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