessiree Bob. “The book is better, but when our mutual friend first gave it to me, I said to myself, who the fuck could get through such big motherfucker.“
Thomas roared.
“Why are you laughing?” Philip asked, and then pouted. “You’re not one of these snobby assholes who find me amusing because I’m trying to explore a . . . a brave new world.”
“Brave New World?” Thomas said, his voice golden, exuding great satisfaction in the thought. “No. I have just never heard Moby Dick referred to as a Mother-fucker.”
“Well, that’s okay then. Let me tell you something. You’ll understand, I’m sure. My friend Sprakie doesn’t, but what does he know?”
“What do most people know about the Great White Whale.”
Philip was stunned. It was wonderful to hear the h’s scraped in Thomas’ voice, The Great ‘Hwhite ‘Hwhale. He saw a flashing on the corner of the monitor. It was the Porn Nazi.
Monitor 1 says: “The Flaxen One’s break is almost over. Meanwhile visit Max and Guy Wickie the Wicked Wiggler.”
Let them all go. Kurt is probably counting Tdye’s gold and will let me sail away here.
“You were saying,” Thomas said. “I interrupted you. I do that and I am sorry for it. Let me apologize, but I will never apologize for it again, because it will happen many times, I am sure.”
Philip smiled. Many times. That wasn’t soft commitment, was it?
“Since I’ve been reading Moby Dick, it’s transformed me. The words are like . . . paintings — much better than the DVD.”
“You know that Melville was gay?”
Philip was silent.
“You know Melville?” Thomas asked. “The motherfucker who wrote the book.”
“Are you making fun of me? Of course, I know who Melville is.”
“Was, and I am not making fun of you. I am enjoying the exuberance of your youth. It is infectious.”
“That’s nice,” Philip said, breaking into his broadest smile, which released that glimpse into his soul — a much finer display than his sultry strip tease.
“Have you ever seen a whale?” Thomas asked.
“Like in the flesh?”
“No. Like in an aquarium?”
“In books only,” Philip said. “Have you?”
“Yes. At sea.”
“That’s wonderful. I would love to see that. Where can you do that?”
“At Sea!” Thomas said, giggling. “Actually, at Provincetown. They have whale-watching excursions.”
“At P’Town. I’ve never been. I’d love to go. They say the boyz are hot there; and it’s wonderfully gay.”
“And now another reason. Plus, they have some great new plays performed there. Have you been to the theater?”
“Drags and such,” Philip said. He had been to the big Drag-queen show at Splash and he even traveled to New Hope for Santa Saturday and the Leather Daddy Auction.
“Ah! I would like to be with you when you saw your first live theatrical performance.”
“You would?”
“I would!” Thomas said. “But you know, you never asked me the question you wanted to ask me and that was ten breaks ago — almost a full watch from the yardarm.”
Yardarm. Yes, he knew that term now. He sighed. “Well, here goes nothing.” He was about to ask the spooky question, the one that only newbies asked. “How old are you?”
“Forty-eight.”
“That’s not that old,” Philip blurted.
“Who said it was?”
“No one.” Well, he had, in all but the word.
“I mean, I have friends who are still alive at fifty-four,” Thomas countered.
“Oh I didn’t mean . . .”
“Not to worry. I know you are a tad younger than me.”
“A tad? When you were my age, I wasn’t even born yet.”
“Now it’s my turn. Bitch!”
“And are you like old and wrinkly; walk with a gimp and have a hunchback?”
“Actually,” Thomas said, “I am wheel chair bound and lost a testicle in Vietnam.”
Philip flinched, then remembered he was still on display. “I’m sorry.”
Thomas roared.
“You bitch!” Philip said. “How could I know?”
“Let’s not make assumptions,” Thomas said. “If you want to know what I look like, I could email you a photo — a jpeg. I am quite computer literate for an old fart. Or . . .”
“That would be nice. Perhaps, a naked one. You could shine up your wheelchair. But, we could like . . .”
“Like what?”
“Meet somewhere.”
Sprakie was shouting in his head now. Serial killer.
“That would be fine with me. You won’t mind my seeing-eye dog?”
“Cut it out. The joke’s stale.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to get back to work”
“Where?”
“Here, or I’ll lose this job.”
“But you are the main attraction.” Giggle. “I meant, where shall we meet?”
“Do you know where The Imperial Coffee Mug is in the East Village?”
“Know it well. What day?”
Philip struggled with his mental calendar, which lately was so empty it was full. “Tonight?” he said.
“Great!”
“I’m off at eleven.”
“Come as you are,” Thomas said. “I will see you then.”
“See you then.”
“Yes, my angel.”
Click.
Philip closed his eyes. The waves splashed on the jetties and he could see the distant horizon. The night would drag on until closing. He knew it. What will Sprakie think? Nantucket dissipated at the thought. “I’d better invite him along, just in case.” Serial killer. He wondered if the cell phone was fully charged yet. Time for that later.
Ctrl-F9. Back in. Break over.
Chapter Four
Coffee Ce
remonial
1
The early spring chill clung to the evening soul of the East Village, much like a cold harbor waiting for its crew to ring the night bell and slurry out to sea. Never slumbering, the crisscrossed lanes and by-ways sang the song of the alive and the free, of the adrift and the wandering. These were the carols awake and acceptable, no map needed to understand the tidal pull; no liturgy wanted to keep us holy and safe from shoals. Here unfurled art and tangents, fostering fireworks and introspection in the same flare — a place in the sun at midnight, where no clock holds our course to the hour, the month or the year. Only the barkeeps and drag queens parry regulation, keeping such lore under lock and key — hymnals emblematic to sailors holding hands in their hammocks strung by night, never slumbering to the buzz-saw snoring liturgy held fast within the barkeep’s ring.
Down Christopher Street, lovers strolled, hand in hand, fingers entwined — men with men — womyn with womyn; and here and there, the opposite sex found their Republican granted freedom and followed their gay sister’s example. Drag queens ruled sidewalks like karaoke boxes. Sassy and fiery, they mustered the citizenry to the challenge. Leathermen and bears swaggered with pudding sweetness within the dark clubs and sweat pools. The accountant fell swiftly into his Shirley Temple watching gym-bunnies in jockstraps and not much more. Twinks hopped from corner to corner seeking quick fun and quick cash. The street teamed with strollers, dog walkers, cruisers, and general trash disguised as fine dessert. Being Nelly was fine. Being butch was grand. Everything pierced. Everything spiked. The vortex of the maelstrom and nothing sleeping. Sleeping was for the suburbs, not for Christopher Street.
Turning Idolater Page 4
