Faggots (34 page)

“Is this not a hot outfit?” he inquired of them all.

“Look at you, Tante,” Anthony came to kiss hello and offer up young Wyatt for the same.

“A very hot outfit, Tante Fred,” a still quivering Wyatt tried to do his best.

“A very hot outfit indeed!” Mikie banged his tambourine.

Fallow arranged the sweat shirt so that it draped more effectively and Frigger, punching a soft fist in Fred’s hard stomach, announced: “You win Most Improved Camper Award,” before appending: “I should have slugged him seven years ago.”

“Did you ever meet his parents?” Fred asked.

“No. He always made me drop him off four blocks from his house.”

Fred declined a lung of dust.

Wyatt inquired: “Don’t you take drugs?”

To which Anthony replied: “No, he’s got a career that he likes.”

So once again drugged-out states were being reached, perhaps never left, a direct continuation from last evening’s opening—or was it the night-before-that’s closing?—a memorial arch, a parabola from event to event, time was as of this moment again ceasing in importance, from here till…, life would be one long expansive curve of…LIFE…, corseted only by the roll of events, parties, dancings, perhaps a handsome nameless number in the night, a kiss, a bump and grind of pelvic contact, a fuck, a farewell, another party, of course The Meat Rack, let’s hurry and get started or we’ll never get there!

After a day of further consultations with his interior, with his guilts, with his memories, with Ephra’s rug, with his banker, with that infernal, eternal, internal question: What am I truly wanting?!, this is now suddenly an expensive question to answer!, but not with Ephra, the Police, the FBI, the President, his brother Maury, or his son and lawyer Stephen in Aruba, Abe took Ephra, who insisted upon accompanying, “The Divine Bella is telling me this is now the In Place,” in a Carey rented Cadillac and chauffeur, toward whatever destiny awaited him on that Island ’cross the bay.

They took the
Island Queen,
on which they sat huddled in a corner amidst a throng of men, dogs, cats, groceries, stereos, barbecues, green plantings in red pot-lets, and bags and bags of Mark Cross, Fendi, Gucci, and the ubiquitous M. Vuitton. Abe kept his eyes on his own ancient Abercrombie & Fitch carpetbag, in which resided, just in case, a down payment for his son, ten thousand dollars, all in new fifties, Alvin Sorokin had not had old ones, and had said it had been enough trouble to open the bank especially for an important depositor as it was.

Abe’s stomach did not cease its heavings, even after the
Queen’s
did. Upon disembarking, he tugged Ephra as best he could along through further throngs—of fellows, weekend tourists, mainland gawkers, Hadassah yachtsfolk—and found and checked into The Botel on the reservation made long ago by Fred.

“This room is not de luxe by any standards,” Abe said, looking around the bunker of ill-used bed and chair and concrete walls. He then lowered himself, in his old white Palm Beach, onto the sagging double mattress, after all these years to sleep with Ephra, who will sleep?!, trying not to notice the stains on spread and blankets, or on upholstery and rug. And, he thought, now on poor Abe as well. But, trying to put a good face to it, he heaved himself up again and walked out to the bunker’s third-floor balcony. “However, there is a pleasant view of the harbor, though I am worried that so many men dancing down below will give us little sleep.” Yes, who will sleep. How can I tell her? What should I tell her! What am I hoping for? Should I stop hoping! Mission, please to come!

Ephra was not thinking of sleep. Nor was she thinking anymore of men, whom she was learning, with the cessation of communications from and to her husband, to put out of her own interior entirely. She was, however, equally as nervous. Sunburst. Where is Sunburst? What will I find at Sunburst? How do I keep myself from Sunburst?

Was she hungry for a little bite? No; was he? Not ready. She said she wished to do some shopping at the smart boutiques below. He said he wished to locate some cigars. Both respected the other’s desire for some off-shore leave alone.

Tarsh led his costumed lot from Annie Hall. He held Bo Peep’s happy hand as he led his parade of fifteen or so down the few short blocks to Tuna. He chanted for them all: “We are going forth to find new things in all our plumage! We’re going forth and forward, our arms within the arms of friends!”

Mikie picked up the beat upon his tambourine. He blew a kiss to Fred. “I love you, Fred.” And Josie and Dom Dom, now playing the Island’s famous lovers, in matching lilied white, like two book ends to his queryings: What am I doing here! a Harvard man and almost forty! and still alone!, walked on either side of Fred and said: “I love you, Fred!” as well.

They marched toward Tuna, twenty of them or so, picking up bodies along the way, parades just happened in The Pines, just coalesced along the boardwalks, thirty of them or so, growing to forty as they walked along, this parade, in startling shades of lime and yellow and magenta and silvers and golds and buffs and many shades of white and pink and peach and pomegranate, let’s start this night most colorfully!, and emblazoned T-shirts and Dordogna del Dongo wraparound trousers, the latest, newest, kick, with strings which, when tautly pulled and knotted, made crotches bulge with added interest, and popper holders on necklaces and pill holders on bracelets and wrist sweat-ers for ethyl and Puma high tops and Adidas low siders and bunches of flowers and key rings and toe rings and pure funk and athletic finery to rival locker rooms and since the evening was warm and young, items on the back soon became items in the hand, such a lovely, lovely beginning, just wait till you see what I’m wearing later!, yes such a lovely lovely beginning to our day.

Bilbo then fell down. The group stopped and waited. Finally, Fallow took a Drenden from his Mic-Mac shirt, which made an ensemble with his jodphurs from Tibet, and depressed it neath the fallen fellow’s tongue.

“I’m tired of being the only one doing this,” Fallow said. “Why don’t any of the rest of you fuckers donate your own Ups to keeping this one going.”

Bilbo, revived, jumped up and uttered: “Oh, tacky, tacky world, that justice be so sere, hypocrisy so convolute, and wickedness so much the way?” He then, with thanks, reimbursed Fallow with a Drenden of his own, plus one for interest.

So then they could start up again. Tarsh, who spoke louder on dust, their Energy Force, like some head kid in camp, which they all desired him to be, who wanted to make decisions when Tarsh would make them for us?, began the creation of their calendar.

“We’re going to Hans Zoroaster’s!”

And everyone was happy to go to Hans Zoroaster’s first.

Hans’s invitations had made their way into the hands of the Hottest Men, who peopled every party, crested with the Zoroaster motto—
TRUE BEAUTY MAKES MEN DUMB
—in Attic Greek, in raised purple lettering to catch the fingernails of all the queens who would naturally give the Tiffany cards the scratch test. He lived in a truly wizard house on Tuna. The house, nay, estate, nay, palazzo, had been built to impress, few having spent as much as Hans to throw up three-storied rooms dabbed with chandeliers and pedigreed ornaments from famed antiqueries. What matter if the ocean’s air warped them all in several seasons? This was Utopia indeed. Here Hans would, when necessary, retire. What spa in the Old World offered so much? This would be his Riviera unto death.

Timmy on Tuna was encountering his first real problems with success. “Please, Mr. Zoroaster, I don’t feel like it very much at the moment.”

Timmy had already let Hans suck his cock three times since be was discovered, like Lana Turner at the counter of Schwab’s Drug Store, on the floor of The Toilet Bowl those many long moons ago. None of these nibblings found him hard; what was hard was how he was going to handle this apparent single-minded effort of his talent scout to shoot him starward.

Hans had tried continually to remind himself to be patient and understanding. The poor boy had been through trauma and this launching to empyrean Beautydom might be warping. Yes, best be patient, best go easy, see that he’s meant to last. So he whispered, while hired Fireflies buzzed about in exterior rooms preparing for the party’s onslaught: “I am making you a star, my most handsome, most perfect,” and hope that this message, in all its complexity, would somehow get across.

Timmy thought he’d better say it now. Before the throngs arrived. Crowds had recently had a way of mixing things up in his already mixed-up life. “Mr. Zoroaster, you may not fuck with me. You may never fuck with me. I must be faithful to the memory of my own beloved Winnie. You may kiss me if you must. But this is all I can allow you to do.”

“Please, child, please!” Hans was thrilled to be experiencing those delicious tensions that made involvements real.

“No.”

So Hans lay back on substantial sheets of Porthault and considered what to do. Nothing. Ah, was not love so wonderful and life such a pain.

Dinky, too, was lying back and playing with himself. He was in Ike Bulb’s small and ugly house on Aeon in The Grove. Ike Bulb was a vasectomist who looked just like Dinky’s father and whom Dinky had met through an
Avocado
ad when Laverne became impotent. Ike had advertised for a Master to tie him up and lead him around and stand over him. Dinky liked the hassle-less sound of this and liked it more when Ike bought him his first leather and took him on trips—Italy, India, Key West, Savannah, soon there was one to Senegal for a conference on Erection Problems in the Emerging Nations, and Ike wanted to try dark meat, though Dinky didn’t. Ike was also allowing Dinky a kitchen restoration on his Bucks County farmhouse and there just might be the rest of the house to do over after that.

Here, in The Grove, Ike lived in gloomy colors. As if gloomy colors and curtains and carpets and dinginess, with sagging bed and plywood wardrobe and lonely camp chair, no room in this bedroom for more, might put off burglars or appear more sadistic or wear better throughout the years. Dinky obviously hadn’t yet remodeled.

Dinky was using Vaseline, a tough, unyielding lubricant, and a favorite of Ike’s, who had not yet arrived. He was watching, at the same time, the Champions Program on Channel 9, a good relaxer, these, plus a Desnobarb. Two ladies from Montana were doing Synchro Swim, a competitive event new to him. They were performing to the tunes of Mahler’s “Resurrection” Symphony. The two ladies had tiny lilies in their hair, which was lacquered and knotted tight, like Esther Williams, whose ghostly spirit obviously hovered over the Olympic-sized pool. It was eerie to watch the effortlessly perfect unison, every toe jut and arm arc and body twist harmoniously calculated to match the other’s, that the two ladies achieved. They got points for keeping it together.

The ladies finished. They had been perfect in all ways. Judges from all over the world awarded them a composite score of 9.9, to much applause. “These ladies have shown greater synchronization than ladies in Japan and Australia and Goa and Austria and the United Kingdom!”

“I’m certainly glad I’m a faggot,” Dinky said out loud, before drifting off to sleep.

Tarsh led his band back toward Annie Hall to change.

Hans’s Hot Party at Utopia had peaked within an hour. The entire Zoroaster stable bad been there. There had been too many beauties, who stood around in the showroom like so many props for the evening, and this was too intimidating for simply everyone, even the beauties, who kept staring at Timmy, whose beauty now made them dumb, and so no fun was had by all. Gracious exits were politely made. But Hans had been seen holding the hand of Timmy, which was more or less, for Hans, the point of the party anyway—even though Timmy kept taking it away—so at least Hans could register a partial success, even though he’d now be eating shrimp for days.

“Read any good books lately?” Fred could not resist trying on a beauty. No, Fred. That’s bitchy. Don’t become a queen.

In Hans’s Master Bedroom, Anthony had found Fred trying on a bit of leather.

“My. God, Tante! What are you doing?!”

“Tante, what are we all doing?” came Fred’s reply.

“What is happening to us?” Anthony agreed. “I think I’m going crazy.”

“We’re all going crazy. We’re out of control. I think it’s the end of the world.”

The two best friends embraced.

“I’m sorry about your Winston Man,” Fred said, taking off Hans’s vest.

“Which one? What did you decide to do about Dinky?”

“Which one? Where’s Wyatt?”

“I’ve lost him again.”

The two best friends again embraced and then parted to pursue their separate careers.

Yes, Tarsh led his band from Hans’s back along the boardwalk and back toward Annie Hall to change.

Drugs were perking, drugs and dreams were building, night was darkening nigh.

Bilbo screamed out loud:
“We are all drugged out of our tits!”

Fred thought: You name it, somebody’s on it.

MDA, MDM, THC, PCP, STP, DMT, LDK, WDW, Coke, Window Pane, Blotter, Orange Sunshine, Sweet Pea, Sky Blue, Christmas Tree, Mescalin, Dust, Benzedrine, Dexedrine, Dexamyl, Desoxyn, Strychnine, Ionamin, Ritalin, Desbutal, Opitol, Glue, Ethyl Chloride, Nitrous Oxide, Crystal Methedrine, Clogidal, Nesperan, Tytch, Nestex, Black Beauty, Certyn, Preludin with B-12, Zayl…and the Downs, keep it mellow, don’t get too excited, Downs make us feel so sexy!, Quaalude, Tuinal, Nembutal, Seconal, Amytal, Phenobarb, Elavil, Valium, Librium, Darvon, Mandrax, Opium, Stidyl, Halidax, Calcifyn, Optimil, Drayl, a portable pharmacy, the drug store incarnate, mustn’t forget the Magic, The Gnome is here with Magic, and all of the above, plus his list of grasses, mixed, permutations, or straight versions of the grasses: Mexican, Jamaican, Colombian, Thai, Pakistani, Lower Urdu, geography, the study of, becomes such fun, Moroccan Hash, Red Lebanese, Black Afghani, Hawaiian, Kentucky Bluegrass, Bridgeport Blunder, Mantanuska Thunderfuck, Wildbush, Black African, American First.

Everyone is beyond the beyond. Except Fred Lemish. Everyone’s where they want to be. Except Fred Lemish.

This is it. We’ve found it. This night of nights. This summer of our lives. Can it last till Tuesday? When’s Tuesday?

So Ephra Bronstein had made it to Fire Island and Ephra Bronstein had found her way to Sunburst and Ephra Bronstein had kickings in her kishkas and Ephra Bronstein wanted to go home.

She had nervously inquired directions, which had been graciously given by two older gentlemen, albeit holding hands. Then she suddenly thought: perhaps it is nice to see two older gentlemen so affectionate at such an age.

Yes, she’d found Sunburst. But there were many houses on Sunburst and none of them called out to her: “Your Nancellen lives here!”

So she walked round and round the block. Twice. Three times. Frightened. Such a nervous Nellie. Not to know that only a few years ago her own Richie had walked round and round a block, six times, twenty times, before his own kicking kishkas kicked him into entering his first gay bar at Yale.

Then she heard it. Then she heard the call.

“Your Nancellen lives here!”

And Ephra turned and there she was, the tall specter of her rose, standing amidst flood-lit geraniums and hollyhocks, not quite so tall as she.

And immediately she received another interior klunk, which sent her on her way, back toward the safety of that harbor.

She ran smack into a group of…were they Orientals? They certainly had slanted eyes and long dresses with slits up to their armpits. These foreigners impeded her progress and Nancellen caught her up.

“My Q. M., you’ve come this far. Why not come all the way?”

A logical question. Ephra tried to make herself illogical. If she were to be logical, she would ask for a glass of hemlock, a knife, and a slit up through her heart.

“I cannot. I cannot! Please to let me go!”

“You look radiant tonight in your Lilly Pulitzer,” Nancellen smartly changed the subject to Ephra’s dress of chartreuse pansies.

“…you like it…?”

“Very much.”

Ephra’s eyes were wet. “I bought it with Abe in Miami Beach a thousand years ago.”

“If you like, I’ll take you to Bendel’s. I get a courtesy discount there. And we can buy some new things to make you more of the moment and display your loveliest features.”

Ephra’s pansies wilted. No one had ever wanted to feature her or momentize her before. And at a discount. She knew her fate had come. Out here, on this tiny island, her heart had been touched, and somebody, at last, had said: I care.

And in they went. Into that house. On Sunburst.

Adriana’s house on Widgeon was British Empired for the night. Union jacks and pearlie buttons and bowler hats. Crowns, tiaras, neck ruffs, bobbie outfits, and fake crown jewels floating on a rubber raft in the pool. Coins minted in honor of the Queen’s Coronation were tossed by blackamoors in guardsmen’s toppers and little else from the roof. Forsyte Saga and Upstairs Downstairs and everyone Edithed out of their Heads.

And on her deck, the safety guarantee for which advised three hundred, welcoming her four hundred guests, stood Adriana. In sashes and stars and British blue and red, a dress of awful stiffness and terrible dimensions, and on her head she wore a crown and in her hand she waved a wand and all her true proportions were so swollen as to create more awe than admiration. Yes, Adriana understood how much louder a cock can crow in its own hen-house.

She greeted all with: “I am La Grande Dame de l’Île de Feu!”

Her Dordognian guest beside her was all in rugger whites, or were they cricket whites?, looking, whichever game it was, just like a young man. She had looked across the crowded deck and located her mark. She said of Randy Dildough: “I shall accept him for what he is and understand and give him air.”

“Nonsense,” her regal hostess ruled. “Don’t falter now, my sweet. You’ve come this far. Now you must go all the way!”

Randy had not seen Dordogna among the squeeze of the Four Hundred. He had just arrived, in his own J. Press suit of light canary yellow, plus dark glasses, and he was fully uninformed of the plot that had filled the guest bedroom adjoining his with the Captain of the Rugger-Cricket Team. Yes, Randy had just arrived and the tensions of his minglings midst so many men, more than ever!, were tingling more than ever in his crotch. Yes, everything was proceeding normally. He was looking for his Timothy Purvis Dean. He was casting his eyes around this deck, darting them from face to face and crotch to crotch, just like everyone else’s were darting around, too.

“It’s like being in the Court of France,” Adriana continued, surveying her kingdom with pride. “We must know every innuendo, when to step forward and when to step back and when to disappear. And, of course, when to pounce.”

Fred looked around and thought he might know three fourths of the four quarters. Tarsh, in his British-Prince sarong, found, with his own eyes, a big and beefy, dark young hairy Jewish man, his favorite type. And this young man turned out to be a Rabbi. Even better. And Bo Peep religiously noted the attraction. And Fallow and Frigger eyed a slim young cutie simultaneously. And Fallow got there first. And Laverne looked around while plucking his old daisy: I love you, Robbie, I don’t love you, Robbie, all I want is peace of mind. And Maxine, in Taylored sequined tights, looked around for Patty, where was Patty, the absence now too long, am I now officially a grassy widow, and what to do re: Billy Boner, who had called and asked to purchase Balalaika? And Garfield Toye, the famous orgy giver, modestly received the many compliments for outdoing himself, was it just last Friday eve? And Fred introduced himself officially to Jack Humpstone: “I’m still in love with Dinky Adams and I don’t know what to do.” To which Laverne, no help at all, replied: “Now why’d you go and do a silly thing like that?” And Jacente supervised his fabulous tape, booming out to all his favorite numbers. “Now Is the Hour For Us.” “Paint My Diddy Every Color of the Rainbow.” “A Him To My Mother’s Favorite Anthem.” “What a Difference Not Having You’s Made In My Life.” And Bella and Blaze jotted down the names of all the famous guests for their respective publications. And Mikie banged his tambourine to the chant of “I love you all, I love you all, I love you, love you, love you, All!” And Tarsh kissed his new Rabbi and asked him: “Do you have any religious guilt?” “I don’t think so? Which religion? But then I was just ordained.” And Gatsby announced to Fred: “I’m stuck on Chapter Three. I’m giving it up. I want to have some fun.” And Fred tried to hug his friend back into writerdom. But Gatsby had caught sight of another Robert Redford, just his type. And this Robert Redford was that punishing beauty, Lance Heather. Who had seen at last his Randy Dildough, after all these years, vengeance for desertion still unachieved, I’ll bet I’ll get him later in The Meat Rack, leave him here for now. And off ran Lance from Gatsby’s sight. And Anthony returned with punch for Wyatt. A Wyatt once again not here. And Fred saw Anthony holding cups for two. And young Timothy Purvis saw Randy Dildough. And Randy Dildough did not see Dordogna del Dongo. But Hans Zoroaster saw Timmy Purvis and Randy Dildough looking at each other for much too long a moment. And Dordogna del Dongo saw the same. And at this moment, Fred found Dinky’s roommate, Dodger the Lodger, who told him: “He’s staying in The Grove, at Ike Bulb’s, last house on Aeon Walk, on the left, this would be a good time, Ike’s not due till late, though why you still persist, Dinky wants rockets, you’re not sending up rockets, yes, why do you persist?”

Then Bilbo climbed up on a table and officially proclaimed: “I pronounce this party and this summer as of this moment Launched!”

And Bilbo and the table both fell down.

And at this moment, Fred thought he knew why he persisted.

A further melee was occurring around Tarsh and Mikie.

“You borrowed my douche and didn’t clean it out,” Tarsh had teasingly said to Mikie.

And Mikie, whose drugs were not yet working, which made him very cranky, could not believe his ears. “I number one didn’t borrow it, and number two if I had, which I wouldn’t have because I have a douche of my own, I would have cleaned it out, because everyone knows I’m very clean, and anyway how could I have used it when I haven’t been fucked in weeks!” And then he started to cry. For how could his beloved Tarsh, who always led them with such good advice, be so threatening to him now?

Yes, at this moment, Fred thought he knew why he persisted.

As faces turned to watch both Bilbo righted and Mikie slighted, Randy Dildough slipped quickly up and pulled Timothy Purvis softly away and into a cranny off the kitchen and there he took him in his arms and kissed him with all the passion and need and longing and commitment he was now prepared to make. And Timothy Purvis, desiring to be free of Hans, whose perennial tongue and hands were now and again and still approaching near, just over Randy’s shoulder right, allowed himself to be kissed by Randy and responded with all the passion and need and longing and commitment he was now prepared to make.