MY BABY'S AFFLICTION

SIX

 

 

MY BABY’S AFFLICTION

“Well, it’s so hard, bathing him, washing him, and of course he doesn’t appreciate it” Dolly Compton said into the phone, as she leaned back against the Formica counter. “I…well, I can’t help wondering if the accident was God’s way of punishing Toddy,  sending him back to his folks, who love him, and want to…yes, I know, Gertrude.”

 

“But…” Mrs. Compton lit a Pall Mall and inhaled, scowling as one of her plastic dime-store curlers fell in front of her eyes. “Gertie, I didn’t buy Todd that motorcycle, I didn’t tell him to drive it drunk, and  I didn’t tell him to be a sodomite. Remember? We nailed his windows shut so he wouldn’t sneak out with those disgusting people…Yes. Oh, I have to go too. The rummage sale? Father Macklin wants us…” Mrs. Compton nodded her head briskly and said a quick goodbye.

 

Gertrude probably wanted to get off the phone so she could stuff her face, Mrs. Compton thought to herself complacently. It was such a waste for Father to appoint Gertrude head of the Rummage Sale Committee. But, then again, with Todd to look after…Roderick was right, of course, they should probably put the ungrateful little somebody into a nursing home.

 

Dolly Compton poked out her cigarette in an ashtray made as a model of the Crucifixion that she and Rod had up visiting his brother at Holy Cross College back in 1963. Viciously she stubbed the butt right below the cross.

 

“Ma?”

 

Dolly looked up. “Yes, Toddy, what is it, hon?”

 

“Is um, Edmund here yet?”

 

“No, he’s coming in about five minutes. I just got you changed and I hope you two won’t be out too long, but I’m glad a nice young man like that can take you off my hands for a little while.”

 

How a nice, masculine boy like Edmund O’Neill could have shared an apartment with her son  for three years and not know of Todd's disgusting habits? Or maybe he did know, but felt sorry for Todd as one Catholic would for another. It was an affliction, after all.

 

Dolly went into the living room, and smiled at her poor son. Oh, how she wished she could get him to eat more. He was so thin! Sometimes she put an extra egg in Todd’s milk shakes or in his macaroni and cheese, but that always made his diaper a nasty, liquid mess.

 

“So will Edmund be taking you to afternoon services, or what will you boys be doing?”

 

“I don’t know, Ma. Possibly we’ll go sit in the park for a while. Tunstall Park is so nice.”

 

Dolly sighed, looking at her son, languishing in the wheelchair. He had been such a sweet child, he’d built a dollhouse for his sisters, and always helped Dolly around the house. And he’d become a pastry chef, and made the best wedding cakes in Lilburn City! Why a nice boy like Todd couldn’t have married well…and now all he did all day was watch “General Hospital” and “The Guiding Light” on the boob tube.

 

LAWNS MAKE FERRET QUEASY

 

Ferret patted Deon’s shoulder. “Here’s good.” Deon parked Carl’s 1967 rusting blue Chevy Impala at the end of Pearl Avenue. Deon grinned at Ferret. “This is because of the Compton bitch, right? A queer alone better than a queer and a spear chucker?”

 

Ferret rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t know about me, I think.”

 

“Shoulda been in the apartment last night,  all that banging around in your room, that Chinese delivery boy.” Deon looked serious for a moment. “You don’t think you’ll need help with the wheelchair, Ferret?”

 

Ferret laughed. “I was juggling men in wheelchairs before  you were born, kid. Wait right here.” Ferret got out of the car and began walking down the block. Deon was gratified to see Ferret cover his nose once or twice. The boy was allergic to suburbs, or something.

 

Deon leaned his head out the window. What you looking at, white man? Son of a bitch running his grass cutter staring at a colored boy in an old Chevy in this cracker neighborhood. Ugh.

 

Deon had not been crazy about it when Daddy had moved to the gay ghetto, but he had had to admit that the faggots had treated him better than straight white people, he’d grown up having a pretty good time. Shit, look at this ofay bitch with her daughter walking by and looking at him. Like I’ll rape you, bitch.

 

Finally, Ferret came, rolling Todd Compton up the street. Mr.Compton was a pretty good guy. He'd had that bakery,right in the neighborhood,and the door was always open.  Mr. Compton had given Deon and his friend’s carte blanche on whatever sugary leftovers they wanted while coming home from school. It had been a shame when Mr. Compton had crashed that bike, man.

 

Todd appeared to be crying. “And he yells at me,  at night, when he gets home drunk from the V.F.W. Hall, Ferret. And I can’t walk out of the house, or even out of the room anymore. I’m like, ‘Daddy, I can’t help it if I’m a fairy.”

 

Ferret opened the car door and Todd, seeing Deon, paused and smiled. “Hi Deon, how are you?” Ferret took a red neckerchief out of his pocket and held it over Todd’s nose.

 

“Blow” he ordered, and Todd blew, and then Ferret wiped  Todd’s face. He lifted Todd up and put him carefully in the back seat of the sedan, and shut the door, and then folded the wheelchair up, shoving it in the trunk.

 

“How’s it going, Mr. Compton.” Deon said. “We going to the park, or the baths today?”

 

“Wherever I can use my mouth more usefully.” Todd said, and when Ferret got in the car, they all laughed a little too loudly.

THE STRINGS ATTACHED CAN STRANGLE

FIVE

THE STRINGS ATTACHED CAN STRANGLE

 

Ferret wandered into Steamworks at seven the morning after his park visit. He’d tricked with Paul, the pale guy. Married, of course, and full of excuses. Paul had said something about running for council member of their ward, or some such. Ferret hadn’t been aware there was a ward.

 

“Oh shit, Dwight, what’re you doing here?” Ferret was surprised. Dwight had hooked up with a dry-cleaning solvent heir, and the guy had given Dwight a bright red ’74 Dodge Challenger.

 

“I’ll never be back to run this shitty little towel booth…fare the well, you nelly bottoms.” Dwight had said before he’d moved into Bruce whathisname’s spacious loft.

 

Dwight pouted. “Bruce caught me with his chauffer.”

 

Ferret stopped in the open door to the booth. “That fat fuck has a chauffer? I know he bought you a car, but he’s so rich and lazy, he don’t drive his own?” Ferret was agog. “But he doesn’t even work, does he?”

 

“Well, it’s his dad’s chauffer. Big blue eyes. His dad was visiting, and I went down to get a pack of cigarettes, and we ended up in the back of the limo.” Dwight’s eyes began tearing up. “And—and he threw me out, Bruce did, and Bruce Senior almost disinherited him anyway, when he caught us—me and NuShawn, the chauffer.”

 

“Nushawn?” Ferret giggled. “You are such a dinge queen. Too bad you couldn’t find someone who was colored AND rich, and then you might not, um,stray, Dee-wight.”

 

“Now I have to go back and live at my mom’s and I’m just lucky, Skimpole hired me back. Otherwise I would be driving a fuckin’ hack or something, Ferret.”

 

“Well, you were too dumb to get through beauty school” Ferret observed cruelly. “Maybe Bruce’ll take you back, though. I can’t believe his old man caught you guys doin’ it. Did he fire the chauffer?”

 

“Don’t know, don’t care, and  frankly, my shift is over, so the booth is all yours.” Dwight grabbed his jacket and  flounced out.

 

“Dwight, do you need some cash?” Ferret leaned out over the booth stall door. “I don’t have much, but you took me and Suds out a couple times on Brucie’s Master Charge.”

 

Dwight smiled cheerily. “Nope…Bruce took the keys to the Challenger, but I believe he’s misplaced his Rolex and his diamond tie-pin.”

 

THE CANDIDATE IS DISTRACTED

“Paul, you have to memorize these water and sewage statistics” Harmon said earnestly. “Bolsover wasted a lot of money last term, and I think you can really hammer him there.”

 

Paul tried to look attentive, but his mind was still in Tunstall Park, in the arms of Ferret, the young, but quite masculine towel manager at  the Steamworks Baths. Unfortunately, he’d not had much money that night, otherwise Paul might have taken Ferret to a hotel, or someplace more comfortable, where they wouldn’t have been rolling around on pine needles.

 

Harmon left the office, and Paul made an excuse and took the stairs to the street. It was a grueling campaign, and between running for Ward Councilman and trying to keep  Clarissa happy, it was horrific trying to get time to himself.

 

Paul thought of taking his car to the baths, but then decided the best thing would be to grab a taxi. He really didn’t need to have his Oldsmobile sitting out there in Sodomy City, as his father-in-law called it.

 

A LITTLE PALE, BUT THE WALLET’S FULL

 

Dwight leaned against the wall of Steamworks, smoking. He’d been able to trade Brucie’s Rolex to the dope man for a bag of optimism, but the pawn shop wouldn’t take the diamond tie pin, because Bruce had made some phone calls and so the pin was on some bullshit police list.

 

Mr. Skimpole wasn’t going to advance much ‘til Friday, and Dwight couldn’t just go filching peanut butter at Mom’s house, now could he? Why did he spend so damn much?
Since Bruce had shown Dwight the door day before yesterday, Dwight hadn’t quite adjusted to his new standard of living. No wonder the straights do alimony.

 

Eating too damned expensively, (but diner food gives one gas) taking cabs…and there was that amazing silk teal blouse…and then “I’m sorry sir, your card didn’t go through.”

 

Damn Brucie. Why was Dwight hanging around Steamworks anyhow? His shift didn’t go on until nine, and it was only two in the afternoon. But it was too much trouble to take the bus to Mom’s and then nap quickly and come back. Ugh.

 

The door to Steamworks opened, and a tall pale preppie stepped out, looking kind of down. He smiled at Dwight, who nodded back, winking sunnily.

 

The pale preppie stood in front of the bathhouse, staring into space, and then looked at Dwight again. “Are you going in there?” the preppie asked.

 

“I work in there, but my shift ain’t until later.” Dwight said, searching behind his ear for another cigarette.

 

“Oh, I’m…acquainted with one of the other employees, a nice fellow, uh, Otter O’Reilley?”

 

“You mean Ferret O’Neill?”

 

“Yes, that’s his name. Curious nickname, that. We got to know each other um, well, we’ve met a few times over the last few weeks and had, well we got closer, or so I thought, last night in Tunstall Park.”

 

“Yeah, by the statue of the colonel, right? Lotta getting to know there.” Dwight said, idly picking his teeth with a matchstick. There might be some cigarette butts in the gutter if he looked.

 

“Well, yes. But we-we seemed to have a connection. I’m, I’m in a marriage, and it’s one of those things, but Otter—“

 

“Ferret.”

 

“Yes, Ferret seemed very friendly, almost colloquial, we had a great conversation while we were, uh—“

 

“In the bushes. Yup.”

 

“But today, I came to see him, I wanted to tell Ferret that I’d like to spend more time with him, perhaps set up a place where we could get together that was safer, in an inexpensive single-room-occupancy place, but he was somewhat uncommunicative, as if he had associations with different people every night.”

 

“Yeah, I can see that, uh buddy, but—“

 

“Paul. My name is Paul, and you are—“

 

“I’m Dwight, Paul. Yes, I think Ferret, he’s got a lot goin’ on, his main man is in the joint, and he’s raisin’ the guy’s kid.”

 

“His-his lover is in prison?”

 

“Yeah, kind of a misunderstanding over the guy’s ex-wife and a pitchfork, and money. She lived, but  it was kinda serious. But Ferret is not really into commitment things.”

 

“Oh, that’s-that’s a shame.” A pause. “He-well, we seemed—“

 

“You know, I can see where a nice fella like you, might want to meet someone without a lot of complications. Why don’t we go over to the Orange Julius, and you can buy me a cuppa Joe, and we can talk a bit?”

 

“That would be splendid.”

PICNICKING IN JAIL AIN’T NO PICNIC

FOUR

PICNICKING IN JAIL AIN’T NO PICNIC

“That’s him” Carl pointed over the picnic table at a chunky midlife type, strolling gingerly through the grass at the Lilburn County Correctional Center.

 

“And who is he?” Ferret was getting kind of bored sitting here. It was better than the old days, when he was having to talk to Carl through the thick glass on the jail phone, but he still couldn’t TOUCH him, and wouldn’t be able to for at least a nickel-dime.

 

“Porter Peabody. Don’t you read the news at all? Jesus and you’re a white boy, and a gay white boy at that.” Carl’s brown eyes twinkled, and he patted Ferret’s wrist to show he was only kidding.

 

“What is he an um—a senator or something?” They were big, senators. Or a movie star? Now Ferret wished he’d guessed movie star.

 

“Porter Peabody, my pretty illiterate, is a world-class embezzler. He stole millions from Mortlake National.”

 

“Shit, recently?” Ferret said, alarmed. “I think I have money there. It’s gone?” Ferret looked over at Peabody accusingly.

 

“No, the money, much of it was insured by the federal government, but Peabody is locked up here, and yes, I am looking after him. Not that big of a deal in a minimum security lockup, but, he’s been somewhat generous to me.”

 

Ferret wrinkled his nose. “You’re not like—“

 

Carl laughed uproariously. “No, no, I just keep ol’ Porter from getting his butt-reamed by all the other guys. We shower together, all that.”

 

“I miss that, showering together.” Ferret said, looking at his lover sadly.

 

“Me too, white boy. I should have thought about that before –“But Carl put his head in his hands.

 

Ferret looked at Carl, and felt sad. What could he do to cheer Carl up? Ferret grinned, thinking of what he’d LIKE to do. Only once a month, could he visit the love of his life…here in crapola.

 

Carl looked up at Ferret. “How’s Deon? He giving you any trouble?”

 

“No, I barely see him.” Ferret said, as he lit a Marlboro. “He goes to school, basketball, that kind of thing, has a girlfriend. That’s why he ain’t here today. The girlfriend.”

 

Actually, Deon spent most of his time sitting on Ferret’s couch, smoking hash oil and watching “As the World Turns” He had no girlfriend, and had refused to accompany Ferret to the prison because he blamed his father for having ruined their lives, for being queer, and for getting locked up…but Carl didn’t need to know all that.

 

Carl grinned big. He probably knew all. “Well, it’s good that you took Deon in—“

 

“Shut up, Carl.” Ferret said. “We were all living together, you hadda go away, your kid and I, we can make it. Steamworks pays shitty, but your mother sometimes drops money and food by, we can make it.”

 

“Well, Deon will be graduating this year, and I think  he’s got his eye set on the Marines. But Ferret, you got to move on, man. I-the parole hearing didn’t go well, you know.”

 

Ferret flicked away the cigarette and looked intently at Carl. Fuck!

 

MARITAL DISCORD, OR IS IT STRIFE?

 

Clarissa just couldn’t understand Paul. He was never home now. And when he was at home, he was in the living room, reading fitness magazines. It all seemed like childish behavior.

 

Paul’s mother had warned Clarissa that Paul had always had a childish streak. “When he was in the Fourth form at Andover, Paul spent all his time with a boy—a very un-natural theatrical boy, and in the end, his headmaster had to ask that we remove Paul from the school, and I think the other kid, a bit of a pansy, I’m afraid, was remanded to a mental institution.”

 

What was Clarissa to do? Paul was good with the kids, but so remote. And he went out late at night, and  didn’t go into where he was spending his time.

 

“Paul, dear…what are you doing?” She knew what he was doing.

 

“I’m just um, relaxing, work was difficult, Clarissa.”

 

“Could I help you relax?” She paused. “Make you a drink, rub your shoulders? The children are at Mother’s, so…”

 

“No” quickly. “I just need some time alone, dear. Thanks so much anyway.”

 

A moment later, Paul shouted that he was taking Biscuits out…Paul had such odd dog-walking proclivities, he put Biscuits in the car and took her to a park to walk her, because he said it was a good place for her to meet other dogs, but sometimes they didn’t get back until midnight!

 

SOME ENCHANTED EVENING…

 

Pilsudski tried to stand in the size fourteen double wide Mary Jane patent leather shoes. As his clubfoot was unbalancing on the heels, it was awkward. The white socks were looking a little gray, and Suds was doubtful that he passed as an innocent schoolgirl.

 

But Tunstall Park was nice this time of night, not too many men groping each other in the bushes, but a few cuties. Pilsudski’s friends often urged him not to do drag when he was trying to find a fuck-buddy, but this little gingham dress, bought from TranniTite in the big city across the river, looked positively fetching!

 

Suds saw two shadows moving towards him, and stiffened, because they could be cops. One was tall…oh, it was just Ferret and Gus. Gus looked like he had already been on his knees that night, keepin’ busy.

 

“Ah Suds. Don’t you look like you should be selling Girl Scout cookies this fine evening.” Gus said this and smiled. “Or auditioning for the new Heidi movie perhaps?”

 

“It ain’t a bad dress is it?” Pilsudski asked, you could never tell  whether Gus was fucking around with you.

 

“More of a frock like they’d wear in the ‘Sound of Music’, but ah well.” Gus replied. He slapped Ferret on the back. “Ferret has some unfortunate news, his husband won’t be sprung this March, as they thought.”

 

Ferret shook his head, and Suds reached out and gave him a hug. “Poor Carl. Well maybe next year, you think?”

 

“Nah, they gave him a two year wait until his next hearing, goddamnit.” Ferret’s eyes were wet, and this surprised Suds a bit. Ferret’s nickname was an amalgam of “Fairy” and “Faggot” but truth to be told, he was quite stoic, and more than a little masculine. But Suds knew how much Ferret cared for Carl.

 

“And you’re stuck with Carl’s offspring, too, right?” Gus said, as he casually looked around at a nearby day laborer’s tight dungarees.

 

“I don’t care about that, s’much.” Ferret said. “But Carl’s a-a righteous guy, and you know—he told me I should be moving on.”

 

“Well, you picked the right spot.” Suds said, twirling in his gingham dress, and nearly falling over on his club foot. “Lots of guys here tonight.” Suds tried to give a flirty wave to a handsome mustachioed type, and the man coldly looked away. Oh well.

 

“Ah, but there’s someone over there cruising Augustus, if I do say so myself.” Gus grinned hopefully. “Oh no, I think he’s looking at you, Ferret.”

 

Ferret squinted through tear-stained lashes. “Oh him. That’s the pale queen who shook my hand at the baths. Why’s he got a dog down here?”

FOR GRANDPA, IT’S ALL ABOUT GUMMING

THREE

FOR GRANDPA, IT’S ALL ABOUT GUMMING

 

Grandpa Bates hustled into Steamworks with a big smile through his white beard. Steamworks attendees ten to fifteen years younger than Grandpa, who was born around the turn of the century were often jealous of the old man’s appeal with the young’uns.

 

And truly, Grandpa couldn’t understand it all himself, except that he’d never had to go without a dick in his mouth since first blowing Reverend Blenkinsop in the Baptist Tabernacle  outhouse in his early teens, cleaning themselves up with newspapers headlining the Titanic disaster.

 

There’s a cutie, Grandpa thought, look at them nipples, pushing right out, pointed, they are. It was a good day to be here, though Grandpa was here every day.

 

And look at that Jewish boy coming out of the steam room. Circumsized, big thing. Those Jewish accountants knew how to play. Grandpa remembered right after he’d been discharged from service in Okinawa…he’d met a nice Hebe…rabbinical student, or young bookkeeper…what fun that had been, on shore leave in San Fran.

 

Grandpa had actually been a little old to be joining the service, but how could he have missed being in uniform with those beautiful, beautiful boys? There was nothing prettier than a fella in khaki, although here at Steamworks it was nice to see them, you know…in the pink!

 

Grandpa didn’t have to pay for entrance fees or even a locker key, as Henry, the feller who worked the entry booth had left his wife and kids after an early rogering by Grandpa…Henry had been a miserable insurance adjuster, and now was perfectly happy, at a tenth of his former wages, selling admittance to the Steamworks!

 

Grandpa Bates went into the locker room and deposited his clothing. Oooh, there was Mister Law-N-order himself, Selectman Caffyn, retired now, but it had galled Grandpa to hear Arnie Caffyn going on the radio back in ’49 and talking about the impure acts of his fellow citizens.

 

Caffyn smiled at Grandpa Bates, but Grandpa turned around and went down the narrow hall to the pool. Grandpa had left his upper plate in the locker basket, and would be chowing down today, he hoped. Lookee all that sausage!

 

A shy boy with hay colored hair waved at Grandpa through one of the personal rooms. Yesterday, or day previous to that, Grandpa had done a sixty-nine with the cute little guy. He’s a visiting Mormon missionary, told Grandpa. Lot of work, running around in those little white shirts with the ties.

 

Not too many splashing around in the pool today…couple guys. Grandpa sat down gingerly on the side of the pool and dipped his feet in. There’s a nice looking boy, Grandpa thought, just under thirty, I’ll wager.

 

“Hello sir.” The boy smiled at Grandpa. “I’m uh, Paul. Paul Smith.”

 

IS IT A GOOD IDEA? WHO KNOWS?

 

Ferret looked very seriously at Pilsudski. “Dude, you will not make a pretty girl. You’re a big, homely Polack.” The two were sitting in the booth, sharing a doobie and things were slow at Steamworks, although it was good to see Grandpa Bates wander by.

"Could I be like Marilyn? Or Rita Hayworth?" Pilsudski mused dreamily.

 

Ferret tactfully did not mention his friend’s thick spectacles or the hearing aids Suds had worn since third grade, or the fact that five foot one guy with a repaired harelip and club foot probably would never resemble Marilyn Monroe.

 

“It’s what I need, Ferret, my man. I’m not just a drag queen, you know.” Pilsudski passed the stick of pot to Ferret.

 

“Suds, you’re a terrible drag queen. Your nose is the size of Mount Rushmore.” Ferret took the joint back and breathed in. “But an operation is…insane. And dangerous, I think.” Ferret paused. “ The city prolly won’t let you drive the sanitation truck any more. And what will you tell your mom?”

 

Suds rolled his eyes. Mrs. Pilsudski had still not quite processed that her young one wasn’t going to be a priest. Even when she’d caught him modeling himself in his sister’s wedding gown, it had not quite gone through. Priests wore pretty clothes, right, and hell, if you became Pope, you got to really dress up!

 

“But then I could maybe marry a straight guy. It would be more normal, doncha think?”

 

Suds tried to picture it…a nice wedding, his mother could just let go of the whole hetero thing, right? Suds in a white dress, all virginal, maybe marrying a cute fireman. Just settling down as a real girl. Or a sort of real girl.

 

Ferret laughed. “When Steve D. from 43^rd Avenue got his dick cut off, the first dude who went to bed with him, or her, turned “Stephanie” over on the stomach and did “her” in the ass anyways…it just didn’t seem um, convincing, the hole.”

 

Suds was silent, as was Ferret. Steve D. had eventually eaten the gun, too. Memorial had been fucked, no clergy would show for it, and it had  just been a lot of lame-ass queens taking their turns babbling over the cremation jug before everyone went out and got blasted at Tequila Mockingbird. Ugh.

 

OLD MEN HAVE MUCH ENERGY, NO?

 

Paul was amazed by the old man, who insisted on being called Grandpa. A bit incestuous, although Paul had never met the guy before. What a blowjob, and apparently Grandpa wanted nothing in return.

 

“It’s been a long time since the equipment down here worked reliably, son.” Grandpa explained. “If you want to shove a little in my backside, I used to keep a nice sign on my wall saying “Entry in rear.”

 

“Well, this is quite a fun romp.” Paul said awkwardly. Here they were, doing it in the pool, and no one cared! Paul wondered why they had private rooms at all. Of course there had to be hygiene issues.

 

Grandpa climbed out of the pool, and Paul watched, astonished as he went to embrace yet another young man. What energy! Paul knew he should leave now. Clarissa probably was feeding Paul Charles and Bethany, and they would expect their father to put in an appearance.

 

Paul loved his kids, and was fond, in a strained way, of Clarissa. But there was a young man with a hairy chest staring at him from across the pool…Paul decided to doggy paddle over and just say hello, for a moment…

PAUL’S EXPERIENCE IS BROADENED

TWO

PAUL’S EXPERIENCE IS BROADENED

 

“Well, it’s a watch store, and I’ve always been fascinated by this neighborhood” Paul McAllen said to his wife as the Pinto pulled up on Fourth Street.

 

“But darling, Daddy’s watch repair guy is so good, Jews are good at that, and I think it’s so silly for you to be wandering about this dodgy area.” Clarissa shook her head, tapping a long red nail on the steering wheel. “Look at that awful Steamworks place, someone at the club told me that it’s filled with fudge-packers.”

 

Paul grinned. “Don’t be ridiculous, and what a nasty term for a pretty girl to use.”

 

“They’ll rape you Paul, if you walk by that place!” Clarissa shrieked, but Paul had already slammed the door of the Pinto, and breathed through his nose as she took off for an afternoon at Bergdorf Goodman.

 

He really should actually GO to the watch store, before checking out Steamworks, Paul thought. It would back up his story a bit. But even looking at the front of the building made Paul’s cock inflate a bit in his chinos.

 

Zeus, the elevator man at Paul’s office had given Paul good tips previously. Paul had enjoyed his time at Tequila Mockingbird, he’d been afraid it would be too pansy-ish, but there had been a nice math teacher, muscular guy with big shoulders, who had invited Paul back to his place for one heck of a great time.

 

Paul jay walked across Fourth Street, looking around for cops and other—well shit, anyone he knew, but no one from Appleton Heights would be down here, as Clairissa said, it was a dodgy neighborhood.

 

Paul knocked at the door of Steamworks. He looked around yet again. If anyone came up to him, he could just say he thought they did Turkish baths there, though just a year ago the place was raided and there was a big, nasty article about it in the “Chronicle”. Lots of names, people arrested all that in the paper. Ugh.

 

But no one answered the damn door! So Paul pulled at the knob, and damned if there wasn’t a flight of stairs. You’d think they’d have heard the cops running up last year and found a way out. He should go, really.

 

But Paul, as if pulled by a magnet, trotted up the stairs obediently, and gave a buck fifty to a fellow behind a glass case. Receiving a key and towel in return, Paul went through the door of the “Locker Room” (Only Men’s, of course,) and undressed, putting everything in a little locked basket.

 

A big, swarthy Italian came in—Jesus, look at his tattoos—must be Navy. Paul tried not to look, but the guy was mother-naked, yes as the day he was born, and look at all those obscene MUSCLES!

 

The Italian dropped the towel, and (yup, dick like a garden hose) began unlocking one of the little baskets, didn’t want to pay for a locker either. But then he looked up at Paul and smiled, and Paul turned his eyes to the floor and walked out of there, mumbling to himself.

 

Who wants to make friends too fast in a crazy place like this, right?

 

ALL KINDS COME IN HERE

 

Ferret hammered on the shitty little black and white television. Son of a bitch, if Skimpole could afford to put in new Jacuzzis in the north wing, he could give Ferret a better tube, it had been twenty-seven months, twenty-seven of them, by Christ, in this nasty little booth, and the TV was fucked when Ferret took the goddamn job.

 

A tall, pale but cute-ish guy came to the counter. He stuck his hand out, like he was about to sell Ferret a vacuum cleaner. “Hi. I’m Paul McAl—Paul Smith.”

 

Ferret took the hand warily. “Yeah.”

 

“Nice little shop you have here.” The guy was about twenty-eight, maybe three years older than Ferret. Maybe four. “They gave me a towel when I came in, but you have more back here?”

 

“Well, that’s just for your waist, these are to you know, dry off after you been in the pool.” And you can tip for any towels you get from me, you cheap bastard.

 

“So there’s a pool here, right? And steam rooms, saunas?” Paul Whatever grinned at Ferret as if he were running for office.

 

“Dude, it’s all yours.” Ferret said, pointing up and down the hall. “Pool’s just down there, and the sauna, too.”

 

“What are those little rooms?”

 

“Uh, well,  if you are shy, you can just rent a room four bucks—people can knock, and if you like the looks of them, you can invite them in,” And they can drain your dragon, idiot “And you know, um, exchange massages, talk about sports, social.”

 

The pale guy looked a little weirded out as he stared down the hall. “I—my God, I think that’s a caddy from my club. It couldn’t be, could it? From Burning Tree?”

 

Ferret didn’t know what a caddy was. He had been smoking reefers all morning, too. Burning Tree?

 

OLD HOME WEEK

 

D’Angelo smiled at Poofy Hair, who had just blown him. Now Poofy probably wanted D’Angelo to like, hang out and maybe get married or something, but D was here for the next eight hours, he’d even sneaked in some tater chips just to keep his energy going. Look at all this swinging dick.

 

Whoa…was that Mr. McAllen? No shit. Look at his pale ass. Looking around like someone might rape him. D’Angelo wondered if McAllen had come in by mistake. No, the way he just looked at that kid’s ass—oooh, closet queen.

 

There were a ton of them, though at Burning Tree Country Club. D’Angelo caddied for Mr. Blundell, who tipped D’Angelo at the seventh hole to unzip his trousers, and also Mr. Tomlinson, who D had corn-holed in one of the sand-traps.

 

But Mr. McAllen? He always seemed so macho. Pretty wife, kind of a bitch. D’Angelo was engaged too, of course. He would marry Juanita after she finished her course at the United Business College. Strict Catholics, they had promised their parents to wed after the second kid was born, and it was comin’ soon.

 

Was Mr. McAllen cruising D’Angelo? He seemed to have noticed him. Shit, he didn’t want to freak the dude out. White people got real panicky, especially white maricons

LONG DAY AT THE BATHS

ONE
LONG DAY AT THE BATHS
Edmund "Ferret" O'Neill folded towels and watched the little, shitty, black-and-white television in the booth at Steamworks Holistic Baths. Ferret shook his head. All this crap about Walter Cronk-whatever being upset that President Ford pardoned Tricky Dick, sure, whatever. Dude, he quit, Nixon's out of there.

Why the fuck do people want him in jail? Nixon was too old and wrinkly for jail, anyway. The last time Ferret got caught in the bushes in Tunstall Park, he did thirty days at Precinct Nine, and at least there was some nice studs there.

"What's going on?" Gus looked in, smiling. "You watching the latest betrayal?"

Ferret took a drag of his Pall Mall and shook his head. "It's all bullshit, Gus, they should leave Nixon alone, you know?" Gus had to work on his sit-ups, man.Or not parade around in a bathtowel. No wonder  he didn't get laid.

"Ferret, you don't understand. This pardon means that Nixon will get his Presidential pension, all that money...it means there can be no investigation, no prosecution. No--" Gus's commie rant was interrupted as he turned to smile at a blond boy in Ray-Bans, hustling by in Speedos.

"Hi Rick,isn't it?" But the boy had no eyes (or shades) for Gus, he just wandered on.

 Ferret wondered if maybe Gus should keep his hairpiece on in the Baths.

"You know, Gus, Doctor Phibbs was in here,and he said that they all do this kind of shit, in Congress,it's just the price of getting the job done, like in that book, "The Godfather" right?" Ferret had just read "The Godfather" and had been very impressed by it.

"Doctor Phibbs is such a closet case. He'd probably have voted for  Nixon if the dude had been in favor of shooting queers, you know? I wonder if he's given the clap to his wife yet."

But finally Gus was so hypnotized by Rick-whatever's ass that he let go of the subject and staggered down the hall to jump into Steambath Number Four.

Ferret looked into the cracked mirror of his little booth,and slicked back his dark curl. He wondered if he really looked like James Dean. I gotta get out of here, these faggots are driving me crazy. But he typed like four words a minute, and didn' t like lifting heavy shit, or any shit at all.

After Ferret had been caught in that music room with Brother O'Shaughnessy, the orphanage had sent him to a head doctor, who'd told Ferret that a good, strong boy like him probably wasn't a homosexual, just inexperienced. After all, if you only ate vanilla ice cream, how would you know i f you liked chocolate?

Ferret wasn't sure. He'd been with girls, a little bit, but there's so much you can do with a guy. And they're easier to you know, hang out with. Although the fairies who hung around Steamworks, eeeh...