3
“Jesus Marie,” said the voice inside the apartment.
The hallway was dimly lit. Philip had been here once before, but he hadn’t remembered it as well as he should have. He certainly did not recall the pungent smell of cooking blended with the piss in the stairwell. He also hadn’t recalled the strange sense that he was being watched through the neighbor’s peephole.
“Who’s there?” came a scratchy, almost feminine voice. “Jesus Marie, this better be good.”
“Robert,” Philip gasped, positioning his face in the peephole’s sightline. “It’s me. Philip. Philip Flaxen.”
“Who the fuck’s Philip Flaxen?” grumbled the voice, then: “Oh, I remember. Oooh. Nice ass.” Philip heard the door unlatch, all three locks. Suddenly, Robert Sprague, clad in a silk Japanese kimono, his hair in a terry cloth turban, opened the door.
“Come on in,” he said. “Jesus Marie, you’re all wet.”
“You do remember me?” Philip asked.
“I remember your dick.” He closed the door, and then examined the dripping wet sprite that he now sheltered. “What the fuck’s the matter? You look like shit.”
“Robert . . .” The taps flowed again, Philip a trembling mess.
“Call me Sprakie. I hate that other name.”
“Sprakie,” Philip garbled. “Sprakie, what am I going to do? My father threw me out of the house and told me . . .”
“Out. You mean he didn’t know?” Philip shook his head and shrugged, puzzled by such assumptions. “Parents always know.” Sprakie unwrapped his turban, and then began to dry Philip’s hair. “They’re usually in permanent denial, until they hear those words.” He performed a small pirouette, and then sang: “I’m Gay”. He dried Philip’s arms. “Did you fall in the river?”
“The weather . . .”
“Don’t mind me. Of course, you’ve been out roaming the streets and that’s a horrible prospect. Parents can be so cruel. Even the liberal ones are in shock when you come out to them. Like they didn’t know. It’s always; build the new highway through someone else’s backyard, but not ours.”
“They were violent. At least my Dad was. My mom . . . she cried. My Dad called me . . .” Philip poured his head into the terry cloth.
“Calm down,” Sprakie said. “He called you a faggot. I’m sure you’ve been called that before. Sticks and stones. I know it sounds awful when a parent says it, but remember . . . oh shit. I’m on the clock.”
“On the clock?” Philip murmured.
“I have something baking in the next room.”
“Baking?”
“Baking. Panting. Sighing for my ass,” Sprakie said. “A trick!”
“Oh, I’ll leave.”
“No, you sit here, dearie. I’ll get rid of him.”
Sprakie marched into the bedroom. His voice trumpeted like an archangel. Times up. You were very fine, as usual. Leave the cash on the nightstand as you leave — but leave you must.
There was some resistance, and then a shuffling sound. Philip expected some shouting and thought to leave. He had had enough shouting for the evening. However, the trick rushed past, semi-dressed and hopping mad, but Sprakie ushered him through the door and applied the three locks — probably with good reason. He turned to Philip.
“He’ll be all right. He’s repeat trade. If he wants another ride down Mount Morgan, he’d best look to his manners.”
“You’re a . . . I mean . . .”
“A hustler. Not a prostitute. I don’t go out for pizza. I have it delivered. Now, enough about me. I suppose you have no cash or any way to make some. That’s the general rule when you’re tossed out on your ass in the middle of a raging storm.”
Philip went into his pocket and presented the wallet, but only a glimpse of the content before stowing it away. “It’s not much,” he said. “My mom . . .”
“Oh, don’t start crying again. You can weep all you want on your own time, but on mine, you must stiffen up and fly right. Now, what can you do for a living?”
“I live at home,” Philip said.
“Not any more you don’t.” Sprakie approached this youngster who sobbed on his couch. He stroked the soft cheek with the back of his hand, and then smiled. “With that baby face and body you certainly could get work. Dancing even.”
Philip swallowed hard. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the game here.
“I don’t know whether I could just . . . do anyone.”
“I think you could,” Sprakie said. “I don’t mean everyone, but you have the freedom of choice when you hustle.”
“I don’t think that’s who I am.”
“Listen, lambikins, you may have been my customer, but no matter how much you are, you can always be more.” He kissed Philip’s forehead. “You’re so sweet. Where did I pick you up?”
“At the Monster,” Philip said.
“And we came here?” He hit his head with his palm. “Duh. We must have. How else would you have known to come here? But that’s a good question. Why did you come knocking at my door?”
“I liked you. Other men, you know my first few, were rough. You were gentle and funny and made me laugh. I knew . . .”
“You knew I was a soft touch and that I have an apartment.” Sprakie tapped Philip’s head. “Smart thinking. I like that.”
“Well, when the rain stops, I can go.”
“No, no. Get out of those wet things.” Philip shucked his jacket and began to strip. Sprakie smiled. “For every boy, there’s a toy. In the scheme of things, you can either hunt one down, or lasso the herd — fast and disposable. And while they pass through, dearie, you make them pay.”
“And me? Will I need to pay?”
Sprakie pouted. “Well nothing’s free. But I think you’re a keeper.” He patted Philip’s bare ass. “You can stay here until you find something better. And since you already know the way to my bedroom, I’ll meet you there after I wash up the mud.”
4
“And you’re with him still,” Thomas said.
“I slept with him that night,” Philip said. “We actually slept. We’re sisters. And I rent my little cubby from him.”
Thomas hugged him. Rocked him.
“My brave little soldier. The world has been harsh to you and still you show it your best face.”
Philip turned, the tears streaking down his cheeks. “Not always,” he whimpered.
Thomas tried to dry the tears, but they would not be assuaged. He hugged him again. He rocked him again, like a child in want of something more than deep love in the dark — a lost child in want of his mother.
Chapter Nine
Safe Harbor
1
The rising sunlight flooded the bedroom. Neither man had slept, the journey taken keeping them far from the shores of slumber. Still, the weariness nipped at the margins, an urge to nap creeping on cat paws. Thomas disengaged. He lumbered to his feet and stretched, his well-toned body rippling in the light that tumbled through the vertical blinds.
“How does Belgian waffles sound?” he crowed. “With strawberries and cream.”
Philip was snagged back from drowsiness. He stretched, his feet as pointy as a prima ballerina’s.
“And some hot coffee,” Philip purred.
“I thought you never touched the stuff.”
Philip sat up. “I lied. I should write novels.”
Thomas gazed down at the silk-skinned angel that had graced his bed. “You’re a little devil, you know.”
“I thought I was your angel.”
“Same thing.” Thomas left for the kitchen, not even bothering to don his robe. “Same thing.”
Philip felt strange in this bed. He had been in strangers’ beds before. Two years had notched his belt with a score of nifty conquests. However, this didn’t feel like a morning after. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep and the deep drift in the conversation. He hadn’t visited these events for some time — difficult to ponder and never spoken . . . until now. He wasn’t sure
if it was right to dump so heavy a cargo on the attentive Mr. Dye, but it felt good to do it. In fact, Philip sensed a buoyancy he never had known. This bed was strange, but it was the best port in which his vessel weighed anchor. A safe haven. Or was it the man who was his harbor. Philip sat up. The sun was good. He played with the light streams, his long tapered fingers stirring the motes into a bolero.
Philip stood, and then followed Thomas’ path through the door. He honored the precedent and remained unclad. The morning chill braced his skin and prickled his nipples. The rug kissed his toes as he crossed into the living room with its airy charm and its eclectic furnishings. Chippendale. He heard Thomas whistling in the kitchen, clattering bowls and scraping plates. Philip spied his backpack resting on a hassock and he immediately prodded around inside, assuring that the book was still secure in its harbor.
Books. The shelves were high and deep and packed tight with bindings. Philip brushed his fingers across them. He recognized a few like Tom Sawyer and Oliver Twist. Then he came to a copy of the book. It was much like his own — the binding a crispy tan and embossed. He wrenched it from the shelf, opening to the first page. Unlike his, this one had a slight stain under the 1851 date that sailed low on the margins.
“Careful with that,” Thomas said as he crossed from the kitchen. He was whipping the batter in a silvery bowl. “That is a first edition. Worth a mint.”
Philip turned, the surprise on his face apparent. “How much?”
“Priceless, but at auction it would fetch between twenty to fifty thousand.”
“Twenty to fifty thousand?” Philip slipped the book back into its place, and then reached for his backpack. “I’m rich then,” he said. He popped out his own copy of the book.
Thomas set the bowl down and wiped his hands on the apron that covered his nakedness. “Where did you get that?”
“That man,” Philip said. “The old man.”
“Uncle Dean?” Thomas opened Philip’s copy. “It is even finer than mine.”
“Where did you get yours?”
Thomas laughed. “That old coot. I wonder if he’s cornered the market on these.”
“You got yours from him too?”
Thomas sat on the hassock and poured over the pages. “Yes. Dean Cardoza is sitting on a gold mine of incunabula.”
“Ink-what?”
“Rare books. The fact that you have a first edition also lessens the value of both copies, but not by much. You must have been spectacular for him to give you such a gift.”
“All I did was smile and strip.”
“I bet.”
Philip sidled up to him. “Shouldn’t you keep such books in a vault instead of on the shelf?”
“Or in a backpack?”
“I didn’t know. So I could sell this and retire.”
“You could, but you would be the poorer by the loss of it.” Thomas flipped through the pages. “Just listen to how much richer you are.”
He read:
“Upon waking the next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost thought I had been his wife. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolater.”
“What does that mean — turn idolater?”
“It means that Ishmael is willing to compromise his beliefs for Queequeg’s company.” Thomas ran his hand through Philip’s hair. “A worthwhile endeavor.”
“I don’t know whether you’re just a sweet man or a sweet talker.”
“Probably a little bit of both. I like you a lot.”
“Sex was good, eh?” Philip quipped.
“Sex was magnifique, but . . .” Thomas set the first edition back in the pack. “It scared me a little.”
“Scared you? I know you’re not a virgin, especially after what you told me, and . . .”
“Especially at my age,” Thomas said. “I know.”
“So, we’re back to that.”
“Well, despite my predilection to ignore the issue, I cannot.” Thomas sighed and then returned to mixing the batter. “I am much older than you. Yet, you make me feel young, and I was never young even when I was young. When we got physical, I was reminded of my morning aches, my shriveled balls and that I cannot go a long time like . . .”
“Like who?” Philip touched Thomas’ hand staying the batter. “Don’t believe all that you hear or read. You’ve watched too many porn flicks. They show every dude with a big shlong, and they can all go for thirty minutes, and then again and again. Guess what? I’m still looking for Mr. Thirty minutes.”
“So, you are saying that I am okay?”
“I’m saying that you’re great. You have the passion and experience.”
“I thought you were the one with all the experience,” Thomas said.
“No, I’m the one who’s had the variety pack.”
“Well, I guess age makes us children once again. That would make you older than me . . .”
“In dog years perhaps,” Philip said. Thomas stirred again, but Philip forced him to pause. “Listen, I have no problem with your age, Mr. Not-Quite-Thirty-Minutes. In fact, your age makes you more . . .”
“Settled?”
“Easy on my soul, and on my bones and on my lips.”
They kissed.
2
“I’m hungry,” Philip said. “Where’s the pancakes.”
“Belgian Waffles.”
“Yeah, let’s get them working. And where do you keep your books? You know, the one’s you wrote?”
Thomas pointed through the hallway. “In my office. There is a bookcase in there, a little vanity shelf just below my awards.”
“Awards. I’m impressed. Remind me to give you a tip when I sell that first edition.”
Thomas headed for the kitchen, his ass sticking out between the apron ties.
The office was well used and messy — books and papers spread on every available surface. The desk had four in-boxes and a large out-box, all crammed with manuscript pages spilling in a haphazard way. Philip was impressed by the industry. There were two computers — a tower beneath the desk and a laptop snapped open, but switched off. There were also newspaper clippings, reference books dog-eared and clipped, and a trashcan filled to the brim. By the window was a credenza and inside, behind glass, were shelves with neat rows of books sporting colorful spines.
Philip cocked his head and shaded his own reflection from the glass, trying to read the titles. He didn’t recognize a single title, but they sang to him: Vagrant Hollow, Fire in the Loins, Pivotal Attractions, Callous Cufflinks, The Lady Wore Black, Suede Intrusions, Tapioca Times, The Yellow Bowling Shirt, Triple Sec on the Rocks, Mr. Barberry’s Predilection, and The Beaverbrook Murders. “Wow,” Philip said. That was only the top shelf. There were three others below. Mr. Thomas Dye was indeed prolific outside the bedroom.
Philip tried to pry the credenza door open, but it was locked. He would need to ask Thomas for a copy of his best work. He moved to the desk where the computer’s monitor flashed the screensaver — the ubiquitous bouncing Microsoft logo. Then something caught Philip’s eye. A newspaper clipping. A face. A familiar face.
“Shit,” he said. “That’s Jemmy.”
He cocked his head again trying to read the article. It wasn’t front-page stuff, but described the bashing of a young man behind a local Village gay bar. A manila folder covered part of the article. He reached down to move it.
“I have only one rule,” Thomas said, suddenly at the door.
Philip jumped. “Shit, you scared me.”
“It is a simple rule. I do not let anyone read my current work until it is finished.”
“Oh,” Philip said. “I wasn’t snooping. I just recognized the face in the newspaper. He worked with me.”
“Did he now?” Thomas came around the desk. He gathered the f
older up, and then the clipping, slipping it inside the folder. “I would be happy to discuss my interest in the event, but again, it would violate my rule about disclosing a work in progress.”
Philip shrugged. “Sorry.”
“You did nothing wrong. I should have warned you before you came in here.”
“Is it a tradition or a superstition?”
Thomas smiled and filed the folder under the desk blotter. “Something like that. Now, come. The waffles are served.” He smiled, his eyes sweeping the full breadth of Philip’s torso. “You had better put on pants. I would hate for you to spill something on that perfect body.”
Philip giggled. “I’ve done food sex, you know. With enough syrup we could have a good old sweet time.”
“You are a little devil.”
Philip wiggled past him. “These waffles better be good, but I warn you. I need to eat and run.”
Thomas pouted. “Why?”
“I can’t stay here forever.”
“Why not?”
Philip gave Thomas a kiss. “Forever’s a long time. What would Sprakie say?”
“Fuck Sprakie.”
“I have, and that’s the first time I’ve heard you cuss.”
Thomas followed Philip into the living room. “I mean it. You can stay here. This is a better place to be sure.”
“To be sure,” Philip said. “But Tee, I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a houseboy.”
“And I am not a Sugar Daddy, especially to someone who totes a first edition Moby Dick. I am sure you do not have a line of credit, but you can have one here. And although I would feel honored to have you inhabit my bed, you can have one of the guestrooms. A life of your own.”
Turning Idolater Page 9
