by Larry Kramer
“Inter-Chain 207.” Someone stopped to introduce himself to Dinky.
“Inter-Chain 101,” came Dinky’s pleasant reply.
207 was bearded, swarthy, burly, tall, and scary. Dinky stared him down. 207 looked down. “My code is C-1, D-3, I-27, B-4,” 207 mumbled.
“I thought so,” Dinky slapped him on the back. “Nice meeting you, though.”
And then Fred heard Dinky converse with another Inter-Chainer.
“Maybe,” Dinky said. “I have been feeling a great need to order somebody about.”
“And I’ve been feeling a great need to serve someone as Master.” Possible Slave was medium and dark and not bad-looking, with resemblances to Fred. “Can I call you?”
“Maybe,” Dinky answered.
“When can I call you?”
“This week is bad. Try me the week after.”
“But would it be fruitful?”
“It could be.”
“Is that a Yes?”
“We’ll see.”
“That sounds like a No.”
“Maybe.”
“So it is a No!”
And having happily received his rejection, said Slave unhappily walked away.
New Things! New Things!, Fred tried to calm himself. It’s a weekend of New Things! For my script or for my life? Christ, where’s Abe? I forgot about Abe!
“Hello, Laverne,” Fred heard Dinky say.
“I’m Jack again. Just plain Jack. No more Laverne. Patty’s dead.”
“Oh. I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“He got burned up in the fire. I don’t know what to do.”
Dinky pulled out his little sack of pills. “I’m on Desnobarbs. They help a lot.”
“How many did you take?”
“By now, I think five.”
“Give me four. No. Six.”
“Laverne wants four Desnobarbs. Laverne shall have four Desnobarbs.”
Dinky pulled out four tablets and depressed them under Jack’s tongue. “Maybe we could find Robbie Swindon and give him four Desnobarbs, too. No, twelve.” Then he took Jack by the hand, saying “Come along, Laverne,” and he led him through the layers of crowd and toward some trees where he was noting that someone had so thoughtfully erected such a handsome swing.
“Isn’t it nice to travel again, Laverne?” Fred heard Dinky say. “We took some nice trips together. Isn’t this a nice trip?” He looked over his shoulder and waved to Fred. “Come along, Fred.”
Under a bower not so far away, Gatsby, still in tennis whites, was also walking under this moon and sky. A little nighttime walk. If I’m not going to write, then I’m entitled to a little nighttime walk. Then he once again saw the face that had intrigued him earlier. Belonging to Lance Heather. But Lance Heather now was all in leather. Ooops, Gatsby, you don’t want any of that! Why are you following him? You’re curious? Stop being curious. He sees me and he’s giving me a smile. OK. I’ll go along just for the smile. Wait a minute! Why is he running? He’s disappeared.
Randy was now deeper in the forest. He was not in the mood for watching chug-a-lug contests. Or Nazis. Or old farts jerking off over bodies in coffins. Or to find out who the lucky swinger was or who was making mud pies or in the various pairings and groupings of various bend-overs and lean-tos and reach-ups and hold-heres and suck-theres. All scenes that just yesterday might have turned him on. But now seemed rather…nonapplicable, impertinent to his current problems. Decisions, decisions, he had to make decisions! What to do, what to do, and who to do it with? A crossroads!
At a crossroads, between pines and pines, could it be?, did his eyes deceive him?!
Young Timothy looked, as always, perfectly perfect. He was still all plumaged up from crown to sneaker. In his little silver nappy, all of him continued to glisten irresistibly. He’d left the Feather Party when too many people tried to touch.
Randy happily offered his hand once more. “You’re still the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, it’s you again. Mister See-Saw. Mister This Time Nasty, Next Time Nice. Mister Now You Want Me, Now You Don’t. Please don’t tell me you’re going to make me a star. I already am a star. Please make up your mind and go away.”
“This time I’m not going to go away.”
“I’m the Winston Man now.”
Randy thought the kid might be losing his marbles. Too much too soon. He sure is pretty though. “I’ll make you even more famous than James Dean.”
“I’m not certain I remember him. Did I meet him this weekend? It doesn’t make any difference because I couldn’t do it anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, I must be true to the memory of my beloved Winnie. And I can only do that by being the Winston Man myself.”
The kid is going round the bend. I’ve got to help him. I’ll take him in my arms and comfort him. “It will be all right. Your Randy will make it all right. We’ll go away from all the Musselmans and all the Dordognas and all the dinosaurs in the world.”
“Are you losing your marbles?” Timmy asked, nervously evading Randy’s embrace. Though not before Randy’s clothes became all tinged with silver.
Randy’s arms felt the emptiness. His new James Dean was slipping away. “Give him some sign that you love him! Or else he’ll never be a man!,” those famous lines from East of Eden came visiting his brain. “I…I…I…love you…,” Randy said, with hope that that fine movie’s fine advice would help him now.
“You don’t understand,” Timmy regally said, as he adjusted his new princely crown back into kilter. “Hans told me I’m going to be the most heavenly advertised man of all time. Fifty million dollars will be spent launching me by men who will be tossed into shredders if they fail. Do you have any drugs? My energy is running away.”
“I said I love you!” Randy’s anger briefly spurted out. He hadn’t said that before.
“Oh, I know you said it. But doesn’t everybody just! It’s too boring. I know I’m very handsome. And I know I’m lucky to see what’s in the crystal ball at the beginning of my life instead of at the end of it. And I know I want to be looked at by everybody and to pass around my beauty so the world can appreciate my handsomeness. But I don’t want to have to talk. You would make me talk. I just want to be seen. And to be worshipped for my beauty.” Now that he’d said it, he felt calm, as if he’d delivered, successfully, his commencement-night address. Which, in fact, he has.
Randy, still in East of Eden, further memorable lines, “Father, I did an awful thing…Father, I’m sorry…Father, it’s awful not to be loved…,” was down now on his knees, gazing up at Timmy’s distant, still withheld, still elusive, still so precious beauty. “I worship your beauty,” Randy said. I haven’t said that before either. But everything was different before.
Lance Heather had been watching this most unusual scene from behind the protection of those always helpful pines. There, just a few steps in front of him, ready for the catch, was his unrequited vengeance. He could hurt that Dildough! He could pummel him in punishment for all the long years and months of longing and hoping and wishing he were back. But Lance stayed put. It looked like that little beauty was giving that Dildough all the lancing that he needs.
Timmy decided to put his new convictions to the test. “How much do you worship my beauty?” he tentatively inquired.
“Tell me anything you want,” his new servant humbly mumbled.
“You’ll do anything I want?”
“I want you.” Save me from Dordogna!
Timmy said naturally the first thing that came into his head. Which naturally was: “Kiss my dirty sneakers.”
And Randy did so.
And Lance Heather watched in disgust as his ex-Brother in Zeus turned to mud and dust.
Timmy started to giggle. “You look silly down there, Crud Man! Now please go away and never let me see your face again!” And he took his giggles and his silver crown and nappy and
he ran off through the woods.
Yep, Lance Heather thought, running in another direction, he’s already broken down. No fun in doing to him what’s already been done to him. Probably just as well. I probably saved his life.
After a few long and tired and unfamiliar moments on his knees, Randy pulled himself up before the count of ten and started walking back to his corner in The Pines. Perhaps I can sneak into my own bed at Adriana’s. I need some rest. Dordogna, please give me some rest. Tomorrow night is that important dinner with Musselman. No, it’s tonight. I wonder if I’ll be any good in the men’s clothing business.
And in the trees beyond these trees, Gatsby again caught sight of that Lance Heather. And Lance smiled again. So Gatsby ran after him again. Why is he playing hide and seek? I don’t want to play hide and seek. I think I am just about to play hide and seek. I hope a smile means a smile.
Smiles were not on the faces of Fred Lemish and Irving Slough. Not that you could see Irving’s face behind his smart executioner’s mask. But if you could, you would not see a smile. All my plans for vengeance are awry! I wanted to grab you, Dinky, from behind, get you in my bondage, slap a gag around your mouth of lies, pinion behind you your arms that will not hold me, then pick you up like a sack of your manure and sling you in my swing! Then rip off all your leather, peel and tear it off piece by piece by piece. Until I have you naked, in my power!, then bind you hand and feet with all these belts, and then, slowly, slowly…do to you what this other young fellow is doing to you already! And you are loving it!
Yes, Dinky was dis-splayed upon that swing, that horseless saddle now gently rocking neath these sturdy pines, his naked body Desnobarbed and glistening in the moonlight’s spotlight, no necessity for bound hands or feet, all was proceeding willingly apace, with such an approving audience admiring the dexterity with which our late lovers now approached their heroic, macho, feet-of-Manhood deed!
Laverne stood poised before that asshole, his own arm Criscoed up for entry. He had himself been torn. He knew he still loved Dinky, as he loved God, but that he was, through this heroic act of catharsis, about to become no longer in love with him. Yes, that worked out correctly. He also knew he was having a gigantic erection for the first time in years, much harder than the semi-flopper he’d managed the other evening with Robbie Swindon, with whom he’d soon be living, yes I will!, and I’ll be hard again for Robbie, yes I will! Yes, this fist-fucking of a cock-teasing son of a bitch of an almost ex-lover will break the hex and fulfill some sort of personal retribution for all those years of Everything! While his Southern Baptist God was a vengeful God, He hadn’t spoken on such subjects as a vendetta via a fist fucking. Well, maybe it was time, if He didn’t approve, to leave Him aside, as He had certainly left him. Yes, through all these portals approaches our Laverne.
Fred had returned to his state of glaze. Glued to the spot. Completely inoperative and supremely nonheroic. Though, all previous versions of heroism now seemed rather out of place. And he did feel at last the need to be heroic. Yes, some sort of heroism was certainly called for. For he knew he was about to witness an extreme masochistic act. But then he wondered who was the extreme masochist? Dinky or Laverne? Or Fred? Come to think of it, that is if anyone was thinking, who was the sadist? Dinky or Laverne? Or Fred? What to do? He knew what to do. But how to do it?
The crowd was growing larger. Such a show! Such a contest! Better than Miss America! Our own Miss America! Both of them so pretty! Irving really throws a party! Irving really lays it on! Irving really finds the beauties! Irving knows our favorite fantasies! And wasn’t this what Fire Island’s really all about? Wasn’t this what we’ve traveled from far and near to so enjoy! The Titillating! The Turn-On! The Permutations of yet another ringing change on Sex!
Fred looked at everyone looking. It might be some cocked-up version of a movie about doctors with Dinky on the operating table in the amphitheater’s spotlight. Did Laverne really want to be playing Dr. Strangelove? Not from what I imagined for Laverne.
Jack blinked away some tears and pushed his hand in a little. The fingers went in easily. Dinky, despite his claims to the contrary, must have been practicing with others. Yes, the fingers squidged in easily. A good thing I clipped my nails just this afternoon. Then the palm, bent in two as much as Jack could bend and squeeze it. Then, once inside the early walls, he clenched, ever so tightly, into the fist that gave this sport its name.
So I am finally fist-fucking Dinky. Fist-fucking is quite popular with some of the boys. I never so wanted to fist-fuck anyone before. I heard they had twenty deaths last year from holes in the stomach at St. Vincent’s in the Village alone. I could punch a hole in your stomach. Just like you punched me in the face. Maybe I’ll get stuck in here. I also heard about some guy’s sphincter muscle tensing up and the other guy’s arm turning blue and the two of them rushed to St. Vincent’s stuck together like two dogs. Yes, I could punch a hole in your stomach just like you punched a hole in the last six years of my life.
But then Laverne realized that Dinky inside was so different from Dinky outside. Even with gobs of Crisco greasing the path, Jack could still feel the difference between Proctor & Gamble and Dinky. Dinky’s insides were lined with lovely ribbons! Laverne’s tears returned for the softness that could be Dinky. The Dinky he’d wanted. The Dinky with whom he’d cuddled a hundred years ago by that fire in Southampton after days and nights of wonderful love, and tenderness, and listening to Nina singing “There’s a new day coming and a new world, too, here comes the sun, it’s all right, going to be all right.” Yes, Laverne had a few tears.
But he inched inward. He was sweating and he was still torn, but Dinky was smiling. Fucking Dinky was smiling. So Jack’s fist started a few smiles of its own. Take that for Frigger, take that for Piero, one for Chipper, and one for Tony, take that for Olive and Irving and Mr. Mystery Guest from Savannah, take that for Winnie and that for Floyd and that for Sprinkle and that for Harold and that for Derry and Tex and Wyatt and here’s a good one for Dennis and a couple of good ones for Ike Bulb, your free medical advice, he’ll look after your asshole, my God, Ike Bulb is jerking off!, here’s a couple more for Ike Bulb, and are you watching, Fred Lemish, take a good look, if you want him, this is what you’ll get, I wish you’d take him, I wish he’d go to you, I wish…
And Dinky smiled even more.
Laverne, trying so hard to be Jack, now said: “Dinky, do you know that I now have absolute control of your life? Do you know that? Do you realize that with a squidge of my fingers I could rip out your insides? I could kill you. It would look like an accident. I’d go free. I’d be free?”
Dinky opened his eyes and continued smiling up at Jack. He spoke very softly, no doubt having trouble with the words. “I’m…tall…and…strong…” And then he closed his eyes again as Jack mini-punched some more.
Tall and strong?, Fred thought he heard those words. Is that what it takes to be tall and strong? Isn’t he wondering what it feels like to be dead? Isn’t he thinking about all his failures, one after the other, with the persons, one after the other, to make him whole? While Laverne at last is making him hole?
Jack made a final desperate punch for freedom into farthest interior regions! Dinky only jerked yet higher into pleasure! Jack thought: only millimeters more would do it! Can I do it! Dinky only moaned out: “Jack! Oh, Jack! I feel! I can feel! It feels really good! Don’t stop! I can finally feel!”
Gasps of admiration from the crowd! Look at those doors open! That guy can really take it! Yes, gasps of admiration from the crowd! Except from Cary Lemish. Everyone is thrilled to be witnessing this major sporting event. Except our correspondent on the spot, our Mr. Lemish. So who’s making you stay here, Fred Lemish? When are you going to say at last: I don’t want…that? When are you going to ask at last: Where here is pleasure? Or joy?
Jack? Laverne? said: “Will you leave me alone, Dinky? Will you give me back my apartment? Will you grow up and go your own way and get out of my life a
nd let me go on with mine?” He punched in a little more.
And Dinky jerked up higher, higher, burbling, murbling higher: “I can feel!”
And Jack suddenly wondered just what he was accomplishing. He’ll always have me in his power after this. And I can’t kill him and maybe it’s too bad for all of us that I can’t.
But Humpstone tried again. “You now have all of me, Dinky. You have all my arm up to my elbow. Will you throw away your leather and your dildoes and your cast of thousands and your lies? Will you? Will you!” And he clenched his fist against the farthest region’s wall.
Dinky just continued to jerk up in pleasure and smile at heaven. That elusive heaven. Now so close. Now almost here. He tried to say a few more words to Jack. “I…I…I…want…your…other…arm!”
There. He had said it. Did Lemish and Laverne realize that in these words lay Dinky’s answer?
The crowd at least was most impressed. Gasps of empathy and admiration and hero-worship and the manifestation of same as fists shot up and clenched and reclenched like applause. Oh, heroes of old, ancient Greece and Rome, Thrace and Asia Minor, Crete and all points East and West, make way, make way, make way for Dinky Adams! Yes, gasps of pride for one of their own went up from all around.
Except of course from you-know-who.
You-know-who is still in his aisle seat, first row of the orchestra, Mr. First Nighter, a bit hysterical, looking at his leading lady and wondering, hoping, praying that this might just be their most cathartic, final, truly final, curtain. He waits for a few tears of his own. They’re not coming. My face and eyes and feet are numb. I can’t take it all in. You’re in heaven, Dinky. You are now evidently up in heaven at last, completely fulfilled, smiling magnificently, you don’t even know I’m here, yes, up in some heaven where two partial arms of your ex-lover who is still your lover because of course he can’t kill you, of course he’s still in your system, he can’t get out of your system, that I understand, yes, up in some heaven where all of this takes you. Thank you, God.
