By
Greg Bowden
Chapter Two
I went home and did
something I never do in the afternoon: I poured myself a very stiff scotch. I sat
in my chair and stared out the window at the trees across the street. What the hell
was I doing? I didn’t have an answer then and I still didn’t have one two hours
later when I was thoroughly plastered. I thought about hitting the bars,
looking for someone, but I decided all I had to give anyone was a confused
drunk so I went to bed and slept for eleven hours instead.
I felt like hell when
I woke up. My mouth was dry and lined with sand paper and my head ached
horribly. I took some aspirin with a glass of orange juice but I couldn’t keep
it down and that made me feel worse. I also hurt all over, as though I’d been
in a train wreck which, thinking about it, maybe I had.
I finally called
Richard, a masseur I go to fairly often and he said he was available for the
next few hours and I could come right over if I wanted. I pulled on some
clothes, found a cab and went to have my body beaten up some more.
“You look like hell,
Dan,” Richard said when he opened the door.
“Please. Don’t. I
feel ten times worse than I look.”
“Not possible.” He
pointed at the guest room that he’s fixed up as a little massage room. “In
there. Get naked and lie on the table.”
Richard is one of
those masseurs who work naked but I felt so horrible that I didn’t even try to
fool around with him. At one point, just before he turned me over, he dropped
his dick in my hand and when I didn’t do more than close my hand around it he
asked me if I’d died. When he turned me over and found me still flaccid all he
said was, “Diagnosis confirmed.”
He changed his mind a
half hour later when he’d finally rubbed the tension out of me and gotten the
kinks out of my muscles. Then he changed his style, his hands on me everywhere,
touching, caressing, kneading, bringing me up until I thought I might explode
and then pushing me over the edge and making me do just that. Then he left me
alone, letting me pull myself together before I took a long, hot shower.
When I was dressed I
found Richard in the living room, drinking a cup of coffee. “Help yourself,” he said, waiving at a small tray of coffee and
rolls beside one of the chairs. When I was settled in he looked pointedly at me
and asked me what I’d been up to, “besides whatever it was you subjected
yourself to last night.”
I started to say
“nothing much” but Chip got in the way again and I found myself telling Richard
the whole story: meeting Chip, buying him clothes, paying him to spend time
with me. Everything. Including the
fact that I loved him and was scared shitless.
“Why?” he asked,
getting up and going to the kitchen to make another pot of coffee. “Some of
those young guys are really dynamite.”
“You may be right,” I
said, following him and leaning against the kitchen door frame. “But never to
me. I’ve never looked at a kid that way. And that’s the funny part, if there is
a funny part here. I tried--a couple of times--to picture myself making love
with him and… nothing.”
Richard took a carton
of orange juice out of the refrigerator and waived it at me. I shook my head
and he tipped the carton up and drank from it. “You mean as a jack off
fantasy?”
“Yeah. But I couldn’t focus on him. He just kept, I
don’t know, disappearing, I guess. Both times I ended up with someone else.” I
gave him my best leer. “As I remember, once it was you.”
He put the orange
juice away and came over to me. “You’re the sweetest client I have, you know?”
he said and kissed me squarely on the mouth. He didn’t stop until he’d given me
an erection. “Well,” he said when he pulled away, breathing as hard as I was,
“I think one of these days we may have to carry that to its logical
conclusion.”
When the coffee was
brewed we went back to the living room and sat, looking at each other. “You
know, Dan, your problem is that you look at things in too few dimensions. That
last book of yours, for instance. If you’d only let…” He drank his coffee, his
eyes focused somewhere outside the room. “Never mind that.
The question at hand is this boy, what’s his name?”
“Chip.” I laughed. “Marvin.”
“You’re joking.
Marvin? With a street name like Chip?”
“Worse. Chip is some
sort of family nick name. His street name is Meat.”
Richard choked on his
coffee and had to find a napkin to clean himself up. “Okay.” The “y” was drawn
out about eight beats. “I know I shouldn’t ask but is ‘Meat’ an appropriate
name? Does he, uh, resemble it, as it were?”
“I guess,” I said.
“I’ve never actually seen… I mean, I guess he must. That or he’s constantly on
his way to the Laundromat.”
“See? That’s what I
mean by not enough dimensions. You love the boy but you’ve never arranged things
so you could get him naked. Your possible intentions towards him frighten you
but you make him go back to the store and pay for something he stole. You want
to keep him around so you take him, for God’s sake, to an art gallery.
What’s missing from this picture? Never mind. I’ll tell you what’s missing from
this picture. The dirty old man is missing from this picture. And you know
what’s there that you don’t see? Shut up. I’m on a roll. What’s in the
picture is a Daddy. A loving, worried, proud Daddy.”
I think I was
astonished. Or maybe stunned is the better word. In any case all I could do was
stare at him dumbly.
“It’s like Maryanne Goes Shopping,” he said with an
edge of exasperation in his voice. Larry sent the letter. Every
character in the God damned book knew Larry sent the letter except for you--and
you for God’s sake were the author! Dimensions, Dan, dimensions.”
He sat back and sipped his coffee, thoroughly pleased with himself.
He was also right. About Chip and about the book. I don’t know which
shook me more. “I… I don’t quite know what to say, Richard. I’m… I don’t know
what I am.”
“You won’t for a
while, not until you’ve worked it all out. And I’m sorry about Maryanne Goes Shopping. I’d promised
myself not to say anything but somehow it just slipped out. Now go on home and
sort this all out on your own time. I think I have a client driving around out
there, looking for a parking place.”
I paid him double for
the massage and kissed him for the insight. I wondered why he didn’t go into
the psychotherapy business but then decided it was probably the money. And the touching. Richard loves to touch.
When I got home I put
off thinking about Chip and my relationship with him by re-reading Maryanne Goes Shopping and fuming that I
hadn’t seen what was now so obvious. After that I re-read everything I’d
written for the sequel, threw it in the wastebasket
and started over.
It took me until
about
The phone brought me
back to reality. My friends Jack and Angelo wanted to know if I wanted to go
dancing at one of the new bars with them. Physical activity seemed an excellent
idea and I jumped at the chance for a break from all this introspection.
We met for dinner at
Barney’s, a pseudo western place with the prettiest waiters that ever donned a
Stetson. Besides that, the food’s good.
Afterward we went to
Buns and danced. It turned out to be a lot of fun and I danced my ass off.
Around two I said goodnight to Jack and Angelo and went home with what turned
out to be one of the cowboy waiters from Barney’s. I hadn’t recognized him
without his Stetson. We rode the range--and each other--for a couple of hours
before we ran out of steam and fell asleep. The cowboy was a restless sleeper
though so I kissed him goodbye around six and headed for my own bunkhouse.
It was nearly light
out so I decided the walk home would do me good. I didn’t consciously set a
course to take me past Chip’s store front but that’s the way I went. I didn’t
see him around anywhere and felt somehow relieved. I hoped he was safely home,
in bed.
I slept until
Sunday morning I
gathered the paper and went to the cafe for a leisurely breakfast. I had the
papers spread out on the table and was starting the big crossword puzzle when
Chip came in. “You mind?” he asked, assuming the answer and sitting down.
My impulse was to
toss back his “it’s a free country” remark but I didn’t; I smiled and cleared
away some of the papers. “No, I’ll be glad of the company,” I said.
He fiddled with the
papers, finally pulling out the comics and pretending to read. When I went back
to the puzzle he put the paper down and looked at me. “You still mad?”
“I never was mad,
Chip. I needed to think, that’s all. It was me, not you.” He contemplated that
while I ordered breakfast for both of us.
After he’d dumped
most of the sugar dispenser into his coffee he looked up again. “So, you wanna do something today? Go see those flowers or
something?” He made no mention of money.
It was a beautiful
day, sunny and probably going to be hot. A perfect day for
letting the book wait. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
The rhododendrons
were beautiful but an hour of flower viewing was about all Chip could take. We
wandered over to the lake and watched the ducks, standing in silence for a long
while. I was pretty sure Chip had something on his mind but when it came out it
wasn’t what I expected.
“You gay?” he said,
not looking at me.
Oh boy. “Yeah, I’m
gay. Why?”
The silence stretched
out and by unspoken consent we started walking along the lake shore.
“So how come you
never, you know. Tried to get in my pants?”
I laughed. “You mean
because I’m gay? Well, for one thing, I’m not into kids. How old are you,
anyway?”
The boy has a glass
head and I could see him doing the calculations. “Nineteen.”
“Sure you are. And
I’m a hundred and sixty three. I thought we promised to be honest with each
other, Chip. If you don’t want to answer, just say so but don’t lie. Please.”
He broke away and
walked slowly towards one of the ducks that was foraging on the grass. The duck
quacked a couple of times and hurried over to meet
him. Chip turned back, a look of surprise on his face. “Why’d he do that?” he
asked. “I thought they were scared of people.”
“He probably thought
you were going to feed him. Ducks are always looking for a free lunch. We can
buy some stuff to feed him if you want.
“Yeah,” he said. Then
he turned to the duck. “Okay, you wait here and we’ll buy you lunch.”
Walking over to the
little snack bar Chip very quietly said, “Sixteen. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you.” We
bought some over priced stale bread and went back to the water’s edge.
“Look,” Chip said
with real delight in his voice. “He waited.”
“I guess he trusted
you to do what you said.” I handed him the bag of stale bread. “Here, go show
him his trust wasn’t misplaced.”
Chip scattered some
of the bread and jumped back when the duck ran towards it.
“Here, I’ll show you
something.” I took some of the bread in the palm of my hand and held it out.
The duck waddled over and ate it. “See? If you’re gentle he’ll eat out of your
hand.”
“Doesn’t he bite?”
“No. I don’t think
ducks have teeth. It feels funny though so don’t let it surprise you.”
Chip gingerly held
out a handful of bread and flinched only a little when
the duck ate it. Then things got a little out of hand because the other ducks
saw what was happening and the whole flock came running. Chip jumped back and
then scattered the rest of the bread on the lawn. “That was fun,” he said as we
started to walk again.
We found a bench and
sat in the shade, drinking the Cokes I’d bought along with the duck food, and I
asked him why he seemed to dislike that guy in the big white
“Oh,
him. Bastard.”
“Why? He sure seemed
ready to, uh, buy.”
Chip snorted. “Yeah,
but all he does is try to get you to take it up the ass. And I don’t do that
for nobody. And he’s mean, too, when you won’t do it.”
“I take that to mean
it isn’t just him that you don’t--do that with?”
The boy suddenly
became very defensive. “Look, I’m straight, okay? I don’t do that shit for
nobody and nobody can make me.”
I guess my expression
gave me away because he turned on the bench and gave me a long look. “Okay, so
I let guys suck my dick. That doesn’t mean anything, lots of guys do that. The
john’s pay and get their jollies. Some of them are pretty good at it too, you
know? It feels really good. But up the ass? Not me.
Okay?”
I nodded. “It’s okay
by me. I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Well, now you know
so let’s drop it, okay?” He got up and ostentatiously dropped his Coke can in a
litter container. “You want to walk or what?”
We walked along the
path in silence while I sorted out the messages he’d just sent me. When we came
out of the park he said, “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
He gave me an
exasperated look, as though I hadn’t been following the conversation. “Take it
up the ass.”
“You mean because I’m
gay?” Honesty works both ways. “Yes, I do that. With the
right guy.” There was a period of silence while he digested that.
“Why? Doesn’t it
hurt?”
“If it hurt I
wouldn’t do it. I don’t do things that hurt--me or anyone else.” Now it was my
turn to think. Finally: “I guess that’s not strictly true. It did hurt, the first couple of times I did it.” Old memories came
back, good ones, making me smile.
“Then why’d you do
it? I mean, if it hurt… Did somebody make you?”
“No. Nobody made me.”
A sudden picture flashed into my mind, Jimmy and me… “I was very young then.
Well, maybe a few years older than you are but still very young and I was in
love with him. His name was Jimmy and… You don’t want to hear all this.”
He looked at me
expectantly. “Yes I do.”
“Well, his name was
Jimmy and we were in love with each other. We’d done all the other stuff and we
just decided to try that.”
“What other stuff?”
I laughed. “The easy stuff, the things that come naturally like kissing and,
uh, sucking on each other. The things guys do on impulse. But we wanted
more. We wanted to get inside each other and that was a way to do that, to be
part of each other. The first time he came into me it hurt like crazy--partly I
guess because we didn’t know much about getting each other ready. Anyway, it
hurt but Jimmy seemed to like it so much I didn’t mind the pain. It was just, I
don’t know, just something I did for him. Then, when I went into him, I knew
why. It was wonderful and I’d never felt so much a part of him as I did when I
was inside him. And it felt good. It was more pleasure than I’d ever felt in my
life.”
Chip seemed to be
hanging on my every word and when I paused he prodded me for more. “So you let
him do it to you again? Because you knew how good it felt and maybe he’d let
you do it to him again?”
“I guess. We talked
about it some and the next time was easier. We found ways of doing it that
began to feel good to both of us. After a while it felt as good to have Jimmy
in me as it did to be in him. Then we found ways to do it that made both of us
come--sometimes at the same time and that was wonderful.”
We walked in silence
for a while. “What happened to him? Jimmy?”
Jimmy. What did
happen to him? “Well, I guess like a lot of very young lovers we just drifted
out of love. We both went away to school--different schools--and we experienced new people. I guess we found out we could
live without each other, that’s all.”
“And then you started
doing it with other guys?”
“Yeah. I found out that sex is a lot of fun even
when you don’t exactly love the other guy. It’s sometimes fun just to play,
even with a guy you know you’ll never see again. But you know, Chip? It’s
always better with someone you love.” I decided that was enough for one day--at
least for me--so I broke up the conversation by suggesting ice cream.
Later, after
chocolate ice cream cones (one scoop for me, three for Chip) he went back to
it. “You ever, you know, pay for it? I mean with a guy like me?”
“Like you? No. I told
you, kids aren’t my thing. A guy has to be at least legal.”
He was quick. “So you
have paid for it.”
Damn. The last thing
I wanted was to be lumped in with his johns. On the other hand, honesty still
worked both ways. Sill, I tried to hedge it. “Depends on how you look at it, I
guess. Sometimes I go see a guy, a masseur. He works the kinks out of my
muscles and yeah, mostly he gets me off at the end, too. And I pay him. I’d
probably still go to him, even if he didn’t get me off because the massage
feels so good all by itself. Getting off is a little extra bonus. If that’s
paying for it…”
He thought for a
moment. “He gets you off? I mean, you don’t, you know, suck his dick or
anything?”
“No. Like I said, I
go to him when I’m tense from working too much or when I’ve worked out too
hard. And to get off at the end, too. Maybe that’s
part of the relaxation.” I figured a little guilt never hurt anyone so I left
out the part about Richard being naked when he massaged me and encouraging me
to touch him.
Chip shook his head. “Sounds weird to me. All they want with me is to get me
off.”
“You don’t
reciprocate? Get them off too?”
He grinned. “Hell no. Let them get themselves
off if they want to.”
I shook my head. “Now
that sounds weird to me. Why would a guy pay just to get another guy off,
especially when he doesn’t do anything back. Or even
appreciate it very much.”
“Beats
me. But they do. And some
of them are real good at it, you know? Real good.” A
small smile flickered across his face. “But I don’t care. Good or not, I just
pop quick as I can, take their money and say good bye.
I mean…”
He lost the thought,
suddenly distracted by a display of western hats in a shop window. “Man, would
I be cool in one of those.” He ducked his head, trying to catch his reflection
in the window with one of the hats superimposed on it.
I got the message.
“You want to go in and see what they cost?”
“Yeah? Could we?” He grabbed for the door.
The kid had taste. He
went directly to the heavy felt ones and tried on a couple. They weren’t cheap
but I had to admit--to myself only--that he did, indeed, look ‘cool’ in them.
He ended up with a gray one and I ended up paying for it. Once again the
relationship was not lost on me.
Back on the street he
watched his reflection in every window we passed, establishing just the right
bored, I’ve-always-worn-one-of-these expressions on his face. He gave himself
away though, by constantly touching it, taking it off and putting it on, trying
it in different rakish angles on his head. He was also anxious to go show it
off, I guess to his friends, so I mentioned that I had to get back home and do
some work.
I actually did get
productive and managed to knock out a couple of chapters of the new book over
the next couple of days. I went down to his store front on Monday night but he
wasn’t around. A scruffy kid about Chip’s age told me Chip was probably busy
and offered himself instead. I turned him down as gently as I could.
I did find him
Tuesday morning and we ended up spending the day together, most of it back at
the art museum. We did it again on Thursday only this time we spent the day at
the zoo, looking at the animals. The fact that all the animals were caged
seemed to make Chip uncomfortable, even after I explained that it was more for
their own protection than anything else. On both days I tried to get him to talk about himself but he rather neatly side stepped
most of my questions. When I asked him about his family he blew up and walked
away from me. When I caught up with him I was sure his eyes were wet. We agreed
to drop the subject completely.
On both days I was
struck by one thing: He made no mention of money--even when I didn’t offer it when
we parted. I couldn’t decide if I was now running a tab or if he just liked
spending the time with me.
****************************************
The
man was at the J.P. because he was supposed to be--and because he wanted to be.
He looked over the young men--boys really--searching for just the right one. He
knew he’d find him. God had told him so. “Pick the best one there,” He’d said.
“Take that dirty thing away from him,” He’d said. “Do it tonight,” He’d said.
And
so the man would. Because he’d promised.
Looking
across the crowd he saw the boy, the best one there. He smiled to himself and
silently promised God that He’d be proud of him tonight. Very
proud.
****************************************
Friday turned out to
be a very good day for me. All day--and well into the night--the Muses sat on
my shoulder and whispered into my ear. The book was really beginning to take
shape and I liked the shape it was taking. I thought even Richard was going to
like it.
Around two in the
morning I decided enough was enough. I brushed the Muses--who seemed to be
getting tired too--off my shoulder and took myself to the living room with a
micro-waved pizza and a beer. I was on my second beer when the door bell began
to ring.
There is little that
is more annoying than someone leaning on the door bell. I stuck my head out the
window and yelled for them to stop but the bell kept ringing. When I looked out
the little peep hole I didn’t see anyone. Damn kids, I
thought, yanking open the door.
It wasn’t kids. It
was Chip, barely able to stand and covered with blood. My first impulse, of
course, was to ask what happened but I stifled it as unproductive. Instead I
helped him into the hall where I could look at him in the light. He passed out
in my arms.
The paramedics got
there in record time although it seemed hours to me. They loaded Chip onto a
gurney and had an IV in him before they even got him in the ambulance.
In the ambulance, on
the way to the hospital, I got another shock. Not only were Chip’s head and
chest covered with blood--there was a bloody slash in his jeans, from crotch to
waistband.
I wasn’t much help telling the medic what had happened and less so at the
hospital. I gave them extra points though. Chip was in the operating room
minutes after we arrived.
A nice but very harried woman helped me fill out the forms and I didn’t
hesitate anywhere. His name became Chip Williams and his relationship to me
became that of son. There was some hassle over medical insurance until I
produced my nearly paid off Visa card. I couldn’t give them a Social Security
number and said he’d been living with his mother for quite a while. I made up a
birth date. After the forms were filled out I didn’t have anything to do but
pace. I did that very well.
An hour or so later a
calm, good looking young doctor found me. His smile was the most reassuring
thing I’d seen since we got there.
“Mr. Williams? Your
boy is going to be fine. We put seventeen stitches in his head but fortunately
the abdominal wound was pretty shallow and we were able to put it together with
butterfly cleats. He was very lucky, you know. Two inches to the right and he
very well might have lost his genitals.” He looked down and busied himself
making notes in a chart, giving me a chance to absorb what he’d said.
The doctor wanted to
keep Chip in the hospital overnight but when he saw there was no insurance he
decided I could take him home instead. He even got a couple of orderlies who
were just going off duty to agree to drive us there. The butterflies and
stitches, he said, could be removed by Chip’s own doctor.
And so it was that
Chip ended up in my bed after all, although I wasn’t sure he even knew where he
was. Between the pain pills and what anesthetics they’d given him, Chip was
well out of it. I, on the other hand, was so keyed up that sleep was only a
remote possibility. Not knowing what else to do--and being afraid he’d wake up
and need something--I stretched out on top of the bed next to him and stared at
the ceiling.
I did fall asleep
though and woke a couple of hours later to find him looking at me. “Hi,” he
said with a thin smile. Somehow I felt enormous relief at that single word.
“Hi. How’re you
feeling?”
He grimaced. “I hurt
all over. And I have to pee bad.”
The doctor had said
Chip wasn’t going to be able to sit up for a day or two and he was right. Chip
tried and almost passed out from the pain. I helped him roll out of the bed and
then found that he was too weak to stand by himself so I had to support him
with one arm around his chest.
I stood with him in
front of the toilet and tried not to look as he pushed down the paper hospital
pants they’d sent him home in but since the wall behind the toilet is mirrored
I saw anyway. I think we were about equally shocked.
“Jesus!” What little
strength he had left him and I had to tighten my grip on his chest to keep him
upright. We both stared at the long red, oozing cut that ran from his navel to
his crotch, the bright plastic butterflies only making it more bizarre.
“The doctor said you
were lucky. Another inch or two to the right and you could have lost your… I think the word he used was genitals. What he meant
was your dick and balls and he was right.”
Shock gave way to
need and Chip began to urinate--on the floor before he took hold of himself and
managed to aim. I tried to catch his eye in the mirror but he couldn’t get them
up from his crotch. Then the dirty old man in me took over and I really looked
at what he’d nearly lost. It was more impressive than I’d expected, long and
thick as a boy’s wrist, with a heavy look to it. And whatever else his parents
had done to him, at least they’d left his penis alone--or at least left it
intact.
When he finished he
couldn’t manage to pull the paper pants up and finally just kicked out of them
altogether. Then he looked up and got another shock. The left side of his head
had been shaved and the stitches stuck out like stray, wiry hairs.
“Shit!” His eyes
caught mine in the mirror. “Is there anything else?”
“I don’t think so.
They didn’t mention anything else. Except for the bruises on
your arms. They’re pretty bad but they’ll heal pretty quick.”
I got him back in the
bed and managed to get him to swallow a couple of the antibiotic pills they’d
sent home with him. I also gave him another of the pain pills. Just before he
drifted back to sleep he said, “Sorry about the floor.”
I cleaned up the
bathroom and then made coffee and retrieved the paper from the doorstep. I was
still afraid he’d need something so I sat in the uncomfortable chair in the
bedroom and tried to read the paper. I mostly just watched Chip sleep and
wondered what to do next.
Chip woke about every
four hours which fit the antibiotic schedule perfectly. By late afternoon he
was drinking a glass of juice with the pills and we went through the bathroom
routine a couple of times, him peeing and me trying not to watch. When he
realized what I was doing he grinned at me in the mirror and said it was okay,
he didn’t mind being watched.
I was embarrassed but
I gave up the pretense.
--------------------------------------------
To
be continued…
Comments,
criticism and notes gratefully accepted and always answered.
Greg
Bowden