Men on Men

by George Stambolian (ed)

  “No we’re not.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  In his apartment I always became very relaxed. I didn’t do a lot of thinking there. When I entered I stopped makings plans, worrying, noting the little disappointments and triumphs of the day. Sometimes I would walk around the rooms while he was shaving or when I was there alone and just look at things I had seen before. Nothing seemed to really have a permanent location. The things that were scattered looked good wherever they had fallen anyway: books (serious books), magazines (frivolous magazines), canvas, cups, ashtrays, cigarette boxes, shoes and pens and brushes and tablets—a generally more attractive class of scatter than I found at many places of similar disorganization. There was a big pile of empty film boxes in one corner. The living room had good light. The bedroom had curtains covered with layers of thick paint, so that they resembled something out of The Flintstones where all the furniture is made of stone, even something seemingly pliable, like curtains. It made the bedroom seem like a cave. Artists do lots of things like that.

  In some ways being there was like taking a nap for me. It was a pleasant experience, even though elsewhere I would have been bored. It was not uncommon, at times, for us both to sit in silence—smoking, occasionally commenting on something but with no real importance on talking—as if just being in the same room was as fine a way of visiting as another. But of course it wasn’t always this way.

  When I was with him I did a lot of sliding through the environments I found myself in: slipping through the air, exploring without paying much attention to the subject, sitting as if waiting but without thought of for what. Something more than hanging out but less than participating. That’s what I was doing, or not doing. That’s what was happening to me. And because this happened around him, it all seemed interesting. Away from him I was more productive, stimulated and stimulating, both volatile and quick to laugh—I had always been so— but around him things changed. The air got thicker. It seemed like an effort to do anything quickly, so I didn’t and liked not doing so. He was a drug: a nice, soft, furry tranquilizer. And all of this is what I needed.

  One day something lousy happened to me. Here’s how we talked about it:

  S: I was anxious, now I’m nervous—I can’t stop thinking about it …

  J: Don’t try so hard. Problems have a life of their own.

  S: Yeah but I want to forget this so I can go on to something else. I have more important things to be obsessed with. OK, this is it, I’m completely putting it out of my head. Let’s just forget about it …

  J: OK. What do you want for dinner?

  S: I mean, let’s just not worry about it. It’s no big deal. I’ve done it, I’ve been through it, I’m sick of it. Let’s just not think about it.

  J: Right.

  S: I mean what can you say?—it’s like so many things that happen: I didn’t like it, I gave it a chance, now I still don’t like it.

  J: Sure …

  S: It’s now, it’s modern, it’s dead. I think I’m starting to let go of it.

  J: Yeah. I mean, to me it’s always like the way everything I thought I would want to do twice turned out to be more than enough once.

  S: Right.

  J: How can we always be cool when we live in fear? Everything, really, is coated to some extent with a layer of anxiety … and that’s not always bad, but still …

  S: Exactly. It’s a given we tend to discount.

  J: Yeah, you can’t really work too much with that one …

  S: You’re right. OK, what should we have for dinner?

  J: … you did it, you saw it, you’re sick of it …

  S: Right.

  J: I mean, it was now, now it’s dead so … you know …

  S: Let it dissipate.

  J: Right.

  S: Right.

  J: What’s for dinner?

  My God, we’d become symbiotic I thought to myself. It was a small shock. It was in conflict with the uncertainty I’d always valued in us. It had been a long time since I felt like I was floating. My tranquilizer was becoming more real, more multifaceted, more demanding. I knew that would happen, it always happens but I can never quite tell the moment it begins. If I could, maybe I could head it off at the pass, keep things vague. But that didn’t turn out to be what I wanted after all. Even vagueness has its limitations. I don’t know if there was a moment when I decided to let go and fall into the relationship, or if I didn’t notice when such a moment could have occurred because I was already falling. I’ve never been one to take responsibility for everything that happens to me, so that makes it hard to always know whether a decision is a conscious one or not. After all, there is such a thing as the tyranny of fate. There is a feeling of falling.

  What happened in the middle and the end are what stand out for me. I guess the middle is what drops out of a lot of our memories. The end points often define what we remember of what happens between them. So I’m skipping most of the middle part. Let’s just say things were fine. Some usual things happened, some unusual. That’s normal. We weren’t too interested in things being perfect and they weren’t. We learned from each other. We were starting to have dreams together. Then everything changed.

  When the time came I wasn’t waiting for him to die. I didn’t wait. I wasn’t really able to think about what was happening. I didn’t think. I was just there. I got used to the sight of the tubes that sucked at his arms like hungry little snakes, trying to put the life back in. And I got used to hearing my nice, soft, furry tranquilizer talked about like some kind of textbook experiment. It was sometimes hard to trust that I was awake, that what was happening was what was happening. When I went in to see him for the last time it didn’t seem like a last anything. At least not at the time. Later those moments, what happened in them and what didn’t, would always stand out.

  I don’t remember driving home. I unlocked the door and closed all the windows. I took a bath. I sat. I listened to the phone ring. I went to bed. It was day again and then it wasn’t. This happened several times. I was born, I died, and slowly the night would seep back in. Sometimes I’d reach out as if to touch his face in the dark so I’d know I wasn’t alone.

  Later I made the calls. I tried not to listen to the people on the other end. I’d already said all of the things anyone else could say. After a while I just dialed the numbers, said my lines, and hung up. “He had to go. He’s gone. I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

  When it happens it’s like the film broke in mid reel, you don’t expect it and you’re still expecting everything you were before. Everything in my life except me was suddenly different. Eventually that would make me different too, but it takes a while to catch up. Someone said the pain would go away, but I’m not sure that’s where I want it to go. It’s how I feel him most sharply. Without it, every move I make echoes because he’s not here to absorb me. I don’t like bouncing back at myself. A dead lover wants your soul, wants your life, and then your death too. And you give it, it’s the only way to feel anything again. Take the death as a lover and sleep with it and eat it and purge it and suck it back in quick. And finally it’s no event, it’s nothing that happened, it’s just you: an anger and a beauty that never really goes away. Not something you can wait out as it disappears, nothing ever really just disappears.

  Everything’s OK now. I’m not waiting for anything. I shave and comb my hair every morning. I look fine. Nothing about me looks different. I change the sheets. I do the dishes. I pay the bills. Just like before.

  Everything’s OK. I spelled out his name with trash on the beach, poured the gasoline and lit it up. Pretty, but he didn’t come back.

  I’m OK. I was thinking: we were fine—some usual things happened, some unusual. That’s normal. I wonder if there was a moment when he decided to let go and fall into it, or if he didn’t notice when such a moment could have occurred because he was already falling. We can’t take the responsibility for everything that happens to us. After all, there is such a thing as the tyranny
of fate. I had wanted to be comfortable with not seeking comfort. I had wanted to be challenged but not in pain. I guess a lot of things seem to carry connotations other than those most obvious.

  I went to the grocery store and bought everything frozen. Except for the freezer the refrigerator’s empty. So I’ve been keeping the film for his next project in there. It looks really clean with just the yellow and black boxes against the white.

  DAVID’S CHARM

  Bruce Boone

  FEET: I HAVE LITTLE SNAPSHOTS in my head of myself bent over, slavering. Why would I want to restrain myself? The feet ordinary, not dainty. Dealing with eros, a person has stopped dealing with facts, long since.

  EYES: Eyes a lovely calm blue, changing in the light of a particular background, wherever we are—Noe St., Golden Gate Park near the autumn chrysanthemums, it doesn’t matter. What gratified me was the slightest hint of animal terror I saw there. Oh, I tell you! My daddy’s eyes held all of heaven’s masculinity—cerulean, they were. A well-meaning Jove. A bit of a bumbler.

  LEGS: hot. Just hot. Sometimes we’d do “pushup” contests, take long runs in the park in the athletic glow of weekends, late afternoons, and I’d show my daddy I was, of the two of us, the better athlete. Daddy would show off his legs. Would I notice, winner of so many contests? I’d pretend not to—though he’d catch me out of the comer of his eye. Great, strong, “golden” thighs he had, born for tongue-worshipping, I used to think. Then later, when we got back, that’s what they’d get, while I groaned. Light blond hair of leg outlined against late afternoon light in shadowed doorway while I made loud animal noises. But the calves good too, I thought—and the thought would lazily buzz like a fly—like Jonathan’s are they?

  COCK: With your cock in my mouth I’d invent strategics by the hour to debase myself, submit myself—in an agreement I made with myself, not you—to your higher power. While you resisted. The world outside changed, the seasons went by. Nothing changed. David, the creep, deliberately tormenting me, tantalizing, torturing with this one hope, desire to lead me on—“maybe I’ll change, maybe I’ll come in your mouth this one time, sweetie.” Such was/is a cock’s logic—a mind of its own as in the phrase, “he thinks with his cock”—which stirs desire in me still. Logic of love, unfolding like a peacock’s train, a burst of light.

  SOUL: Of course Bruce’s daddy had one, didn’t he? But sucking daddy, Bruce realized you can’t have it both ways—and daddy became a bisexual stud, just so many pounds of meat on the hoof. I swear! I never thought of David’s soul once—only my own, and I’d see it reflected in the admiration of David’s eyes. My soul/David’s body—our fair, gloomy agreement.

  OTHER (except nose): I’ve forgotten them or maybe I don’t want to talk about them anymore. To jerk off, I remember thighs, blue eyes, and a big fat dick in my mouth.

  I guess daddy’s gone to work now with his new white shirt on but of course Brucie realizes he’ll not be gone for long cause he’s gonna be back at the end of the day isn’t he and uh huh such a nice surprise is it oh yes it is a nice surprise for Brucie flowers which he always liked so much and does while you are gone daddy I’m always a good boy you’ll see I’m a good boy I’ve been making your favorite for you what daddy’s boy knows daddy likes isn’t it it’s fried eel and drenched in tomato sauce doesn’t that sound good and these cute little dim sums I got in Chinatown don’t they look good they’re made of haricot beans oh and for dessert daddy I know you’ll love it a flan daddy a flan oh oh and now daddy is getting so happy he’s patting my ass I think he’s getting me ready for it I think daddy doesn’t give a damn about the goddamn flan at all he’s making me turn around while I stand at the stove with this stupid wife’s kitchen apron on me frying up the eel while daddy the animal the brute the fuckin pig has got his hands all over around me patting my little ass good kneading and playing with it until my heart starts going faster, it’s going faster and fluttering now my heart has leaped to my throat in terror I feel the terror of it oh daddy wants it from his boy uh huh daddy’s gonna get it uh huh daddy’s such a bisexual stud isn’t he and his ex-girlfriend Margie is going to be so jealous when she finds out isn’t she isn’t. (faster and faster)

  Then another time daddy gives me the daddy position—but it could only be for a little while, can it? (yes and no)

  Sitting in the Guerrero St. kitchen, not the one on Noe St. I just described myself in—and there’s this knock. Landlord, Rich wants to come in, OK, OK, Rich—though I make sure to show Rich lots of teeth, so he’ll get the point he’s intruding. I think he has snooping in mind. Can he look at the paint job on the bathroom floor he did a couple days ago? Push push push with my pushy middle class politeness and I’ve got Rich to the bathroom and back again to the door of my apartment before he can do anything (ANYTHING) about it. Bruce glows with modest self-assertive pride. Not bad, huh? David looks up at me open-mouthed. Working class David. He can’t buh-lieve how these middle class people know how to boss everybody else around by using so-called politeness, language, to their own ends. It’s astonishing, David feels. I’ve spun around and caught these emotions registered on his face and—thud!—there’s a pit in my stomach as I see David transparent with admiration for me, envy for the ability to compel people by using language a certain way —the skills he’s attributing to me. My dick gets hard. I want to turn him over my knee, paddle him hard—real hard—till he cries. Fuck him then and there. David, if you were here with me now, I’d be trying to get up inside you—doing everything I could to get your pants off. Alas!

  Postscript: Later that night I remember fucking David’s face. He’s giving me head with so much energy and willingness to please and submission written across his face I lean over to kiss his forehead like a puppy’s. I’m so moved I hardly manage to hold back a tear from forming—a single tear. To feed David’s face is to be a poet, I decide—and I know that sometime in the future (who knows when) I’ll write of this. To his credit and mine, (what I’m now doing)

  Here’s something else. The story of how we met. David, the working class activist, straight man for ten long years, now coming out as bi—or maybe, maybe gay SOMETIME—tells me he’s gonna be a therapist. David—I protest—then you’ll be middle class! You won’t be working class anymore, I tell him fretfully, scarcely knowing myself whether I mean what I’m saying. David crossly reminds me of how we met.

  We met at the baths. What was I looking for? It was undefined, because it was taking place in an orgy room. I was perplexed and frustrated, since I usually go for some detail or details in a person that suggest that person’s history, something about them besides just the basic equipment. The visual’s as important for me as the sense of touch—so I was wandering in this darkened orgy room seeing only shadows, unsatisfied with the only exchange values I could see. Let something happen! I don’t want to have sex with just ANYONE, you know—so how about a clue?

  Then I see a silhouette across the room, a nose. It has some character to it, it’s a good one, I decide. And the man behind it— I continued—what would he be like, I wonder? I decided there could well be an interesting story behind that nose; since, as I always believed, for those who know how to read them rightly, noses can be the very map of the soul, and this particular nose strongly intimated the INTELLIGENCE and PERSONALITY of its interesting-looking owner. Go for it, Bruce, I tell myself, go for it!

  The other men in towels part easily before me as I push my way across the orgy room to the man’s side. With his eyes he gives me unmistakable permission, acceding to the liberties I’ve begun to take with him. Then I’m down on my knees, giving him a great blow job. But when I look up I don’t seem to see any particular emotions registering. Why isn’t the guy reacting? What more does he want anyway? I continue—and slowly, slowly he seems to relax, get into it more, enjoy it. That’s OK, he’s into it now and showing it and I decide that all’s well that ends well. Now the handsome stranger seems totally at ease and happy. He reaches down and lifts me slowly
to my feet, then starts to return the pleasure-giving attentions I’ve just showed him. I become a rose blooming—a cherry tree in spring with white blossoms, a young apple free and supple brimming over with all the tingling sensations and pleasures you can imagine. I get hotter and hotter. I feel like I’m in a novel—aren’t these the proverbial bells they talk about starting to go off and ring inside me now? Rockets they describe go off in the innermost parts of my sensitive inner ears, I’m THERE. WONDERFUL!—I think. This guy’s got POSSIBILITIES—that, for sure.

  Then we go find a place to be quiet, talk. Small world; it turns out we have a lot in common. So you know Fred Wasserman then? Well we’re just roommates, David says, not lovers— but we live together. And then we talk about people from the old gay lib days, turns out David knows them all! We discuss theory next. David likes Guy Hocquenghem’s—I prefer Mario Mieli but have an increasing partiality for David Fernbach. We talk about our pasts, his family of very “modest circumstances,” mine not so. Futures—we’d both like to see money there, the question is, how? After a while David starts looking antsy. What’s the matter? He says he’d like to see me again, but right now wants to go back to the orgy room and play some more. I think I probably reacted with some shortness. If we had as good a time as it seemed like, why doesn’t he play with me An odd person I decide, telling him—a transparent lie—it doesn’t make any difference to me, since I gotta get home anyway, since I have to get to bed early, then get up early the next morning. He says he’ll walk me to the door. At the last minute grabs an “introduction” card from the counter near the checkout window, writes briefly but furiously on the back of it, gives it to me with a kiss. I pocket it without looking at it, give him a friendly kiss, the attendant buzzes me through the closed door—and then I’m gone. The stars look great that night as I leave the bathhouse. They’re all wispy and delicate, traceries, doilies for heavenly confections. If you have to decide one way or the other—I tell myself—never trust your emotions or you’ll be sorry. You’ll just get into worse trouble. Never trust them. Men are beasts.