by Noah Harris
“Let’s get out of here before we get in trouble,” Richard mumbled.
“Now you’re talking,” Tyrone said. “Hey, crackers! That’s the second time I saved your honkey asses and you don’t deserve it any more than the first time. Stay quiet or next time I’m on his side.”
As Richard and Tyrone pulled away, he gave them one more glance. They looked subdued.
“You gotta control that temper, Country. It don’t come out much but when it does, god damn!”
“Sorry it’s just…everything.”
“Save it for all the shit waiting for us back in New York.”
Richard put a hand over his eyes. “Aw, crap. With all the shit happening the past few days I’d almost forgotten about that.”
They pulled onto the highway and merged with the traffic headed east.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go back,” Richard said.
“Not go back? What, and just let Anton and the rest of those cats run around doing whatever they want? They’ll find someone else like you sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” Richard said with a bitter sigh. “I guess we can’t really run from this.”
They made good time that day. Richard drove relentlessly, only stopping for breaks when they needed gas or when Tyrone insisted on stopping for lunch. By the time they checked into a motel late that night, Richard’s eyes were bloodshot and he could barely keep them open.
“You’re a mess, Country. Sorry I can’t help with the driving. My family never owned a car so I never got the chance to learn.”
“That’s all right,” Richard said, flopping down on one of the beds. “Driving keeps my mind off all the bullshit.”
“Oh, hey! This bed’s got Magic Fingers.” Tyrone pulled out a quarter and put it into the box next to the bed. He lay down beside Richard and the bed began to vibrate.
“Mmm, always loved the Magic Fingers,” Tyrone said.
The vibrating bed relaxed Richard’s muscles. He felt so relieved to be away from Missouri, but at the same time worried about what awaited him back in New York.
He forgot all about that as Tyrone started touching him with magic fingers of his own. Tyrone’s hand ran down his chest, then he lightly ran his fingertip up the side of Richard’s neck and traced the hairline around his ear. After a minute he got up and straddled Richard, working on his chest and flanks with both hands.
“While the bed gives you a back rub, I’ll give you a front rub,” Tyrone said.
“You’re so great. Thanks for coming with me.”
“It was an eye opener, I must say.”
“I want to see where you’re from.”
“Chillicothe is better than the South Bronx, Country, even with all the crackers.”
“Still, I want to see it. I only see you in the gay world, my world. I want to see you in yours. I’d like to meet your mother too. I’ve talked to her a bunch of times on the phone. She sounds nice.”
“All right, but we go in the daytime and leave before dark, you dig? Just like you picked me up before the sun set in Chillicothe. I’ve heard about those sundown towns.”
“Chillicothe used to have one of those signs back in the Thirties. My grandfather told me.”
“‘Nigger, don’t let the sun set on you in Chillicothe.’”
“Yeah, something like that,” Richard replied, embarrassed. He still hadn’t told him about the lynching on the bridge, and probably never would.
Tyrone leaned down and planted a kiss on his lips. “Well the sun has gone down, and I’m right on top of the most beautiful bit of Chillicothe there is.”
Richard ran his hands up Tyrone’s sides and cradled his face. “And I got a beautiful piece of the Bronx.”
They began to undress, slowly, calmly, taking off each piece of each other’s clothing with no fear and no haste. In the last few days they had only enjoyed a few hurried kisses and caresses, all the time looking over their shoulder and straining their ears for any sign they might get interrupted.
Now they had no fear.
Once they were completely nude, they lay on their sides in a tight embrace, mouths locked, hands roving, cocks rubbing against one another. Tyrone was so tender, so reassuring, that for a time Richard forgot all about the tensions of the past few days or the dangers of the coming week. He melted into the affection of the only man to whom he had ever shown this kind of affection. He’d had sex with so many men, both human and demon, but Tyrone remained the only one he had ever made love to.
After a time they switched to a sixty-nine, relishing the taste of each other’s sex in their mouths. Richard came first, shooting out the last of his tensions. Before Tyrone came, he pulled away, retrieved a jar of Crisco from his bag, and started lubing up.
Richard flipped over and put a pillow below his crotch to raise his ass. He saw a quarter sitting on the bedside table and put it in the Magic Fingers box.
As the bed began to vibrate, Tyrone’s warm weight covered his back. Richard spread his legs and was rewarded with his lover’s slick hardness pushing between his cheeks.
Richard opened up eagerly to him. He had thought that after all the little insults Tyrone had endured during his stay in Missouri that he’d want to pound a white ass, but his lover eased himself in and worked up a steady, gentle rhythm. The bed massaged Richard’s front—vibrating the pillow to send delicious sensations through his dick, still sensitive from its recent orgasm—and Tyrone massaged his insides.
He gave Richard a backrub while he rode him. Between the tickling of his cock, the vibrations running through his body, the steady opening up of his inside, and those warm hands kneading his muscles, Richard got transported to a higher realm of being. It felt similar to and yet so utterly different from his couplings with the Hooded One. This was easy while the other was tense, this one soothing while the other was overwhelming. This was love, and the other was lust.
At least mostly lust, Richard reminded himself.
He put that inconvenient thought out of his mind and gave himself up to the sensation.
The next day Richard drove the truck so hard they reached New York City in the evening. As they passed over the George Washington Bridge, hot air blowing through the open window, Tyrone stretched and said, “I don’t know about you, Country, but I need a beer.”
“Let’s go to The Hole in One.”
“Perfect plan, my man,” Tyrone replied, slapping him five.
A couple of hours later they arrived at their favorite bar. Like most gay bars in the city, The Hole in One kept a low profile. Besides a modest sign, on a typical night there was nothing else to show that it was a place of business. The brick facade had no windows, only a blank metal door. Tonight, however, the door stood open. Disco music throbbed from inside. Luke, the burly owner, stood by the door.
“Hey, ebony and ivory are back in town,” he said with a warm smile. “How was Missouri?”
“You knew about that?” Richard asked, surprised.
“Everybody knows about that. People have been taking bets on whether you’d make it back in one piece. I just lost ten bucks.”
“I’d apologize but I won’t,” Tyrone said with a grin.
“Why is the door open?” Richard asked.
“Air conditioner is busted,” Luke said with a shrug. “Plus I want to keep an eye on the street. Been some trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Martin got gay bashed the other night, just outside, and guys have been coming around every night and throwing bottles at the door or pissing on it.”
Richard’s stomach turned. Martin was a small guy, a microbiology student at New York University. Academic and nerdy, he was one of those effeminate men who couldn’t pass for straight. He would have been an easy target. Luke inclined his head toward the door, his gold hoop earring glinting in the light.
“Adam and Steve are inside. Luckily Georgios was already drunk when they brought him along this time, so instead of calling everyone faggots he disappeared into the dark room an
d no one has seen him since. Where did you find that guy? He’s a total asshole and a total slut at the same time. My customers don’t know what to make of him.”
“Um, sorry.”
Richard and Tyrone slunk into the bar. Steve spotted them the instant they came through the door.
“There he is! Dick Miller, the housebreaker!” Steve minced up to them in a pink velour tracksuit and gave Richard a slap across the face, light enough not to hurt and hard enough to show that he really was angry. “You gallivant off with your Nubian Adonis to Bumblyfuck Missouri and leave me to deal with a queer homophobic Greek god! I haven’t had a chance to sleep with my husband since you left. Even worse, he drank all the liquor in the house.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.”
“You simply must buy me a drink, the both of you. That makes two drinks. My nerves are shattered,” Steve put the back of his hand against his brow. “You don’t know what I have endured.”
They pushed through the crowd, greeting those they knew.
“Welcome back guys!”
“You made it!”
“It was three to one odds that neither of you would make it to the state line.”
“We figured we would have to pass the hat for bail money!”
Tyrone laughed. “Aw, it wasn’t so bad. I didn’t see a single white hood, and I caught a catfish this big!” He put his hands out twice the length of the catfish he had actually caught. Richard smiled. Tyrone had grasped the concept of the big fish story, a treasured part of every fisherman’s conversation.
“Drinks!” Steve said, tapping his finger on the counter. “Georgios is a beast.”
“I’m sorry, I know he’s a bit of a handful.”
“Handful? He fucked me silly and then made me sweep the floor naked while he made the most scrumptious Greek meal. It felt ever so domestic.”
“He wants to open a restaurant.”
“And he should. Or a one-man male brothel. He’s got the energy for it. He’s probably sucking my husband dry as we speak. Prefers him over me, the bitch.”
“Hello, Richard,” a cultivated voice said behind him.
Richard turned to see Laszlo, an Eastern European occultist and astrologer who had helped him out previously. He was in his fifties, with the paunch of a beer-drinking man and greying hair that had begun to recede. He wore black dress pants, a grey button-down shirt, and a thin, black tie. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses his features were pensive, but open. To Richard he looked like an eccentric but harmless university professor.
“Laszlo! What are you doing here?” Richard said in surprise. The occultist was straight, although not narrow in his thinking. They shook hands.
“Adam and Steve asked me to come along tonight to consult with them on the current situation,” he said in a low voice. He moved a little away from the crowd. Richard and Tyrone followed.
“So they brought you to a gay bar?” Tyrone said. “That sounds like Steve’s idea.”
“It was. I think he likes the idea of bringing a straight man to this place. I must say I’ve never been to an establishment such as this one. It’s most educational. After a few explanations to various suitors I’ve been accepted for what I am.”
“That’s all we want too,” Richard said.
“And you deserve it. Souls are good or evil depending on their deeds, not their loves.”
Richard blinked. He had never heard a straight man say that before. Laszlo went up in his estimation.
“Right on! You gonna turn gay on us?” Tyrone asked.
Laszlo smiled and bowed, actually bowed. Richard had never seen anyone bow except in movies. “I think not. I’ve spent the evening in the front room, not that dark area in back where you gentlemen have your assignations.”
“You might want to get out before midnight,” Richard told him. “Once everyone gets liquored up the sex spills out of the dark room into all parts of this place. I’ve even seen guys get fucked on the pool table.”
“Hmm, I have noted that people drink considerably more here than in mainstream taverns. Illegal drugs are also much in evidence. Is this because so many homosexuals are not entirely comfortable with themselves and require psychological assistance to bring forth the courage to act on their desires?”
The question bore no trace of judgment. It came out as a scientific query, as if Laszlo were asking about the physiology of a sparrow, or the life cycle of a plant. Richard thought for a second before answering.
“When you’ve been told all your life that what you want is wrong, something sick and twisted, it takes time to get over that.”
“I suppose there’s a great deal of internalized anger and shame,” Laszlo said, again with no judgment.
“Um, yeah. Anyway, about our demon problem?”
“Yes, there’s been a tremendously interesting new development.”
Just then, Georgios staggered out of the dark room wearing only a t-shirt. His half-flaccid cock dribbled cum as he came up to Richard and Tyrone.
“Ah! My favorite faggots. You come back to your Greek god, eh?”
He grabbed them, one with each arm, and pulled them close.
“Good to see you again, Georgios,” Richard said. As he pulled away, he noticed the Greek had left a smear of fluid on his pant leg.
“I teach these girl men how real man fuck.” His eyes were bloodshot and half closed. Richard figured he was stoned, and from the smell of his breath he was drunk too.
Steve came up to them. “Have you seen Adam?”
“I fuck him too hard. He in back room sleeping I think. Quiet now, wife with dick, real men speak here.” He turned back to Richard as Steve fumed. The Greek’s voice became soft as he put his hands on Richard’s shoulders. “I hear about your grandfather. I am sorry. I miss my own grandfather too, so much. Did I tell you he was Communist partisan? He kill Nazis for four years in the war and the bastard colonels kill him. Fucking fascists!”
Georgios started to cry.
“It’s all right, Georgios. Let it all out,” Richard said, patting him on the back.
A crash of breaking glass outside made everyone turn. Luke came rushing inside. A beer bottle smashed against the doorjamb just behind him. Another sailed through the open door and almost hit a guy.
“What is going on?” Georgios asked, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Gay bashers!” Luke said, dodging another bottle and slamming the door shut.
“Bashers? What is this?” the Greek man asked.
“Thugs who like to beat up gay people,” someone said. “No point calling the cops on that trash. The cops don’t give a shit.”
“They beat up my faggots?” Georgios shouted. “No one beat up my faggots!”
Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed a pool cue, flung open the door, and rushed outside.
Richard and Tyrone grabbed beer bottles and ran outside after Georgios. Luke joined them, as did a couple of the bigger guys.
When they made it to the street, they stopped short in wonder.
Georgios was surrounded by a dozen young men, all dressed the same in white t-shirts, jeans with the bottoms rolled up, suspenders, and heavy work boots. They all had their heads shaved. Every one of them was muscular and looked accustomed to fighting, but the half-naked Georgios held them off.
He was a blur of motion, sweeping the pool cue around in wide arcs and holding them at bay. They tried to move in from every side, but he was too quick for them. As one lunged for him from the front, another right behind threw himself at the Greek man, only to get smacked on the side of the head by the pool cue an instant later.
The man toppled backwards. Georgios leapt at him and stomped on the guy’s face, then swung the pool cue again, hitting someone in the shoulder who had been too slow to get out of the way.
The guys with the shaved heads tried a different tactic. Three of them ran to the other side of the street as the rest continued to attack Georgios. At first Richard thought the three were retreating, but th
en he saw them going for a supermarket bag sitting on the sidewalk.
By the time they pulled beer bottles out of the bag and got ready to throw them, Georgios had knocked down two more of his opponents.
That only gave the guys with the beer bottles a clearer shot.
All three guys threw bottles at Georgios. One crashed on the ground, sending up shards that bit into his bare flesh. Another missed. The third bounced off his shoulder.
The hits only seemed to make Georgios angrier. He leapt on the nearest of the gay bashers and whipped the pool cue down on his head so hard it snapped in two.
Richard turned his attention to the three guys by the bag, who had just picked up more bottles to throw. Richard tossed his own bottle at them and it shattered on the wall next to their heads, however, they barely flinched. Tyrone threw a bottle that took one of them full in the face, then Luke and a few others stormed out into the street.
Soon it was a free-for-all of swinging fists, crashing bottles, and falling men. Richard waded in, took a fist to the side of the head, then grabbed one of the gay bashers by his collar and gave him two sharp punches to the face. He was rewarded by seeing the man’s nose flatten, blood spurting out of his nostrils in twin gouts of red.
More gays poured out of The Hole in One—the femmes, the quiet ones, the gentle ones. All the men who had never been in fight before in their life now charged into the street with bottles, bar stools, and pool cues raised.
Within a few moments, it was all over. The gay bashers, seeing they were outnumbered, fled, carrying their wounded with them and cringing under a hailstorm of beer bottles. Georgios, jumping up and down, his bare ass shining in the street light, shouted something in Greek and tossed the broken half of his pool cue at one of the retreating figures. It caught the guy in the back of his shaved head and he went down like he’d been shot. Two of his bloodied comrades grabbed him and dragged him away.
One of the femmes, holding a broken beer bottle in his hand, gave the retreating group the finger and shouted, “We may be pansies, but we can beat you assholes!”
