Benediction

by Arnold, Jim

  Next to Becca and to my right sat Chip Llewellyn and Diana Vandermark, an especially attractive couple who’d look at home on any of the larger yachts on San Francisco Bay and probably were.

  To Davis’s left, Evelyn Keener, one of the town’s richest African Americans, whom I instantly recognized from countless newspaper photos, monopolized him, holding his hand against her stomach, dangerously close to her breast or her heart, depending on one’s level of cynicism. She’d just recently lost her husband to cancer, which made her even wealthier.

  Finally, between Evelyn and Mary Jo, back at the top of the table, was one of San Francisco’s premier gay power couples—Evan Lee and Denton Thomas—who I sensed were desperate to quiz Davis on his newfound conversion to homo-world.

  They also were interested in my pedigree. When Evan got up to walk over to me—quite frankly, he was too short to see over the flowers—Denton, not one to be left behind, followed.

  Evan pumped my hand. Within a second, Denton had done the same. “I’ve always wanted to come to this ball—but never had the chance,” I said.

  “Leave it to Davis,” Evan said, still smiling so broadly, the corners of his mouth must’ve ached. “So, Ben Schmidt, tell us, how did you two meet?”

  It was as if he thought my name was one of those faggy affected hyphenates, like John-David, Jean-Luc, John-Boy…

  “Yes, tell us,” Denton added. They formed a tuxedoed barricade between me and Davis’s back. On my other side, Chip and Diana oohed and aahed over the spectacular salad creation.

  “I’m a patient—a former patient—actually,” I said, downing the last of the champagne in my glass and looking around for more.

  Still, that eerie grin on Evan’s face persisted. “So, you have a cancer?” he said, as Denton shook his head. Finally, this registered with Davis, who was able to tear himself away from Evelyn Keener long enough to turn around.

  “Ben—sit down; your salad looks lonely,” he said, sliding his index finger quickly across his throat.

  I took another champagne from a passing tray. “It’s gone—the cancer—well, most of it—and the rest is disappearing rapidly,” I said.

  Denton nodded his head sympathetically. Evan hooked his arm into his partner’s, pulling him away.

  “Let’s go, honey; there’s a million people to say hello to here,” Evan said. “Skipping the first course is our own method of weight control.”

  * * *

  Eventually, the waiters removed the salads and replaced them with a nice main course of Harris Ranch filet mignon and a delicious crusty potato mixture.

  With the continued champagne I’d lost what was left of my appetite, already diminished by the radiation.

  We did the required around-the-table hike. Davis choreographed this by subtly pushing me to this person or that with the palm of his hand anchored in the middle of my back. I tried to be as polite and as interested as I could be in important symphony issues of the day, while what kept floating through my consciousness was the Bocelli song that played every day while I lay on the slab at Mount Whore.

  We’d reached Becca Paulus, whom I was certain would see me as a yetunmined, possibly deep pocket for the symphony.

  “Ben, it’s so great you could join us tonight—I must say you and Davis look handsome together,” she gushed. “What is it that you—”

  “He’s not really part of our little musical world, Becca,” Davis interrupted. “Ben works in a software startup, and he made a…movie.”

  “Not just any movie, but Hell for the Holidays,” I said, quickly. “Which just so happens to be in competition for an award in Turin next week.” I took a step away from Davis.

  Jake would never do this went through my mind in a flash, and just as swiftly was gone.

  “I thought you liked the movie,” I said to Davis.

  “Of course I did—it’s just this crowd—they’d never appreciate that sensibility you’ve got.” Davis smiled at Mary Jo. “How’s that steak, dear?”

  Mary Jo stood to embrace him. Sandy took the opportunity to spoon most of the potatoes from her plate onto his.

  “Now, there you go—God knows it’s all in the planning,” she said, looking at me. “I just stand there and look mean.”

  Mary Jo placed her perfectly manicured pointy-nailed hand on Davis’s forearm, stroking it, like it was a giant black fabric cock. “Heidi’s done the lion’s share this year—I guess with all that extra time now,” she said, a bit more subdued, but not so much that I didn’t hear every single word.

  * * *

  The rotunda of city hall was lit so magically and theatrically, you’d never guess it was the locus of a provincial government often despised for being just slightly to the right of Cuba. On the first stop of the Black and White Ball tour following the Patrons Dinner—where I didn’t eat enough—a section of the symphony had set up on a landing atop the grand, white marble staircase.

  We’d walked the short distance from the dinner tent in a caravan, led by Mary Jo and Sandy. Davis was testing out his newly acquired gay identity full throttle, seeming to get bolder with each passing hour. He grabbed my hand as we passed into the rotunda from the darker hallway, so we looked for all intents and purposes like the model same-sex couple on top of a wedding cake.

  The symphony was already playing, having launched into Strauss’s energetic Tales from the Vienna Woods. A few show-off couples had taken to the polished floor, those who’d obviously took lessons specifically for this moment.

  From our group, Diana pulled the reluctant Chip into the circle of twirling symphony supporters. She threw her head back, wisps of long blond hair catching in the black straps of her gown. They soon disappeared within the revolving crowd. Davis squeezed my hand.

  “I think we have to do this,” he said.

  Shit.

  I’d seen a Chron photographer we’d used for various Safe Harbor press purposes unloading equipment inside the city hall doors and sensed a prime photo op. Hoping there were other same-sex couples dancing, I closed my eyes as Davis led me out onto the floor.

  The alcohol calmed me and I was swept into the romance—the music, the soft lighting in the stunning beaux arts room, the formal wear and jewelry, and most of all, being in the arms of this tall, handsome doctor who was having the time of his life.

  Though I had the strange feeling that I was playing a supporting role in a midlife crisis, I could go along on this ride for a while, forget about the cancer treatment—who knows, marry some serious medical money, which was almost as good as Karen’s incoming dot-com fortune/divorce settlement—

  “Well, Davis Sternberg! You never waltzed with me!”

  This high-pitched broadside screech came from behind me, and as we made a half turn, I saw the woman who must be Heidi Wolf.

  I knew this because I’d seen a couple of pictures of her at Davis’s house that either he’d neglected to remove or were in a group or holiday setting and were not easily Photoshopped out.

  Heidi was tall, like Davis. She was slim, also like Davis, long black hair cascading past her shoulders. Even though she meant her comments for him, her dark eyes bore into me.

  “Heidi—I thought you’d be here,” he said.

  I’d decided sometime that morning that if this scenario did indeed occur, I’d take the high road. With a mirror-practiced smile fixed on my face, I nodded in her general direction.

  She looked back with what can only be described as an expression of mixed curiosity and revulsion.

  “Who’s this short person?” she asked. Heidi stood right next to us. Davis maneuvered his lanky body over to the perimeter of the dance floor, taking me with him.

  Though I’d been determined not to get involved, her “short” comment was out of line. “I’m five-foot-ten, which, by the way, is an inch taller than the average American male,” I said. “So what the fuck is it with this ‘short’ business?”

  Her mouth hung open. A few of the couples—all male-female in this quadrant
, with the exception of two ladies arm-in-arm, one all in white, one all in black—seemed to shrink away from us toward the rotunda walls, sensing…what, violence?

  “Heidi, this is Ben Schmidt,” Davis said. “If you’re angry with me, you will not take it out on my friend—am I clear?”

  There were freckles on her breasts, offsetting diamonds Davis must’ve given her. “Sorry if I was rude,” she said, glaring at us.

  By this time we’d stopped dancing, though the symphony continued to play Strauss, every measure seeming to gain in intensity and volume.

  “I’m going to let you two talk,” I said, backing up. “Davis, I’ll check out the rest of the place and come back in a few.”

  He looked confused, and she looked triumphant. If nothing else, the violins were beginning to annoy me.

  * * *

  The clutch of enthusiastic ball-goers thinned out considerably as one neared the more mundane service corridors of city hall. It was also quieter, being farther from the symphony balcony. Then, there it was—a champagne stand in the corner.

  Two youngish guys were stationed here, one doling out alcohol, the other pouring and stocking. Pouring and Stocking Guy faced away from me, bent over a crate of champagne bottles, his trousers tightening around his upturned ass and thighs.

  Distracting, to say the least. Server Guy was delighted to have an actual customer.

  “Champagne, sir?” he said, through a pleasant, company smile.

  “How’d you guess?” I said. Pouring and Stocking Guy stood up abruptly and turned around. It was Eric.

  He looked shocked.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, oddly accusatory.

  “A better question might be, What are you doing here, in that silly black bowtie?”

  Server Guy shoved a flute at me.

  “May I have two? I have a date. My date’s on the dance floor, but I’m sure my date’s thirsty. He’s a big guy.”

  Eric laughed as Server Guy filled up another glass.

  “I picked up some catering temp,” Eric said, leaning onto the bar, inches from my face. “How are you?”

  He meant, of course—how’s your cancer? I could easily play along.

  “Great. I’m going to Italy on Monday. My film’s in a festival there—actually, it’s up for an award.” I took a big sip of the champagne.

  His face softened.

  “That’s really excellent,” he said. “I hope it wins.”

  Most of the other ball-weary loiterers around us had been sucked back into the swirling rotunda when the symphony launched into its version of the “Blue Danube.”

  Eric turned to Server Guy.

  “Charlie, there’s no one here. I’m gonna take five, OK?”

  Not waiting for an answer, Eric came around the bar and grabbed my upper arm, leading me into a darker alcove nearby. It seemed qualitatively the same as Buena Vista Park, except the eucalyptus and rhododendrons had been switched out for marble archways and wrought-iron sconces.

  I couldn’t believe we were going to fuck in city hall.

  My back was up against the cool stone wall. Eric got very close, but he didn’t take his hands from my arms.

  “You’re going to be OK, right? I feel bad about the last time, you know, the park and everything.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “My treatment’s coming close to an end, and I’m sure—”

  Eric cut me off. “I owe you an apology. I was…not like a gentleman—”

  “Ben?”

  Davis’s tall frame filled the arched doorway leading back to the champagne bar.

  * * *

  There’d been other music offerings around the civic center—performances at Bill Graham Auditorium, in the Patrons Tent, at the library, and even back at city hall once the waltzing was finished. It was this or that diva in a black sparkly dress, same idea, different venues—I didn’t much notice as long as the champagne flowed—and it did.

  I was touched by Eric’s apology and concern—and doubly grateful we hadn’t been engaged in public sexual activity when Davis showed up. We’d explained, when confronted by someone who’d just had a public argument with a deranged ex-wife—well, maybe not clinically deranged, but—that we were neighbors (somewhat true) who hadn’t caught up in a while (definitely true) and just happened to run into each other at the ball (again, completely true).

  The night wasn’t quite the same afterward.

  Eventually, Davis hailed one of the Mercedes taxis he was entitled to ride in between party venues as a VIP. He cajoled the driver into the short hop up the hill to Buena Vista Terrace. The day before, he’d invited me to spend the night with him there, a first for us, and I said yes—wondering the whole time about what Jake might think if he knew how far it had gone—

  I’d left a small bag there with my toothbrush, condoms and lube, a pair of silky black shorts from Morocco purchased on Santa Monica Boulevard during a business trip to L.A., my spare cell phone charger and a couple of Defendors—just in case.

  He’d shared that house with Heidi, and it was the kind of place where one deliberated about where such an overnight bag should be stashed. Nothing—and I mean nothing—was out of place there.

  Regardless, it was a lovely, well-appointed home, the large bay window in Davis’s bedroom looking out over the city with its incredible view. I could see across the water to the enormous cranes lining Oakland’s harbor and to the twinkling lights in the hills above.

  I shed the tuxedo. Since it was rented, there was no reason not to toss its various parts on the floor leading up to the bed. I kicked the shirt and trousers against the wall.

  My shorts were low cut, so much of the prostatectomy scar would be visible in the light, if he turned any on. To my recollection, the damask-topped coverlet on which I lay was deep purple with gold trim, a nod to butching up the room post-Heidi.

  “Ben—are you in here?” Davis stood in the hall, where I could partly see his shadow cast by the chandelier over the staircase.

  “I couldn’t keep that suit on for another second,” I said, turning toward the bedroom door. “Come to bed.”

  He switched on his Tiffany-inspired hand-painted glass lamp, a scene of a boy rowing a boat on a big river—possibly Huck Finn. The amber light—a hue I thought flattering—filled the room. Davis noticed the hastily thrown tuxedo parts on his polished hardwood floor.

  “Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you?” he said, picking up my trousers and one black sock.

  “I think I’ve paid dearly for the privilege of throwing that tux around,” I said. “Leave it. I’m cold here.”

  He tossed the suit on the wing chair with a look of resigned annoyance—perhaps only because of the late hour—and walked around to where I lay. He’d taken his tie off—probably left it on the marble table in the foyer, the one with separate silver dishes for keys and mail.

  I smiled up at him with what I’d intended as a sexy grin and not just the hopeful look of a slutty drunk. The expression on Davis’s face wasn’t something in our repertoire—in both our brief professional relationship and now longer personal one—that I’d catalogued or defined.

  “What?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he looked down past my face, to my chest, then my stomach, and I’m sure he took in that vertical scar just below my navel, in which he had a professional curiosity. Then lower, to the bulge in my black shorts that had gotten a bit larger and firmer thanks to the Viagra.

  Self-consciously, I rubbed my abs with my right hand, then left it strategically draped over the visible part of the scar.

  “If you weren’t so—beautiful, handsome, I don’t know, Ben, what the right word is.” He took off his jacket and his shirt, then undid the belt of his pants, and I pulled down the zipper myself.

  “Davis,” I whispered.

  His cock poked through the fly in the Macy’s boxer shorts he insisted on wearing, even though he had the body for 2(x)ist or Calvin or even AussieBum. The head of his glans was wet
, glistening in the light from that old bedside lamp. I rubbed my thumb over it, smearing the sticky drop over the cock head, as his trousers fell to the floor in a whoosh of expensive fabric.

  I leaned toward him to rub my face in the hair of his sinewy left thigh. “Are you drunk? That park across the street’s the place I send drunks,” he said.

  I wasn’t really paying attention to his words, but the tone was off. I remember saying—“I’m not drunk, baby”—the obvious dismissal, as I tugged at his shorts, which slipped off easily. His cock brushed against my lips, and I kissed it. He pushed it into my mouth, insistent, and I licked at it dutifully from underneath—but more of a tiny suck, like a baby on its mother’s nipple, than any kind of apple-bobbing porn-worthy blow job.

  I felt myself being turned over, my nice, soft silk shorts being removed. Davis lay on top of me and spread my legs open with his longer, stronger ones. His now very hard cock and balls were lodged in the crack of my ass.

  My head was turned so I could easily make out the headlights coming off the Bay Bridge. I wondered where all these people could possibly be going at three a.m. or whatever time it was. Perhaps they were young drug dealers or other downtown types.

  I was just as happy to play the passive boy for Davis—it seemed I was asleep one moment, awake the next. He spread lube into my ass, bit my shoulder, and pushed his cock in and out of me slowly. I may have muttered about the condoms in my bag so carefully hidden just under the bed below us—but I don’t remember for sure.

  What I do remember is that it didn’t last long.

  Davis groaned into my ear as his cum flowed into me, my head sinking deeper into the pillow. I felt the comforting warmth of his chest hair on my back, his nose and lips in my neck, and then a wetness on my inner thigh I wasn’t used to.

  20

  We didn’t talk about it on Sunday morning, but I knew Davis had fucked me without a rubber.

  He dropped me off with the balled-up tuxedo parts having been stuffed into a Safeway plastic bag I found in the downstairs butler’s pantry. The air was so hot and dead inside the Lexus, I was sure I’d pass out before we got up Douglass Street.