Turning Idolator - Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Confidential Disclosures between Friends

In night's infinite wisdom, lovers return to the fountain. It springs forth the tenderness of touch, the agility of passion and the ecstasy of a tumultuous sea, eased upon the jetty, spaying glitter to the quiet, knowing moon. In the city of a million hovels, a million lovers coupled to the signs of the seasons. Some were standing in the shadows of a dark lane, wet with interest and intensity. Some were fired up in a back room, scarcely lovers, but then scarcely not. Others were hiding under lampposts near park trees and bridges. Tom and Philip, however, nested under mounds of quilt and pillows in Mr. Dye's apartment

It is a reckoning with dark rooms at night that they should have timepieces, which breaks the silence of the noisy city. The traffic might roar by the window, a cat blares or a baby whines, but it is the clock in the room, with its heart beat, that stirs the night air and keeps us awake.

Tom stirred. He felt the arms of the soft dream who laid beside him. He felt lucky in love; but also terrified by the prospects. The clock ticked louder. He was undeserving of such pitiable kindness donated to him in bed. How could such an angel be even mildly interested in him? Troubling indeed! He sat up. Phil looked at him, hearing the clock as well. Tom chuckled, then broke into some on the spur of the moment Melville:

"We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. So, I kindled the shavings, kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world."

Phil sat up.

"Dick again? said Phil.

Tom placed his fingers across Phil's lips.

"How it is I know not;" Tom continued, "but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts' honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg - a cozy, loving pair."

"Melville was Gay!" said Phil.

"He was," said Tom, "but I'm not so sure about Queequeg and Ismael. Actually, it's passages like this that well up from the golden soul of the sensually discriminating palette that glow universally to all that hear it. Gay or not - it is true."

"Disclosure of the soul?"

"Chatter in bed."

"Better than sex?"

"Not better," said Tom. "Different - and with it - the full blend."

"Wow. The words flow out of you like . . . like . . ."

"Diarrhea."

"Aww. No, silk."

"Silk?" said Tom. "Silk as in silk stockings or silk and satin sheets."

Tom held Phil tightly.

"Oh that feels good," said Phil.

"Ah, but remember - for it to feel good and warm, some part of you must be cold."

"I'm afraid a good deal of me is cold," said Phil.

"I don't believe it. And you think me warm? Actually, I was as shy and diffident as they come. I knew I was different - but was very afraid to face it all."

"How did you come out?" asked Phil

"I was in the Army."

"When?"

"1970-72," said Tom, "in Germany. I was stationed in a little town in Bavaria - but a big military installation. I was a clerk-typist and also was responsible for driving the commander's jeep. Sort of a Radar O'Reilly. One duty of the Battery Clerk was to show training films - so, I was sent off to "Projectionists" School. Now, this school was in a city near Nuremburg - a place called Fuerth. I was sent alone - and as it turned out there was only one other guy in the class."

"Now the barracks where I stayed was called O'Darby Kaserne. I sounds Irish, but it was quite German and was built next to the Military Prison. The barracks were virtually empty - as they were, what they call "transient" barracks - only used for temporaries at the Kaserne - which the projectionist school students - the two of us - were. It was very run down - pretty scary in fact, especially to a shy guy like me. The prison was the most eery thing about this place. Morning, noon and night they drilled those prisoners.

Tom saw himself carrying a full duffelbag. The barracks were empty. He remembered big, gapping holes in walls. He slowly walked toward one of the bunks, throwing his gear on an empty bottom. It was then he noticed the man in the top bunk. This soldier was intently reading and scarcely noticed him. The noise from the prison was very loud.

"What a racket?" said Tom to the reader. "They don't drill us like that in Grafenwoehr."

"You're stationed in Grafenwoehr?" said the man.

"Afraid so."

"I was there for 2 weeks. This noise here is nothing compared to the tanks firing all day long at Grafenwoehr."

"Shakes the windows," said Tom. "But you get used to it."

"You can get used to anything. And, that, next door, is a Prison . . ."

"Prison?" said Tom, going to the window and noticing the barbed wire. "Well I'll be damned."

The other soldier sat up dangling his feet over the side of the bunk.

"How long have you be here?" asked Tom

"Four days. I'm Florian Cooper."

"Tom Dye. Has it been this quiet?"

"Quiet?" said Florian. "You just complained about the noise. You mean empty. Yep. And I think we're it."

"Projectionist's School?"

"We are it," said Flo. "So, relax - enjoy the quiet - or noise - and get ready for a week of sprockets and film repair - old newsreels and other shit."

"Sounds boring," said Tom.

"Well, have you been to Nuremburg?"

"No."

Flo jumped off the top bunk.

"Well, stow your stuff," said Flo. "Wash up. Have you eaten yet?"

Tom did not answer.

"Well," said Flo, "there's good food in town. Let's hit it."

"So, that's what we did."

Tom looked into Phil's eyes and smiled. He recalled the age when he was filled with such infinite energy.

"And Nuremburg - well, they pronounced it Nuernburg - was a short mini-Bahn ride away (that's a trolley). And I was amazed at the place. It was completely surrounded by an ancient wall - with turrets and towers - and old churches and cobbled stone streets. I never saw anything like it in my life. Years later I found out the whole place was bombed to shit during the war; and the Kraft Cheese company rebuilt the city. So, it wasn't really that old at all - sort of like a living Disneyland; but, I was young, foolish and in love with novelty."

"I remember, we ate in a Bulgarian restaurant, complete with old saddles hanging from the wall - and then, we hit a few bars and a risque movie. While in the movie, I noticed my new friend Florian, that is Flo, had a bit more to drink than he should. His hand was straying in the movie. His leg was rubbing against mine. Now, I took it to be the beer - but still I found it quite enjoyable. So, when we returned, I helped him undress - and got him into bed. Then, he kissed me."

"Kissed you? "said Phil.

"Yes, and the next morning, except for his headache, he didn't remember a thing. But I did. I remembered that kiss. It made me feel alive; and nothing any woman ever gave me could compare. I had known that I was different by let's say age eight or nine. I peeked at all my friend's dicks whenever I got a chance. I scrounged for all those Muscle Boy books, those meager lot of flesh we had in those days to inspire the sexual imagination. I even went to the Gay section of Riis Park once with a randy High School friend - whose gaydar was working - but I didn't bite. I stayed in that closet. But Flo's drunken kiss woke up the wonder in me. But that next morning, he didn't even mention it."

"So, we went to this boring Projectionist's class - and then on the last day, I was sitting on my bunk writing . . . "

Tom could hear the clock ticking loudly now. He could see it all once again.

"Hey Tee," said Flo from the top bunk. "You're always writing. Letters?"

"Sometimes."

"Now?"

"You don't want to know," said Tom.

"No, I do!" insisted Flo.

"You'll laugh"

"I won't."

"'I'm writing a poem," said Tom.

"Dick-head. Let's hear it. "

"No I don't . . "

"Please," said Flo. "I won't laugh."

"I remember that poem," said Tom still in his reverie.

"They march and drill all day
Like fire kept at bay
And left to smolder in the sun
To quench their sense of burning.

I hear them and am filled with yearning
Not to be inside them
But to have them inside me
To drill and march on my prison soul

To smolder in my sun.
Locked away in a dark place,
A fetid place that allows no growth
Or truth be told,

This high wall holds the soul from flowing
Through to the ebbing sea.
Not the prisoned marchers drilled.
But, the soul that speaks of me."

"When I finished, Flo kissed me again; and one thing led to another and we had sex. Never was sex so wonderful. And Flo and I stayed together through the night. We met every other weekend in Munich, got a hotel and fucked like bunnies. So, I guess I was out to at least one person. But if we were ever caught, we would have been put in that Prison. Not too much difference today in the military - if you ask me, I'll tell. But it was a scary, secret time."

"Honorably discharged. Free at last! And I wrote and wrote. I got a job with Newsweek. Flo got a job with Dun & Bradstreet; and we moved in together in a walk up in Brooklyn."

"So you were together?" said Phil alarmed.

"Never really."

"That's bullshit," said Phil. "He brought you out of the closet. You scurried all over Germany to hide the salami; you get discharged, live together and . . ."

"Not sleep together. In fact, I became interested in other men; and he became interested in peddling my short stories, poetry and novels, So, I let him become my agent. Soon, I moved to New York and so did he -- but to separate apartments. So, we see each other every day - we vacation together at P'Town every year. But, sometimes Flo can be very smothering in his attention to my affairs."

"Did you love him?" asked Phil.

"I love all my friends."

"That's a pat answer, Mr. Give-me-a-Prison-Guard."

"Where did you pick that expression up?" asked Tom. "Robert?"

"Now, when it comes to friends, Robert has been true and blue. And he's always Sprakie to me."

"Have you ever read Dickens?"

"No."

"Well, friends are not always what they seem. Artful Dodgers are on every street corner waiting for poor orphaned waifs."

"Don't bad-mouth Sprakie," said Phil.

"Sorry."

"Sprakie was there when I needed him. You know, you came out gently and naturally. It wasn't that easy for me. I mean I was out fooling around - and I knew other guys - I mean friends. But, I never told my family. But when I did!"

Suddenly, Phil’s precious eyes became stormy, his hands began to tremble and he held Tom tight. His breathing increased as he heard his father's voice.

"You faggot! You fucking dirty little bastard faggot. I don't ever wanna see your sissy ass here again!"

"Are you OK," asked Tom.

Phil's eyes grew wider. The street before his father's apartment house was littered with a shower of clothes thrown out a window.

"Take your pansy ass out of here! Do you hear me!"

"Dad!"

"Don't you Dad me! You're dead to me! Do you hear me? Dead to me!"

He heard his mother's voice, trying to defend him.

"No I won't calm down," screamed his father. "He's your son too."

"Mom - let me back in."

"She ain't gonna help you. She's out of your life too, you hurtful little son of a bitch! I don't care what happen to you."

"Mom."

He shuddered in Tom's arms as he remembered trying to pick up his clothes.

"Mom let me back in. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Mildred, if you let that asshole back in this place - I swear you'll go next. Don't try me! He's dead to us! Dead to us!"

It started to rain.

"Oh, Mom. I'm sorry."

"Phil, are you OK?" asked Tom.

"Mom, what can I do? I can't help how I feel. I can't help it. I'm not like you. I'm not like the rest of you. Where will I go? Mom it's raining! It's raining! It's raining. Look at me Mom and Dad. I'm adrift here - nothing - no shore or anchor. What am I to do? I have nothing to hold on to. Nothing. Look at my clothes. They're all wet. I have nothing to feed me - to feed my soul. Mom . . . Dad . . . My heart - my heart is breaking."

"Hold onto me," said Tom rocking Phil back and forth.

"No mend. No mend. My heart is breaking and there's no mend!"

Phil wept for some time, Tom kissing the tears away.

"I'm better now," said Phil. "It was some time ago. I'm sorry I wasn't my self. I'm really sorry."

"Now, sweetheart," said Tom. "The mind is filled with the record of all things. As we recall we relive. Gift or burden, that's what separates us from the wolves."

"But," said Phil, "I was going to tell you about Sprakie. He was my saving grace."

Phil smiled as he remembered pounding on Sprakie's door on that fateful night.

"I'm coming," said Sprakie. "Jesus Marie, who's there?"

"Robert, it's Philip Haxie."

"Who the fuck is Philip Haxie? Oh, I remember. Oooh. Nice. Come on it. Jesus Marie, you're all wet."

"Do you remember me?" asked Phil.

"I remember your dick. What the fuck's the matter? You look like shit."

"Robert…"

"Call me Sprakie. I hate that other name."

"Sprakie, my parents threw me out."

"Out. You mean they didn't know?"

"No. It was terrible," said Phil.

"Oh, parents always know. They're in permanent denial, until they hear the words - 'I'm Gay'. Even the liberals one are in shock, like they didn't know. You know, 'Build the new highway through anyone else's backyard but mine.'"

"No Sprakie. They were violent. At least my Dad was. My mother cried. My Dad called me horrible things."

"Calm down. You've been called those things before. I know it sounds awful when a parent says those things - but remember . . . oh shit. I'm on the clock."

"On the clock?" asked Phil.

"I have something baking in the next room."

"Baking?"

"Baking. Panting. Sighing for my ass," said Sprakie. "A trick!"

"Oh, I'll leave."

"No, you sit hear, dearie. I'll get rid of him."

"And he, did," said Phil. "When he returned . . "

"You're. . . ah, I mean . . . "

"A hustler. Not a prostitute. I don't go out for pizza - I have it delivered. Now, enough about me. What do you do for a living?"

"I live at home," said Phil.

"Not any more you don't. Mmmm. But you know, with that baby face and body you certainly could get work. Dancing even."

"I don't know whether I could just do anyone."

"I think you could," said Sprakie.

"I don't think that's who I am."

"Listen, Lamikins - no matter how much you are, you can always be more. You're so sweet. Where did I pick you up?"

"At the Monster," said Phil.

"And we came here? Oh, yes we must have - how else would you know to come here? But, why did you come knocking at my door?"

"Well, I liked you. And most other men were kind of rough and hard on me," said Phil. "You were gentle and I knew . . ."

"I was a soft touch and had an apartment," said Sprakie. "Smart thinking. I like that."

"Well, it's raining - but when it stops I can go."

"No, no --- get out of those wet things," said Sprakie. "Let me help. For every boy, there's a toy. In the scheme of things, you can either hunt for the one - or find them by the dozen, fast and disposable. But while they pass through, you make them pay."

"And me. Will I need to pay?" asked Phil.

"Well nothing's free," said Sprakie. "But I think you'll be a keeper. You can stay here until you find something better. And since you already know the way to my bedroom, I'll meet you there after you wash away the mud."

"So Tom," said Phil, "Sprakie is a good friend. Four years ago he helped me out of a bad scrape. I live with him still."

"You live with him still," said Tom anxiously. "And you've gone to bed with him, and you deny that you two are together."

"I slept with him that night - and we actually slept. By the time I got to his room, he was snoring. We hug and are affectionate - but as sisters. And I pay him rent for my little cubby."

"And your parents?"

"I pass there once in a while; but I haven't spoken to my father since that night. I sometimes see my mother. I wait across the street and see her come out. I know she sees me. But I am afraid to speak - I don't want him to harm her."

"Maybe some day?" said Tom.

"I'm dead to them. I'm invisible."

"You my dear glisten in the morning sun," said Tom, "and that which glistens is not invisible."

Phil hugged him deeply.

"I don't know whether you're just a sweet man or a sweet talker."

"Probably a little bit of both. I like you a lot."

"Sex was good, eh?" said Phil.

"Sex was magnifique - but, it scared me."

"Scared you?" said Phil. "I know you're not a virgin, especially after what you told me . . .and"

"Especially at my age!" said Tom.

"Back to that."

"That's what scared me," said Tom. "I am much older than you. And yet, you make me feel young, and I was never young even when I was young. But, when we get physical, I am reminded of my sagging belly, my shriveled balls and that I can't go a long time like . . ."

"Like who? Don't believe all you hear or read. Too many porn flicks! They tell you every dudes got a big schlong, and can go for 30 minutes and then again and again. Guess what? I'm still lookin' for Mr. 30 minutes."

"So, you're saying I'm OK?"

"I'm saying, you're great - and you have such passion and experience."

"I thought you were the one with all the experience," said Tom.

"No, I'm the one who's had the variety pack."

"Well, I guess age makes us children once again. That would make you older than me . . . "

"In dog years maybe," said Phil. "Listen, I have no problem with your age, Mr. Not Quite 30 Minutes. In fact, your age makes you more . . . "

"Settled?"

"Easy on my soul - and on my bones - and on my lips."

They kissed.

"Why go home to the Sprakmeister?" asked Tom.

"Not tonight. I'm here tonight."

"How about if you came here tomorrow," said Tom.

They kissed.

"and the next day."

They kissed again. Indeed, all memories of Army days and rainy nights of stress were forgotten as they blotted their lips together in a crescendo of passion and bonding. Even the miscreant tick of the clock was obliterated as these lovers returned to the fount in night's most infinite wisdom.

Next Chapter

Turning Idolator

		Chapter Three: Confidential Disclosures between Friends In night's infinite wisdom, lovers return to the fountain. It springs forth the tenderness of touch, the agility of passion and the ecstasy of a tumultuous sea, eased upon the jetty, spaying glitter to the quiet, knowing moon. In the city of a million hovels, a million lovers coupled to the signs of the seasons. Some were standing in the shadows of a dark lane, wet with interest and intensity. Some were fired up in a back room, scarcely lovers, but then scarcely not. Others were hiding under lampposts near park trees and bridges. Tom and Philip, however, nested under mounds of quilt and pillows in Mr. Dye's apartment It is a reckoning with dark rooms at night that they should have timepieces, which breaks the silence of the noisy city. The traffic might roar by the window, a cat blares or a baby whines, but it is the clock in the room, with its heart beat, that stirs the night air and keeps us awake. Tom stirred. He felt the arms of the soft dream who laid beside him. He felt lucky in love; but also terrified by the prospects. The clock ticked louder. He was undeserving of such pitiable kindness donated to him in bed. How could such an angel be even mildly interested in him? Troubling indeed! He sat up. Phil looked at him, hearing the clock as well. Tom chuckled, then broke into some on the spur of the moment Melville: "We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. So, I kindled the shavings, kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world." Phil sat up. "Dick again? said Phil. Tom placed his fingers across Phil's lips. "How it is I know not;" Tom continued, "but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts' honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg - a cozy, loving pair." "Melville was Gay!" said Phil. "He was," said Tom, "but I'm not so sure about Queequeg and Ismael. Actually, it's passages like this that well up from the golden soul of the sensually discriminating palette that glow universally to all that hear it. Gay or not - it is true." "Disclosure of the soul?" "Chatter in bed." "Better than sex?" "Not better," said Tom. "Different - and with it - the full blend." "Wow. The words flow out of you like . . . like . . ." "Diarrhea." "Aww. No, silk." "Silk?" said Tom. "Silk as in silk stockings or silk and satin sheets." Tom held Phil tightly. "Oh that feels good," said Phil. "Ah, but remember - for it to feel good and warm, some part of you must be cold." "I'm afraid a good deal of me is cold," said Phil. "I don't believe it. And you think me warm? Actually, I was as shy and diffident as they come. I knew I was different - but was very afraid to face it all." "How did you come out?" asked Phil "I was in the Army." "When?" "1970-72," said Tom, "in Germany. I was stationed in a little town in Bavaria - but a big military installation. I was a clerk-typist and also was responsible for driving the commander's jeep. Sort of a Radar O'Reilly. One duty of the Battery Clerk was to show training films - so, I was sent off to "Projectionists" School. Now, this school was in a city near Nuremburg - a place called Fuerth. I was sent alone - and as it turned out there was only one other guy in the class." "Now the barracks where I stayed was called O'Darby Kaserne. I sounds Irish, but it was quite German and was built next to the Military Prison. The barracks were virtually empty - as they were, what they call "transient" barracks - only used for temporaries at the Kaserne - which the projectionist school students - the two of us - were. It was very run down - pretty scary in fact, especially to a shy guy like me. The prison was the most eery thing about this place. Morning, noon and night they drilled those prisoners. Tom saw himself carrying a full duffelbag. The barracks were empty. He remembered big, gapping holes in walls. He slowly walked toward one of the bunks, throwing his gear on an empty bottom. It was then he noticed the man in the top bunk. This soldier was intently reading and scarcely noticed him. The noise from the prison was very loud. "What a racket?" said Tom to the reader. "They don't drill us like that in Grafenwoehr." "You're stationed in Grafenwoehr?" said the man. "Afraid so." "I was there for 2 weeks. This noise here is nothing compared to the tanks firing all day long at Grafenwoehr." "Shakes the windows," said Tom. "But you get used to it." "You can get used to anything. And, that, next door, is a Prison . . ." "Prison?" said Tom, going to the window and noticing the barbed wire. "Well I'll be damned." The other soldier sat up dangling his feet over the side of the bunk. "How long have you be here?" asked Tom "Four days. I'm Florian Cooper." "Tom Dye. Has it been this quiet?" "Quiet?" said Florian. "You just complained about the noise. You mean empty. Yep. And I think we're it." "Projectionist's School?" "We are it," said Flo. "So, relax - enjoy the quiet - or noise - and get ready for a week of sprockets and film repair - old newsreels and other shit." "Sounds boring," said Tom. "Well, have you been to Nuremburg?" "No." Flo jumped off the top bunk. "Well, stow your stuff," said Flo. "Wash up. Have you eaten yet?" Tom did not answer. "Well," said Flo, "there's good food in town. Let's hit it." "So, that's what we did." Tom looked into Phil's eyes and smiled. He recalled the age when he was filled with such infinite energy. "And Nuremburg - well, they pronounced it Nuernburg - was a short mini-Bahn ride away (that's a trolley). And I was amazed at the place. It was completely surrounded by an ancient wall - with turrets and towers - and old churches and cobbled stone streets. I never saw anything like it in my life. Years later I found out the whole place was bombed to shit during the war; and the Kraft Cheese company rebuilt the city. So, it wasn't really that old at all - sort of like a living Disneyland; but, I was young, foolish and in love with novelty." "I remember, we ate in a Bulgarian restaurant, complete with old saddles hanging from the wall - and then, we hit a few bars and a risque movie. While in the movie, I noticed my new friend Florian, that is Flo, had a bit more to drink than he should. His hand was straying in the movie. His leg was rubbing against mine. Now, I took it to be the beer - but still I found it quite enjoyable. So, when we returned, I helped him undress - and got him into bed. Then, he kissed me." "Kissed you? "said Phil. "Yes, and the next morning, except for his headache, he didn't remember a thing. But I did. I remembered that kiss. It made me feel alive; and nothing any woman ever gave me could compare. I had known that I was different by let's say age eight or nine. I peeked at all my friend's dicks whenever I got a chance. I scrounged for all those Muscle Boy books, those meager lot of flesh we had in those days to inspire the sexual imagination. I even went to the Gay section of Riis Park once with a randy High School friend - whose gaydar was working - but I didn't bite. I stayed in that closet. But Flo's drunken kiss woke up the wonder in me. But that next morning, he didn't even mention it." "So, we went to this boring Projectionist's class - and then on the last day, I was sitting on my bunk writing . . . " Tom could hear the clock ticking loudly now. He could see it all once again. "Hey Tee," said Flo from the top bunk. "You're always writing. Letters?" "Sometimes." "Now?" "You don't want to know," said Tom. "No, I do!" insisted Flo. "You'll laugh" "I won't." "'I'm writing a poem," said Tom. "Dick-head. Let's hear it. " "No I don't . . " "Please," said Flo. "I won't laugh." "I remember that poem," said Tom still in his reverie. "They march and drill all day Like fire kept at bay And left to smolder in the sun To quench their sense of burning. I hear them and am filled with yearning Not to be inside them But to have them inside me To drill and march on my prison soul To smolder in my sun. Locked away in a dark place, A fetid place that allows no growth Or truth be told, This high wall holds the soul from flowing Through to the ebbing sea. Not the prisoned marchers drilled. But, the soul that speaks of me." "When I finished, Flo kissed me again; and one thing led to another and we had sex. Never was sex so wonderful. And Flo and I stayed together through the night. We met every other weekend in Munich, got a hotel and fucked like bunnies. So, I guess I was out to at least one person. But if we were ever caught, we would have been put in that Prison. Not too much difference today in the military - if you ask me, I'll tell. But it was a scary, secret time." "Honorably discharged. Free at last! And I wrote and wrote. I got a job with Newsweek. Flo got a job with Dun & Bradstreet; and we moved in together in a walk up in Brooklyn." "So you were together?" said Phil alarmed. "Never really." "That's bullshit," said Phil. "He brought you out of the closet. You scurried all over Germany to hide the salami; you get discharged, live together and . . ." "Not sleep together. In fact, I became interested in other men; and he became interested in peddling my short stories, poetry and novels, So, I let him become my agent. Soon, I moved to New York and so did he -- but to separate apartments. So, we see each other every day - we vacation together at P'Town every year. But, sometimes Flo can be very smothering in his attention to my affairs." "Did you love him?" asked Phil. "I love all my friends." "That's a pat answer, Mr. Give-me-a-Prison-Guard." "Where did you pick that expression up?" asked Tom. "Robert?" "Now, when it comes to friends, Robert has been true and blue. And he's always Sprakie to me." "Have you ever read Dickens?" "No." "Well, friends are not always what they seem. Artful Dodgers are on every street corner waiting for poor orphaned waifs." "Don't bad-mouth Sprakie," said Phil. "Sorry." "Sprakie was there when I needed him. You know, you came out gently and naturally. It wasn't that easy for me. I mean I was out fooling around - and I knew other guys - I mean friends. But, I never told my family. But when I did!" Suddenly, Phil’s precious eyes became stormy, his hands began to tremble and he held Tom tight. His breathing increased as he heard his father's voice. "You faggot! You fucking dirty little bastard faggot. I don't ever wanna see your sissy ass here again!" "Are you OK," asked Tom. Phil's eyes grew wider. The street before his father's apartment house was littered with a shower of clothes thrown out a window. "Take your pansy ass out of here! Do you hear me!" "Dad!" "Don't you Dad me! You're dead to me! Do you hear me? Dead to me!" He heard his mother's voice, trying to defend him. "No I won't calm down," screamed his father. "He's your son too." "Mom - let me back in." "She ain't gonna help you. She's out of your life too, you hurtful little son of a bitch! I don't care what happen to you." "Mom." He shuddered in Tom's arms as he remembered trying to pick up his clothes. "Mom let me back in. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." "Mildred, if you let that asshole back in this place - I swear you'll go next. Don't try me! He's dead to us! Dead to us!" It started to rain. "Oh, Mom. I'm sorry." "Phil, are you OK?" asked Tom. "Mom, what can I do? I can't help how I feel. I can't help it. I'm not like you. I'm not like the rest of you. Where will I go? Mom it's raining! It's raining! It's raining. Look at me Mom and Dad. I'm adrift here - nothing - no shore or anchor. What am I to do? I have nothing to hold on to. Nothing. Look at my clothes. They're all wet. I have nothing to feed me - to feed my soul. Mom . . . Dad . . . My heart - my heart is breaking." "Hold onto me," said Tom rocking Phil back and forth. "No mend. No mend. My heart is breaking and there's no mend!" Phil wept for some time, Tom kissing the tears away. "I'm better now," said Phil. "It was some time ago. I'm sorry I wasn't my self. I'm really sorry." "Now, sweetheart," said Tom. "The mind is filled with the record of all things. As we recall we relive. Gift or burden, that's what separates us from the wolves." "But," said Phil, "I was going to tell you about Sprakie. He was my saving grace." Phil smiled as he remembered pounding on Sprakie's door on that fateful night. "I'm coming," said Sprakie. "Jesus Marie, who's there?" "Robert, it's Philip Haxie." "Who the fuck is Philip Haxie? Oh, I remember. Oooh. Nice. Come on it. Jesus Marie, you're all wet." "Do you remember me?" asked Phil. "I remember your dick. What the fuck's the matter? You look like shit." "Robert…" "Call me Sprakie. I hate that other name." "Sprakie, my parents threw me out." "Out. You mean they didn't know?" "No. It was terrible," said Phil. "Oh, parents always know. They're in permanent denial, until they hear the words - 'I'm Gay'. Even the liberals one are in shock, like they didn't know. You know, 'Build the new highway through anyone else's backyard but mine.'" "No Sprakie. They were violent. At least my Dad was. My mother cried. My Dad called me horrible things." "Calm down. You've been called those things before. I know it sounds awful when a parent says those things - but remember . . . oh shit. I'm on the clock." "On the clock?" asked Phil. "I have something baking in the next room." "Baking?" "Baking. Panting. Sighing for my ass," said Sprakie. "A trick!" "Oh, I'll leave." "No, you sit hear, dearie. I'll get rid of him." "And he, did," said Phil. "When he returned . . " "You're. . . ah, I mean . . . " "A hustler. Not a prostitute. I don't go out for pizza - I have it delivered. Now, enough about me. What do you do for a living?" "I live at home," said Phil. "Not any more you don't. Mmmm. But you know, with that baby face and body you certainly could get work. Dancing even." "I don't know whether I could just do anyone." "I think you could," said Sprakie. "I don't think that's who I am." "Listen, Lamikins - no matter how much you are, you can always be more. You're so sweet. Where did I pick you up?" "At the Monster," said Phil. "And we came here? Oh, yes we must have - how else would you know to come here? But, why did you come knocking at my door?" "Well, I liked you. And most other men were kind of rough and hard on me," said Phil. "You were gentle and I knew . . ." "I was a soft touch and had an apartment," said Sprakie. "Smart thinking. I like that." "Well, it's raining - but when it stops I can go." "No, no --- get out of those wet things," said Sprakie. "Let me help. For every boy, there's a toy. In the scheme of things, you can either hunt for the one - or find them by the dozen, fast and disposable. But while they pass through, you make them pay." "And me. Will I need to pay?" asked Phil. "Well nothing's free," said Sprakie. "But I think you'll be a keeper. You can stay here until you find something better. And since you already know the way to my bedroom, I'll meet you there after you wash away the mud." "So Tom," said Phil, "Sprakie is a good friend. Four years ago he helped me out of a bad scrape. I live with him still." "You live with him still," said Tom anxiously. "And you've gone to bed with him, and you deny that you two are together." "I slept with him that night - and we actually slept. By the time I got to his room, he was snoring. We hug and are affectionate - but as sisters. And I pay him rent for my little cubby." "And your parents?" "I pass there once in a while; but I haven't spoken to my father since that night. I sometimes see my mother. I wait across the street and see her come out. I know she sees me. But I am afraid to speak - I don't want him to harm her." "Maybe some day?" said Tom. "I'm dead to them. I'm invisible." "You my dear glisten in the morning sun," said Tom, "and that which glistens is not invisible." Phil hugged him deeply. "I don't know whether you're just a sweet man or a sweet talker." "Probably a little bit of both. I like you a lot." "Sex was good, eh?" said Phil. "Sex was magnifique - but, it scared me." "Scared you?" said Phil. "I know you're not a virgin, especially after what you told me . . .and" "Especially at my age!" said Tom. "Back to that." "That's what scared me," said Tom. "I am much older than you. And yet, you make me feel young, and I was never young even when I was young. But, when we get physical, I am reminded of my sagging belly, my shriveled balls and that I can't go a long time like . . ." "Like who? Don't believe all you hear or read. Too many porn flicks! They tell you every dudes got a big schlong, and can go for 30 minutes and then again and again. Guess what? I'm still lookin' for Mr. 30 minutes." "So, you're saying I'm OK?" "I'm saying, you're great - and you have such passion and experience." "I thought you were the one with all the experience," said Tom. "No, I'm the one who's had the variety pack." "Well, I guess age makes us children once again. That would make you older than me . . . " "In dog years maybe," said Phil. "Listen, I have no problem with your age, Mr. Not Quite 30 Minutes. In fact, your age makes you more . . . " "Settled?" "Easy on my soul - and on my bones - and on my lips." They kissed. "Why go home to the Sprakmeister?" asked Tom. "Not tonight. I'm here tonight." "How about if you came here tomorrow," said Tom. They kissed. "and the next day." They kissed again. Indeed, all memories of Army days and rainy nights of stress were forgotten as they blotted their lips together in a crescendo of passion and bonding. Even the miscreant tick of the clock was obliterated as these lovers returned to the fount in night's most infinite wisdom. Next Chapter