*
1992. Marcus Seymour Marigold, 72, Caucasian, 5’6, 142 lbs., 9 inches, circumcised.
Snickles Two’s tail twitched as she sensed an unseen squirrel. Marcus was patient and let the Pomeranian work her excitement out before giving the leash a gentle tug. Retired for the better part of a decade, he was still surprised at how his routine was similar to his former work day, albeit with more naps, neighbors were now friends instead of strangers, and the wine bottle was opened earlier and earlier. Same apartment as when he moved to the city, the five floor walk-up kept him lean. People often thought he was at least ten years younger than his actual age. Snickles Two whined and pulled him in a new direction and he let himself be led deeper into the park.
*
Though the sun had not yet set, Golden Boy slipped out from within the folds of an oak tree and sat on the water’s edge. He wore a tight black t-shirt and a pair of faded gym shorts that he’s salvaged from the trash. Fingers lazing in the water, a small dog nuzzled him from behind. He turned to see an apologetic older man tugging at the leash and Golden Boy laughed.
“It’s okay. I am here to make new friends.”
Marcus puzzled at the stilted accent and let Snickles Two off her leash. She bound and twirled over her new found freedom and the youth who so attracted her rolled in the dirt, matching the dog’s enthusiasm with an almost alarming alacrity. He was dumbstruck by how attractive the young man was –a halo of sexual energy emanated from around his sinewy body like a barely perceptible fog.
Now squatting and petting the dog, Golden Boy felt Marcus staring at him, his mouth literally open in wonderment, so he stretched and stood and took off his shirt. Marcus looked around to see if this was really happening and ran through the mental list of possibilities:
This kid is crazy.
He’s a weird foreigner.
He’s a scam artist.
He’s homeless.
Maybe he’s into older guys.
This kid is crazy.
He’s on drugs.
If he wants a Daddy, my Social Security check wasn’t made for two.
This kid is a homeless, crazy, weird foreign scam artist on drugs.
Maybe he just likes me?
…
A tourist family briskly wheeled a stroller between them.
Golden Boy mouthed “What do you want?”
Marcus swallowed and whispered “For you to come home with me.”
Golden Boy had shaped himself to every fantasy placed before him, had ever and always acquiesced, so he simply nodded in agreement. Snickles Two sensed the new bond and approved in a frenzy of slobber and tail wagging. Marcus smiled weakly, alternate strings of hope and fear laced his heart so tightly that he couldn’t speak, so instead he offered his arm and Golden Boy took it. Snickles Two launched them homeward and shortly Golden Boy stepped out of the park for the first time.
*
Locking the door behind them, Marcus was shocked when they made it inside his apartment –he hadn’t entertained male company since Clifford, already wasting away from AIDS, had died of pneumonia in the early eighties. He was shocked that he was making tea for two, that Snickles Two so obviously approved, that the boy lounging on his couch seemed so preternaturally peaceful and at ease in his home. That he had walked barefoot in the streets of Manhattan, that alternately crossing his long legs revealed the soles of his feet to be perfectly clean was another matter altogether. There was much to ponder and ask and yet he just wanted to sit with this boy and bask in his youthful radiance. Still, there were enough red flags that he also thought to alert one of his closer friends in the building that he had a guest, to check up on him in a little while but then Golden Boy stood and slipped out of his shorts and opened his arms and Marcus went to him. The tea pot whistled and they pulled apart long enough to turn off the stove, put Snickles Two in the kitchen with some hastily poured dog food and then they stumbled and tugged at one another into the bed room. Marcus whispered into his ear and Golden Boy smiled –happy to hear some nearly-forgotten words from seasons past.
*
Because Marcus never asked Golden Boy to leave, he stayed. He would sleep most of the day, which initially vexed the older man. Whenever he would walk the dog or run his errands, he was suspicious upon his return the boy would be gone, that his apartment would be robbed. But he got used to the strange youth in his bed always being there. Strange because if Marcus came home late, or was out during the evenings, whenever he returned he often found the boy naked in bed, legs spread with a vibrant oozing erection while he teethed on one of the pewter candle sticks his mother had left him. Strange because he never asked for anything, never called friends, never made requests, demands, trouble, never argued, preferred to be as nearly naked as possible indoors or out, and though he occasionally used a Spanish word or two, never gave a hint to his background.
Some of his friends were bemused, some outraged, some pitied him until they met Golden Boy, whom he introduced as “Goldie,” and then quite a few were jealous. His downstairs neighbor, Marcie, who, like Marcus was retired but thought leaving New York was not only ridiculous but paramount to a death sentence, threatened to call the police and took every opportunity to question Goldie. Marcie had gone to meet Marcus at the hospital the night Clifford had passed. She sat with him quietly in the cab home as it was stuck in traffic. She passed a twenty dollar bill to the driver and touched Marcus on the knee and said, “Come.” He followed and they walked the rest of the way home together. He wept openly as they made their way down Lexington and she said nothing. Marcie understood grief as a bodily force, a series of breath-driven upheavals –the violent spin of a dropped compass. She knew this was coming and had a bottle of whiskey ready, standing guard under the sink with the Lysol. They’ve been friends now for twenty-five years. Her reservations about Goldie were never completely laid to rest but she liked that he would run errands for the older residents of the building. His inability to learn how to play bridge confirmed her suspicion that he was probably “simple” –her word, to the point where she worried over who would look after Goldie once Marcus was gone.
*
One afternoon Marcus was clearing out his dresser to take some old clothes to a charity re-sale shop when he noticed that his gold cufflinks were missing. A sigh of relief passed his lips. He’d fretted for the better part of the year that this perfect body on his couch was too good to be true. He relished the fight they were going to have, when Goldie came home from walking Snickles Two, the admonishments, the confession (and that the boy would finally drop that weird accent), the intense make-up sex –he needed them to finally get to a place of truth. He heard the keys at the lock and the jangle of Snickles Two’s collar and as the door opened Marcus was positioned dramatically, square in the middle of the living room, mouth drawn –the empty velvet box that had held cufflinks in his palm open wide like the maw of a tattling child.
Golden Boy smiled as Snickles Two danced between Marcus’ legs and then made for the water bowl. Marcus stood still as the boy followed the dog into the kitchen. He resolved to stand there until he received an honest response, tears welling in his eyes, tears of regret as he was terrified of losing him, that the price of his accusation would be an empty bed. His Goldie quickly returned, now shirtless (he was forever shedding clothes the minute he came home) and holding a spoon. Marcus recognized it as a piece of the good silver he hadn’t taken out in probably a decade. He wearily committed to counting them after whatever fight they were about to have blew over, but the thought dissipated as the boy solemnly nodded toward his upraised palm in acknowledgement over the missing cufflinks and placed the spoon in his mouth and closed his eyes. His body seemed to vibrate like a tuning fork and he fell to his knees. Marcus dropped the empty velvet box and rushed to his side. The boy sighed and opened his mouth and the melting end of the spoon dropped and sizzled into the carpet. The boy twitched in ecstasy, one finger on his erect pink nipple, a wild erection straining agai
nst his shorts. Marcus wept. He cried knowing that, having craved an answer, all he could afford was more mystery, and that now he would have to pay for it with silver and gold.
*
After the incident on the carpet, far from counting the silverware, Marcus put what remained of his family heirloom under the bed. After a few weeks, when the cypress box was depleted, Marcus would buy cufflinks and metal trinkets at the neighborhood thrift shops, feeding his ravenous boy on the couch or in bed, sometimes on the floor. The feedings were always carnal affairs. When Marcus first inserted a tacky serving spoon into his ass, Golden Boy’s moans of ecstasy drove the older man wild. Upon closer inspection he found the expansive, needy nature of the boy’s hypnotic hole an addictive necessity. Marcus masturbated daily with his face between raised legs –slipping objects inside and watching them dissolve as Golden Boy shook back and forth. Ignored, Snickles Two would whine and shit on the kitchen floor. Marcie, tired of knocking, would slip snide notes under his door, and questioned the other neighbors about Marcus’ increasingly bizarre, aloof behavior, and if anyone else had lent him unreturned kitchen utensils.
*
When social services arrived, the apartment was a fetid mess, the air thick with the stench of dog shit, semen, and moldering Chinese food. Marcus, looking pale and wane wouldn’t let them in. One day, as Goldie took Snickles Two for a rare walk, Marcie slipped into the apartment before Marcus had time to close the door. She was appalled at the stench and disarray.
“Oh Marcus, Clifford would be so ashamed.”
She played her strongest card and was shocked when he blinked –he in was in his boxers, a dirty blanket across his shoulders, his eyes unfocused and hollow –he looked unsure of just who she was talking about.
“Let’s go to my place, I’ll make some coffee and we can talk about this.” She gestured at the trash-strewn floor, barely able to hide the contempt in her voice.
“Okay, Marcie, I’d like that.” He sounded so defeated, so weak. She was taken aback, so sure of his refusal that she hadn’t actually planned how to talk some sense into him. He wavered, looking confused, so she grabbed him by the elbow and silently prayed that the new couple across the hall from her was home –one of them was a nurse and might able to help. As they took the steps one by one, Snickles Two came bounding up the stairwell, his loose leash flogging the steps behind him. Marcus rubbed his eyes and called out “Goldie, Goldie!” and then collapsed weeping as Marcie ran down to the next floor and started banging on the nearest apartment door.
*
1999, Daniel Elon, 33, Jewish, 5’6, 146 lbs., 7 inches, circumcised.
A native New Yorker, Daniel was annoyed that he was lost in the park. His wife and their friends were close by, lounging on the picnic blanket enjoying the last of the summer’s symphonies while he had gotten turned around after excusing himself to take a leak. Occasionally he could hear snippets of music as he turned a corner. There were men everywhere, hushed men cruising –he was surprised that this activity still went on in the age of AIDS. But as a doctor, and specifically an internist, he knew better than to discriminate –after all, his cousin Gage had died of the disease. Still, he shuddered that gay men still took such unnecessary risks.
Humidity permeated the August heat –it hung off the trees like thick moss. Parched and inebriated, Daniel just wanted out, yet he had drunk more than his share of wine and the urge to urinate again was overwhelming. (This always happened when he was under stress.) He secreted himself between two dusty boulders and undid his fly. He could feel unseen eyes and let his chinos drop a bit more to reveal the hairy cleave of his ass. Sweat pearled at his ear as he let loose a torrent of piss against the nearest tree trunk. He’d always been particularly proud of his penis; in college and now at the gym, he liked to be naked and seen by other men. He felt as if he were single-handedly dispelling the myth that Jewish men had small pricks, and relished the fact that his thick cock was as long soft as it was hard. He arched his back and stretched out his arms as his dick lengthened, a droplet of urine that had caught in his now retracted foreskin glistened in the moonlight. He moved his hips back and forth; ostensibly to shake out any remaining drops of piss, but also anyone around would better see the silhouette of his cock coming alive. His pants dropped to his ankles as he began to stroke himself. Another pair of hands joined in, one on his cock, the other clutched his furry abdomen. Daniel gasped and relaxed as the quickening grip brought him closer to orgasm; hot breath on his ear –nimble tongue swabbed the sweat across the nape of his neck like a darting humming bird. The hands gathering his flesh were young, practically incandescent. He turned his head to get a better look at who was jacking him off when lips met his. Oh, he thought I was turning around to kiss him–well HIV doesn’t transmit easily through saliva, so there isn’t much of a risk –I need to get back to Sheila –Oh God that feels good–
Daniel groped and turned, a web of pre-cum from both their hard cocks further linking their bodies. The youth kissed him deeply and Daniel gasped as the kiss turned more urgent, probing, the tongue in his mouth fraught, expansive. Sharp pain gripped his skull. He struggled, caught between the tree trunk and the constricting grip around his waist. He gagged as the muscle pushing through his mouth rhythmically worked out one gold filling after another. He hit his attacker, who just held him tighter. They were now face to face: he was a mere boy(!), his eyes off in the distance as Daniel’s erection flagged and blood pooled in his mouth to such a degree that he gulped it down or risked choking and no one came to his aid as no one could hear him for the boy also ate his screams.
*
1947. Bjorn, 19, Caucasian, 5’5, 135 lbs., 4.5 inches, uncircumcised.
The shed stank of moist, wormy compost. Still, he welcomed the bit of warmth trapped beneath the corrugated tin roof arching over row after row of tulip bulbs. He and his boss, Sem, had arrived at the same time –the crack of dawn, and both drank coffee from their oddly matching thermoses in silence. Bjorn had recently graduated from Agriculture College and looked after the plants as if he were running an orphanage: his delicate charges unlikely to live through the night without his solemn care. The much older Sem was gruff and quiet. He’d been imprisoned for black marketeering during the war, and whatever had happened to him at the camp had left scars that ran deep. As a supervisor, he was cautious and calm, though he could crack a grin after a few pints of lager. Whenever Bjorn finished his cigarette and flicked the butt, he always felt Sem greedily tracking its progress, as if later, if another war broke out and rations ran thin, he’d know where to go to salvage a few remaining wisps of tobacco.
A farmer drove up in a flatbed heavy with grim soil. The driver didn’t get out so Sem jogged over, whispered harshly through the barely rolled down window, and shoved some money into the crack. He motioned for Bjorn who nodded and grabbed a shovel. He knew from the first shovelful that the consistency of the dirt was too fine, that it was leavened with ash. They shoveled in silence and when they were done the farmer drove off. The sky brightened but Bjorn could smell a burnt, powdery stench. Times were hard. There were still so little livestock in the Netherlands that fertilizer was expensive; they had to make do. During moonless nights, poor farmers would dig up the black sooty earth surrounding the dismantled concentration camp. He knew the valley where it had been, was told by his parents in hushed tones that the camp there was much worse than the simple way station everyone had been led to believe. It was rumored that all of the inverts and transvestites of Rotterdam were brought there and, unlike Sem, never left. Better was when he was a child and his grandparents told him ancient bedtime stories about the fey folk of the valley, stories of elves and sprites hungry for hidden treasure. These were wonderful tales of mischievous creatures bent on midnight frolic. He wondered if such fables were meant to die with their generation, for the valley was now poisoned by unspoken cruelty and torture. No matter how quickly they pulled down the barbed wire, the very dirt, the essence from which all else was me
ant to grow, was tainted.
*
Sem went to check on the water pump as Bjorn pushed a wheelbarrow of black earth into the shed. He scooped up the soil and patted it gingerly around each bulb. He shook out clumps of old root –the farmers must have been digging deeper, he thought as he carefully molded the dirt around the nascent bulbs. A primeval bit of seed, of something hard, dropped into the planter and Bjorn absently patted it into the soil surrounding a rather sturdy bulb. It was older then the tales Bjorn’s grandparents told him, from before the Netherlands had their kings, certainly well before men gained the sophisticated skills with which to engineer ovens hot enough to turn other men into ash.
Bjorn was proud that the current crop of tulips was destined for New York City. The Netherlands were gifting thousands of bulbs to the U.S. in gratitude for their monumental help during and after the war. The gesture was wonderful but, really, the government was buying up the tulips to spur the economy. He hoped the New World had an early spring, to give the flowers their fullest bloom.
Abominations of Desire Page 17
