Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short (6 page)

Tim was in the hallway, relieved to be out of the small room. Turning back he asked, “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good luck and all that good shit.”

“Thanks … you too,” the marine waved as he shut the door.

Downstairs, the lobby was still crawling with angry, frustrated conventioneers, a new group arguing with the hotel staff. Tim was happy to get away. He walked across town to Grand Central Station. It had cooled off a bit, and the tall buildings created welcome shade from the persistent afternoon sun. The clock over the information kiosk in the center of the terminal read six twenty, so Tim took his time looking at the discount record store windows and browsing in the bookstore. The next train was at five after seven, so he had plenty of time. He wasn’t depressed, but he had a hollow, empty feeling—maybe because the young marine and Tim had never acknowledged that anything had happened.

Walking through shops in Grand Central Station, Tim realized he didn’t even know the marine’s name. They’d never bothered to introduce themselves. Tim wondered if the unnamed marine sergeant really did exist, whether he’d actually invited Tim back to his hotel room for a few beers and then shown him his war scars, whether he had taken his hand and placed it onto his body. Tim wondered if that was just a fantasy, or if it had really happened.

Perry

July 1968

T
im had seen an ad in
Backstage
for an open audition later that afternoon at the Provincetown Playhouse. It was for an off-Broadway play about the life of Vincent van Gogh. Granted, getting the part was a long shot, and Tim wasn’t about to give up an ear to play the artist, but he thought the experience of auditioning would be valuable, even if it did not lead to a role.

Tim had time to kill, since the open call audition wasn’t until two o’clock. He bought a hot dog and orange soda from the vendor pushing a Sabrette cart, sporting the familiar yellow and blue umbrella. Those cheap hot dogs and orange sodas kept Tim alive that summer and throughout the first year he lived in Manhattan.

Washington Square Park teemed with summer activity. Groups of old men with white beards huddled over cement chess tables along the far western edge. Rumpled winos sprawled out on the grass, incredibly asleep despite the noise from the noontime crowds in the park. Kids screeched in delight as they splashed around the central fountain, their substitute for the country club pool. There was the usual pack of scruffy dogs circling, the familiar swarm of gray pigeons strutting around like proud nuns, and at least one philosopher expounding to anyone who’d listen. Old Italian women with tight bandannas wrapped around gray hair sat on benches next to pretty nurses from Saint Vincent’s Hospital and young students from New York University. The cross section of people and humanity fascinated Tim, and he looked in awe at this complex new world of Manhattan that was about to become his home.

Tim sat on a park bench under the shade of a hundred-year-old maple, lurching forward to keep the drippy sauerkraut and mustard on the hot dog from spilling onto his tie. His tweed sport jacket lay neatly on the bench beside him, a copy of
Backstage
folded on top. The scene must have flashed like a beacon: “New kid in town just off the bus!”

“You go to NYU?” the person who’d sat down on the bench next to Tim asked. Tim turned but wasn’t able to speak, as he’d just popped the last part of the soggy hot dog roll and sauerkraut into his mouth. As he gulped down the wad of food, Tim was stunned by the strikingly handsome young man who had spoken to him. He was maybe thirty, but it was hard to tell his exact age. He also looked strangely familiar. His face was tanned the color of olives, and his tousled black hair shone even in the shade. He was looking at Tim knowingly, a faint trace of a smile on his thin lips.

“I’m out of school,” Tim managed to answer, trying not to belch.

“You kind of have that look of a student.” He smiled.

His name was Perry, and they shook hands. Perry told Tim he’d come from some small hick town in West Virginia and that he wanted to be a model. It was obvious he was qualified: Perry was open and natural. His candor made him that much more attractive. Tim was amazed that someone so sexy and handsome would be sitting on a park bench in Washington Square on a hot summer afternoon talking to him as if they were buddies.

“I’ve got to get home to check in with my service,” Perry said, looking at his watch. Then unexpectedly he asked, “Would you like to come by for something cold to drink? It’s only a few blocks.”

“Uh … I guess so.”

“Are you always so nervous?” Perry asked, smiling as they began to leave the park.

“Sometimes.” But Tim felt comfortable walking with him, although he wasn’t sure what was really happening. Perry’s warmth and friendliness were welcome as Tim trailed alongside down the Village streets.

Perry’s apartment was on Patchin Place, a picturesque little alley off West Tenth Street, something you’d expect to see on a postcard. His apartment was on the top floor of a narrow brick townhouse with a bronze plaque mounted right of the entryway identifying it as an historic landmark, built in 1848, where the poet, E. E. Cummings had once lived. Judging from the three flights of wooden stairs up to Perry’s apartment, the only improvement to the building since then was the installation of electricity.

The apartment consisted of two rooms divided by a narrow kitchen. The bathroom appeared to be in the back corner. Both rooms were furnished similarly: small sofas faced fireplaces, and heavy, comfortable, stuffed chairs covered in pale floral slipcovers stood next to tables stacked with books, magazines, letters, and papers, all neatly piled. The floors were wide-beam hardwood, waxed to a shine, partially covered with Oriental rugs. On both sides of the fireplaces floor-to-ceiling bookshelves overflowed with books and framed photos. In the front room, two French doors opened onto a tiny metal grillwork balcony, crammed with pots of marigolds and ivy, overlooking the courtyard. Although the apartment was cluttered, it was immaculate. The impression it gave was that every book, paper, and photograph had a purpose, and each had been put in place deliberately.

“Sorry about this mess. I have a phobia about never throwing anything out. I guess I’ve outgrown this place.” Perry grinned.

“It’s terrific.” Tim was impressed with the apartment.

“Something cold? Coke? 7 Up?”

“Anything is fine.” Tim walked into the front room as Perry busied himself in the kitchen, getting ice cubes, fixing the drinks. Tim examined the books lining the shelves. He wondered how anyone could read all of them.

“I like to read,” Perry said from the kitchen. “I get a lot of downtime when I’m waiting around between takes. I always bring a book so I don’t feel like I’m wasting the whole day.”

Perry handed Tim a drink, saying, “Back in a minute.” He was in the kitchen and on the phone.

Tim could hear him taking down messages from the answering service. Then Perry let out a loud howl, obviously happy about something.

Perry yelled out, “I just got called for a five-day shoot in St. Barts.” He returned to the front room. “I never thought I’d get it.”

“That’s terrific,” Tim said, realizing that was the second time in the last few minutes that he’d commented that something was terrific. He felt like an idiot.

They sat in the front room and talked. Perry confided that his modeling career was boring and how hard it was getting used to being treated like an inanimate object. He said Tim wouldn’t believe the way photographers and art directors talked about him, right in front of him, knowing he could hear every word. Tim had never met an international model, but Perry was unpretentious, and he made Tim feel like they had been friends for a long time, not two strangers who’d met on a park bench in Washington Square a half hour ago.

“You still seem nervous,” Perry observed with a friendly smile.

“I don’t mean to be.” Tim avoided eye contact as he gulped down the last of his Coke.

“More?” Perry got up from the cushy armchair he had been sitting in and came over to Tim on the flower-covered sofa.

“No thanks … that was fine. I’d better be going.” Tim didn’t want to leave, but he thought it was the right thing to do. Tim stood up and was directly in front of Perry, who did not move.

“You sure?” he asked softly. Then Perry gently placed his right hand on Tim’s shoulder and brushed the back of his neck with one index finger, barely touching Tim’s skin in slow rhythmic strokes up and down.

Tim began to speak, but no words came out. Looking up, Tim met Perry’s beautiful eyes. He was grinning like a little kid. Tim could feel Perry’s warm breath on his face as Perry drew him closer. Tim’s body responded automatically, and they pressed together, drawn like magnets. With one hand Perry stroked the back of Tim’s neck, more deliberately, his other hand firmly placed on Tim’s lower back. They embraced. A hot afternoon breeze floated in through the open French doors. The city’s sounds were drowned out by Tim’s heart pounding as he leaned against Perry’s chest. He was certain Perry could hear it.

As they slowly eased onto the sofa, Tim’s body seemed to dissolve into euphoria. They sprawled out, Perry against Tim, exploring Tim’s face with slightly parted lips—barely touching Tim’s forehead, anointing each of his closed eyes with hot breath and the suggestion of a kiss, and then continuing along Tim’s arched neck. Perry’s warm breath and sensuous, slow exploration ignited Tim’s whole body, and he tightened his grasp on Perry, digging into the firm muscles on his back.

Perry’s hot breath, mixed with his own, almost suffocated Tim. Perry’s tongue was a flaming spearhead racing inside Tim’s mouth in tempting exploration as he cradled Tim’s head in his strong hands, pulling him closer. Tim’s body responded, arching, every muscle tightening, shuddering out of control, his arms involuntarily falling around Perry’s buttocks. A convulsion shot through Tim, pulsating until he exploded. Then he deflated, unable to move.

They lay silent on the sofa, Perry’s head buried facedown on Tim’s shoulder. Tim felt awkward and self-conscious, uncomfortable from the wetness in his pants. But Perry continued to press against him. Tim didn’t know what to do.

Perry rescued Tim from embarrassment by lifting his head and turning to him with a grin. “You been locked up in a convent or something?” Perry laughed.

Tim was relieved by his sense of humor. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve seen some horny people before,” Perry said as he looked at Tim with affection, “but you are something else.” Perry cupped his right hand into a soft fist and playfully gave Tim two gentle taps on the cheek, as if to reassure him that everything was all right. Tim was grateful that he’d handed him back his dignity.

Perry stood up, smiling, and said, “The bathroom is in the back to the right.” He let the offer drift to minimize Tim’s discomfort.

Tim quickly got up. In the bathroom he looked at himself in the sink mirror.
You asshole!
he thought
. Here’s an international model, a hunk who picked you up in the park and invited you back to his apartment, and the moment he even touches you, you cum in your pants.

Alone, Tim felt embarrassed and frustrated. His first impulse was to get out as soon as possible. He quickly slipped off his damp Jockeys and folded them into a small square that fit easily into his pants pocket. He wiped himself off and slipped his trousers back on. It felt uncomfortable but almost dangerously sensuous.

Perry was in the kitchen on the phone again when Tim returned from the bathroom. He picked up a copy of
The New Yorker
, thumbed through it, looking at the ads and cartoons, waiting for Perry to finish phone calls so he could leave. Tim heard him take down flight numbers and hotel addresses for his trip to St. Barts.

“You back together?” Perry asked lightheartedly, as he returned.

“Yeah … thanks.” Tim blushed. “I better be going.”

“You don’t have to,” Perry said, looking at Tim squarely
.
After a long silence, he extended his hand and offered Tim a small white card. “Here,” he said. “My number. I’ll be back from St. Barts
the end of next week. Why don’t you give me a call, and we can go to a movie or have dinner?”

Tim was incredulous. Perry was telling him he wanted to see him again. Tim thought he was just being polite, but then Perry explained that the top number was his answering service, the bottom number in ink was his private number, and Tim should call him anytime.

Tim took the card, not knowing what to say.

“Maybe you’ll be more relaxed next time.” Perry laughed and patted Tim on the shoulder as he opened the door leading to the stairwell.

Tim blushed as he stepped out. “I’ll try.”

Perry reached out to stop him and touched Tim on the shoulder, turning him around. He gave Tim two playful taps on the cheeks. “Remember! I’ll be back the end of next week. Give a call. Huh?”

“Sure. Have a good trip,” Tim said and then bounded down the creaky wooden steps, anxious to disappear into the anonymous city once more.

“Ciao!”
Perry called as Tim rushed into the bright sunshine in the courtyard. Tim didn’t look back. He kept walking through the Patchin Place gates.

The Village steamed with activity in the summer afternoon. Tim crossed Sixth Avenue and walked to West Eighth Street, crammed with crummy tourist shops and ever-present panhandlers. He wanted to disappear into the masses, far from Perry and Patchin Place, still embarrassed by his experience with this beautiful man.

Tim wrote off that open call at the Provincetown Playhouse. He was nervous enough at auditions to begin with, but after what had just happened he knew he couldn’t do this one—with or without an ear. He’d lost all self-confidence.

Tim caught the Lexington Avenue local at Astor Place and rode in a stifling subway car to Grand Central. He climbed the grimy stairs to the vast marble, vaulted-ceilinged waiting area. He passed the magazine kiosk stacked high with the early afternoon edition of the
Post
, past the huge four-color Kodak blow-ups, to Gate Seventeen where the 4:07 New Haven local was just about to pull out. The conductor was closing the metal grillwork gates, but Tim was able to slip by and run down the ramp to get on the train. Tim hopped onto the last car just as it moved out of the station, heading to suburbia. The train screeched and groaned as it inched its way through the tunnel leading out of Grand Central. Tim had to grope his way through the length of the train to find a seat in the first car.