Faggots

by Larry Kramer

  Hubie patted Slim’s head. “You still want more?”

  Slim nodded calmly, but said nothing.

  Hubie unwinged and bent over and reached into the pocket of his trousers, which were crumpled on the tile floor in a pile of four sets of Levis, flicking away a speck or two of Timmy’s insides, and extracted a light-blue tablet, which he then took and, looking ever so kindly into Tim’s young bloodshot eyes, placed on the lad’s tongue, after opening his mouth with his huge soft paws and admonishing: “Here, boy, take this and you’ll be fine.” Timmy swallowed it.

  “Yes,” Hubie said to Morry. “We’ve got to do something with these lads.”

  Wilder, practically doubled over from being overfucked, took this moment to announce: “I’ve had enough. So long, Morry. See you soon.” And he grabbed his stuff and hobbled out. Hubie closed and locked the door behind him. Then he and Morry took Slim and Tim in their all-encompassing arms, rocked and held them within, and softly sang and chanted in their best Third World style: “We’ve got to do something with these lads, Ibi Dibbi, we’ve got to do something with these lads…,” and Timmy, having no idea that the blue tablet just ingested was mescalin and that he was about to continue his wonderful adventures, began to perk up a bit and even managed to mumble, along with Slim, who Timmy noticed was not bad-looking at all, along with these two black giants, each waving a talisman of mythic proportions, “…we’ve got to, Ibbi Dibbi, we’ve got to, Doobie Doobie…” The chant grew louder and louder, when a pounding was heard but ignored. On the other side, Winnie Heinz was clamoring for his lover.

  “Open up! How’s Tim? Where’s Tim?” cried Winnie, to no response.

  “Your name Tim?” asked Hubie of Timmy, who nodded back. “Who’s after you?”

  “That’s Winnie,” Tim smiled, “the Winston Man.”

  “Winnie the Winston Man…,” Hubie and Morry and Slim started chanting, “…Winnie the Winston Man, Ibbi Doobie…”

  Outside, Winnie thought he heard strange tribal rumblings and pounded even harder on the threshold.

  “Let’s let him in,” said Slim. “Let’s look at Winnie the Winston Man.”

  So Hubie flung wide the gate and in fell Winnie, now no longer restrained by Jefferson Monroe who, having sensed that his brothers within were busy and wished to brook no interference, on their behalf had interfered and crooked an arm round Winnie, just in case, and Winnie saw a smiling Tim, a naked Tim, a drugged Tim, a Tim whose cock was hard and being sucked by Morry and whose smooth skin was being Intensive Cared by Slim and who was this other black man giving him the evil eye?

  “What you want, Winston Man?” asked Hubie.

  “I…I want my Tim.”

  “Your Tim?” and looking at young Tim at this moment seemed to indicate that this particular possessive pronoun was not quite applicable. He was bathing in a sea of sensations, unaware of the treacherous undertow.

  Winnie was hurt. He was hurt and jealous and offended in a way that he had never been before. He had sworn love for this cute little twit from nowhere and now here he was giving all his all to all. Winnie, never one known for prissinesses or jealous tantrums, just looked at the lad, turned on his unshod heels, and left the john, closing the jungled groyne behind him ever so quietly to make his subtle point. He then retrieved and reentered his clothing as fast as he could, hoping no one had noticed his Waterloo, they were all too busy reslurping anyway, and quietly, proudly, grandly, sadly, maturely exited through the hall and living room and foyer, a lover in pain, past the islands and inlets and peninsulas of fuckers and suckers and kissers and talkers, huge dabs of bodies still in there pitching, dueling each other as in some Shakespearean production upon stages of thrust, no one noticing Winnie, past those too zonked out or too zonked up, The Gnome now vending Escatrol for the long evening still to go, how could they not sense Winnie’s pain?, he’d go home and smoke more dust, past the kitchen where the first wave of munchies had struck and mouths voracious for something else now dug deeply into Entenmann’s, Keebler’s, Nabisco’s, Bronstein’s, Garfield (searching for mop and bottle of Mr. Clean) always had a fine supply of shit food, no one waving So Long, Winnie, Have a Nice Day, past familiar Jews and familiar faces, fellow Zoroastrians: Lork and Carlty and Yo-Yo, at present too busy to be concerned by Timmy’s competitive beauty, now past young Paulie Polaroiding Maxine at last rigged up as Elizabeth Taylor, yes, past all the yearning breathing masses huddled on the floor and holding on to something, where was his?, as softly comingled tapes played Nisha Noosha’s “Fug, Fug, Fug,” and Reventa Marlow’s now sadly apt “Getting Sentimental Over You Now That I’ve Left You,” then stopping to pick up his bag of unused sneakers, and hustling his pretty ass out through that portal as he said to no one in particular: “Winnie Heinz is leaving; thank you very much.”

  “Hello?”

  “Well, hello. This is a secret admirer. How are you?”

  “You’re back!” At the sound of Dinky on his bathroom phone, Fred jumped up from his toilet and stood at attention.

  “I’m back,” Dinky’s voice said. “And I want to see you.”

  “I want to see you, too. I sure missed you.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Fred tried to keep it light.

  “I’ll explain everything. I’ll see you later at Capriccio?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Save me a dance.”

  As best he could, Fred jumped for joy.

  Anthony had plunged in…. Jesus that feels good, make it last whoever you are, whose is this tongue and lips and mouth oh christ it’s good it’s good it’s good it’s good to be sucked off, this is the first time in months, sex for the blind, do it in braille, who needs a name, just a hand, a mouth, a cock of course, a working waist that bends, make it last, must not come, think boring thoughts, New York is a filthy place, that’s a boring thought, fire down below, must be someone trying to get rid of us, always someone trying to get rid of us, got to find a bigger apartment for me and Sprinkle and Sprinkle’s piano and kayak, Aaaaah!, whew, almost came, mustn’t come, must make it last, must make something that feels so good last and last, wonder when Sprinkle’s coming back, why do I always have to be the breadwinner, tired of being the daddy, wonder where that ten-inch-cock kid is, “Buddy, you’ve got some dong!,” oh, fuck off mister, now you’ve talked and blown it, no you’ve stopped blowing it, who uses words like “dong” anymore, sounds of shufflings away, must have been some old man, what am I complaining about, he did it fabulously, the old farts suck best, years of practice, damn it shouldn’t have lost him, someone groping again, never even had time to stick it back in my pants, what kind of well-brought-up wop am I, walking around in the dark with my dong hanging out, the Good Sisters should see me now, From Port Chester to Pier in Forty-three Years, I went to Brown to learn this?, this one’s a good sucker too, get ’er up, fellow, that’s a boy, glad the damn thing still works, the way it’s been in purdah for so long, I was beginning to worry, oh that feels good…

  Fred danced and danced, like the crazy happy man he was. Dinky was back, had called, they’d dance together, these past Methuselah weeks of Dodger the Lodger always answering the phone: “He’s still away on business,” what business?, I said I loved him, and he’s called!

  “He called me!”

  Fred tried to yell his good news to his Fire Island housemates, with whom he danced at Capriccio’s closing party.

  Their very own club was mobbed, had not every one of New York’s Hottest Men looked forward to this night!, as many beauties as balloons, two thousand, three thousand, let not the Fire Marshal show this eve, a fine tribute to a fine season, Billy Boner and his flagship bringing down the curtain on the year’s official end. Now came Fire Island, when all would start again, until the fall, when all would start again, too.

  On Lower West Broadway near Canal, on a second floor, above a Chase, in a hangar as large and twisted as Saarinen’s at Kennedy, the caver
nous white Versailles that was Capriccio, all high cream walls and gray-flannelled floors, and the widest field of shining waxed wood on which to move and glide and shake and boogie and turn and hug and hold and sweat and show the muscles, wiggle the ass, bump your crotch, clutch you tight, spin, spin, wave and shout, look and smile, say good-bye to all our cares, with all our brothers, a lifetime of friends, beside, around, above, bleachers stringing round all sides, everything bathed in light and sound, that legendary sound!, which Juanito, Patty’s Juanito, secret Juanito, Puerto-Rican-handsome, English not so good, in his control room, assisted by Jacente, turned into greatness, as he placed, song after song, with that pride, dignity, love for his work, that distinguishes the best d.j.’s and makes them heroes of our moment in time, his Vlandor Arm with its Nefisto cartridge on its Zee-able turntable, thus activating speakers of base horn, woofers of mid-base, lenses of mid-range, horns of reinforcement, arrays of super tweeters, each emitting .9034 psu’s of decibelacular sound, all engorging all of the above, Hot Men!, Dancing!, Love!, Friendship!, this legendary spot of Heaven on Earth, our very own beloved exclusive club, Capriccio!

  And the Lights! A cacophony of multicolors, flashing waves and arcs, cross-faded by cross-faders, series of sequences on vertical rainbows, transformed by transformers, electronics of incredible wizardry, channels for Spin and Normal, Invert and Pause, Advance and Throb, button after button touched to program mood after mood, synergistically Siamese-twinned to songs and shoutings and mind-expanding Joy.

  And the Clothes! Tight T’s and tight jeans and old boots and bare chests. Or the finery of show-off: costumes of delicate frippery or outlandish look-at-me-ism. For tonight’s party had a theme. Everyone tonight wore black or white. And on parapets built especially for this closing, black-leather-thonged men in masks, above the bleachers, bumped and ground. And over the dance floor, beside the spinning mirrored globe, in a huge bird cage, white angels did the same. Billy Boner certainly knew how to spare no expense and set the scene so his members could party!

  And the Men! Have you never seen so many Hot Men! Gloried, storied, muscled, fatless, mustached, youthful, smiling, sexy MEN!

  “How are you!” “Haven’t seen you since last weekend!” “See you tomorrow at The Toilet Bowl!” “See you Sunday on the Island!” Yes, our very own Country Club, everyone chatting, passing through crowds, such nice vibrations, all our passing Friends!

  And the Drugs!

  “I’m trying something new!” Tarsh yelled, his mind a buzz of wonderful feelings, his body, too, in each of its many small parts, rippling with tinglings and happinesses and electricities and energies enough to make him more than fine and best and perfect. He would tell them later all about it: It’s called Super K, it’s from England, it’s a pre-op sedative used for children, it’s a powder to snort, a cross between coke and Valium, and it’s fabulous! Tarsh was proud to be the first to always try new things.

  Among them all threaded The Gnome, small and runty, thick glasses, and hairy spidery legs in lederhosen, selling his Magic, introducing his Magic. TT1, three years ago, was Yellow Fever; TT2 was called Pink Rain; last year’s TT3 was Gondolier, and this year’s debut of TT4 was Magic, their very own exclusive drug. Tonight everyone was high on a snort of Magic by midnight, trying it out, to be followed by a tab of Glycn at 2, a half of Nyll at 3, and a hit of Blotter by 4, acid not usually ingested so late, but a long night was wanted, tomorrow was a long way off, with so many events to follow after that. Sleep was for lazies, drop-outs, unconcerneds, incompetents, misser-outers, and the plainly slags and drags.

  “He called me! I’m meeting him here tonight!”

  Fred took no drugs. He’d tried them all, found no answers, and he was on a pilgrimage for answers. “They are identity-supporting, not identity-giving,” he would try to say. “And I want to prove to you what a good time can be had by simply staying straight.”

  “Dinky’s called me!”

  Fred tried to yell his news to Tarsh and Gatsby and Mikie and Josie and Dom Dom and Fallow and Bo Peep and Bilbo, with all of whom he shared the house at Fire Island Pines.

  Tarsh, an NBC newsman out of Brandeis, was their leader. He was red-bearded and short, with a perfectly muscled body, and he was their first attender of events, all happenings: books and movies and plays and museums and current trends and thoughts (“Something new is coming! We’ve got to go out and look!”), Tarsh filled them in and hoped they’d follow, concerned, as were they all, to find the best of times.

  Bo Peep, from Vanderbilt and Kentucky, a management personnel trainer for an insurance company, was also short, with blond hair fluffy and ringing his sweet, angelic face. He wished to be Mrs. Tarsh, but wasn’t.

  Josie and Dom Dom played the city’s famous lovers. The McShays. Josie McDonald and Dom Dom O’Shay. Josie was a Fordham banker, currently on a leave of absence, which was probably just as well, for how would a bank view his currently shaved head, which made him a bald Charles Bronson. Dom Dom, a Cornell city planner for the state, was tall and gangling, but just as handsome. They were a matched pair of beauties, tonight in twinned sets of white ducks and sailor’s middies. No one knew they never fucked. Though Josie longed to. But Dom Dom was also busy seeking everything “that synthesizes the essence of today.”

  Fallow, from Notre Dame to Seventh Avenue, was their stylist. Fallow the Dapper. Fallow tonight in Korean army bermudas, old Best and Company Teen Shop shirt with frayed collar and cuffs, black knee socks, and parachute-jumping boots from the Khmer Rouge. Fallow was the one they looked to for the latest trends in dress.

  Bilbo was their yardstick. Bilbo the Drugged. This little cuteness from William and Mary, a concert pianist of astounding gifts who never practiced, unemployed, thirty-five, as were they all, round and about, if Bilbo was still standing, there was hope yet for them all.

  And Mikie, dear Mikie, sandy, perky, bubbling, questing, never finding, Fred’s Rolexed Mikie III, their flower child, their twinky, their Berkeley half-architect drop-out now driving trucks, fearful, but of exceptionally good heart and soul, now banging his tambourine, the mastery of which was to be his project for the summer.

  Tarsh, never missing a beat of music, filled a balloon with a hiss from a cartridge of laughing gas, just like the dentists used, and sucked it all into his lungs.

  No support from the brotherhood, Fred thought. Well, I’m happy. I’m trying. You can all stay single if you want to. But not me.

  Then Gatsby, his friend, his fellow writer, his fellow waiter for his own true love, opened his eyes and smiled at Fred and said to him: “I’m glad.”

  Back down on those docks, also on a scouting expedition, were Leather Louie and Lance Heather. You will recall Lance as the rejected suitor of Randy Dildough, back in those hissing-snake days. He is still looking particularly good, a taller Alan Ladd, and he has just been accepted as a part-time instructor at Columbia in its Linguistics Department, where he will also work on his doctorate, hence requiring a change from West Coast to East. He’s also hoping to pick up where he left off with his old partner in reptiles. But Randy had not returned the several phone calls to his New York Marathon office.

  Leather Louie, dark, twinklingly sinister, hooded-eyed as ever, was, as always, a vision in shiny black and studded hides. He and Lance had recently met at the Eagle’s Nest and recognized in each other the signs of the true cultist. They had of course not made love, since both desired to crack the whip, but they’d exchanged tales of scenes rampant, scenes triumphant, scenes wide-screened, Technicolored, multidenominational, and had decided to throw in their motorcycle gloves together. This evening was such a togetherness.

  They were jointly seeking a special victim to audition at Louie’s Dakota-eaves apartment, wherein, in the extra bedroom reserved for torture, now resided a brand-new stock-cum-gallows, recently arrived along with its attachments allowing for electrically, battery, or manually operated peccadilloes to please most occasions, all purchased at moderate cost, and via the
Avocado’s helpful “New and Useful Products for the Home” column, from San Francisco’s Abused Furniture Boutique.

  This special victim, lucky fellow, would be auditioned for a special performance at tomorrow’s special opening of The Toilet Bowl.

  They were about to meet such a victim.

  Back at Capriccio, Boo Boo Bronstein danced alone. Since he didn’t know anybody, dancing partners were no problem. He could stand in the middle of the whirling pack, glue his feet firmly to the wood, then sway and gyrate, later even Rockette kick and double turn, in his drug-high way, eyes closed of course, and pretend they were all, every one of them, his dancing partners!

  Following the momentous announcement on the evening news, Boo Boo had written his note in rough draft. “Two beefy swarthy burly fat and dangerous men want one million dollars through my mail slit or else they’ll communicate all to Walter Cronkite.” Only a first draft, of course. Perhaps I’ll improve later on my prose.

  Then he’d figured out his plan: I’ll lock myself in my loft. And Abe will stick the millions through the mail slot. And when he and the police finally break down the door, the beefy swarthy burly fat and dangerous men, and the million, will be gone. Then they’ll untie me. I’ll be safe. With my one million!

  Is it too naïve to think that such a simple plan could work?

  Then he’d augmented his Certyn and Dringe with his Festinate, stared for a long while at the wondrous patterns in a crystal door-knob, then gone to the Grand Union and purchased four hundred dollars’ worth of stock-up goods to last through a long siege.