Mirage

by Perry Brass

  Mirage

  by Perry Brass

  The First Novel in the Mirage Trilogy

  About the Men of the Planet Ki

  Mirage

  Perry Brass

  The First Novel in the Mirage Trilogy

  About the Men of the Planet Ki

  Perry Brass

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2009 Perry Brass

  Discover other titles by Perry Brass

  at his Smashwords Homepage.

  Electronic mail address: belhuepress@earthlink.net

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The following is a work of fiction, an act of the imagination. The characters, and many of the settings in it, are purely fictional. A writer is a traveler in the landscape of his imagination, and any similarity to the world of wakefulness, the world of "real people," he meets along the way is purely coincidental, and not intentional.

  (Electronic mail address: mailto:belhuepress@earthlink.net)

  Cover photo by Gilberto Prioste.

  Cover and overall book design by M. Fitzhugh

  Ebook edition ISBN: 978-1-892149-09-1

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUE CARD NUMBER: 2001089794

  Other books by Perry Brass:

  Sex-charge (poetry).

  Works and Other ‘Smoky George’ Stories

  Circles, the sequel to Mirage.

  Out There: Stories of Private Desires. Horror. And the Afterlife.

  Albert or The Book of Man, the third book in the Mirage series.

  Works and Other ‘Smoky George’ Stories, Expanded Edition.

  The Harvest, a “science/politico” novel.

  The Lover of My Soul, A Search for Ecstasy and Wisdom (poetry and other collected writings).

  How to Survive Your Own Gay Life, An Adult Guide to Love, Sex, and Relationships

  Angel Lust, An Erotic Novel of Time Travel

  Warlock, A Novel of Possession

  The Substance of God, A Spiritual Thriller

  Carnal Sacraments, A Historical Novel of the Future

  The Manly Art of Seduction, How to Meet, Talk To, And Become Intimate with Anyone

  To my friend Jeffrey Lann Campbell, and to all the couples, both promised and unpromised in our world. Also, for Hugh, without whose constant support, this book would not have been written. And for all of our brothers, and sisters, who have struggled and are struggling with AIDS.

  I'd like to also thank, for her help in producing this book, Michele Karlsberg, as well as Mimi, Tom and Mark, Mark and Bill, John and George, Tobias, and always, T.R. Witomski.

  We seek the thing that we are.

  An Introduction by the Author

  When I first published Mirage, in 1991, I was not really prepared for the response to the book. That is, I had hoped that the book would be successful, but it seemed that it had existed so much in my own imagination that when it became a real book—and I saw that many readers really loved it—I was as surprised as anyone. My distributors, the old Inland Book Company in West Haven, Connecticut, asked me if the book had become a “course adoption.” “Books like this [meaning, very small press fiction] only sell this way [meaning, in actual thousands] if they’ve done that.” No, I had not heard that Mirage had been adopted for any courses. Neither did the book have any kind of promotion budget, it was hardly reviewed in any of the gay press, and the “gay science fiction community” for the most part ignored it completely.

  What the book did do was pick up an audience of readers who were not science fiction readers, and some of whom were not even gay. They simply excited by the idea that I had created an imaginary world filled with very real characters. That, as a gay writer, I had produced “gay characters” who were filled with blood, passion, and humanity, instead of the usual “realistic” self-hatred and internalized homophobia. I had been told frankly by gay editors at large, mainstream houses that gay books needed that. That self-hatred was a “real” part of the gay character, that any book filled with action, adventure, and a male passion for other men was just not “acceptable.” This was the “model” for what gay books were supposed to be like: sex—when it was allowed—was supposed to be in the background and not an integral part of the book; and the idea that gay men could actually redeem, save, and hold each other . . . anyway, the “gay literati” were just not going to let that happen.

  But that was the kind of book that I wanted to write: a book filled with the adventure of living as well as human sexuality, with all of its contradictions and passions. I grew up in the Deep South, in the strange hybrid way of being Jewish, Southern, economically impoverished, and, also—through early recognition—gay. By the time I was seventeen, I was actively sexual, and had very much, in the mid-1960s, joined the “gay community.” At that time, that meant going out to bars, having gay friends, and being fairly “out” to almost everyone.

  As a kid I relished the stories in The Arabian Nights as well as boys’ adventure stories, or anything to relieve me of the alienation and loneliness of my own childhood. Tennessee Williams said that the reason he started writing, at age fourteen, was to “escape the bullies in the back alley who used to beat me up.” I understand that reason totally, and like many young, soon-to-be-gay kids, I started reading for the same motive.

  But, later, when it became possible to read “gay books,” I noticed what these novels were, for the most part, missing. Stories of passion between men, adrenaline, and heroism were just not there. Instead, we had the usual stories of the miseries of our lives, of self-hatred, and of a constant depression that could never be attributed to our own place, or lack of it, in the real world. This was what the “normal” adjustment to being gay was supposed to be. Since I had been, since the late 60s, a part of the political movement towards gay liberation, this was just not “normal” or acceptable to me.

  I kept wanting a different kind of story, and could not find it. So of course, I wrote it in the three novels that now make up the Mirage trilogy—Mirage, Circles, and Albert or The Book of Man. One of the first reactions I got to Mirage was how attached readers had become to Greeland, the hunter, who is the main focus in the novel. Although all three books are narrated either by Enkidu, or later by his son, Albert, Greeland, as a continuing force on Ki, very much colors the novels. Gay men had never before encountered a character who was so conflicted, wild, passionate, and uncontainable. One man wrote to me that he was in love with Greeland, and if “Enkidu does not want him, I do!” Another man wrote that he had been looking in bars for him, but so far could not find him. Greeland is jealous, violent, and impetuous, but also vulnerable and protective. He is a foil for Enkidu who is more intellectual, introspective, shy, and deeply romantic.

  People asked me where I got Greeland’s character from, and for years I wasn’t really sure myself, until, finally, I realized where he came from: Louis Brass, my father, who died of cancer at the age of forty two, when I was eleven. Louis remains the great heroic, wonderful character in my life, a Southern Jew who never stayed within the boundaries of either group. Very “Jewish,” he was bookish, a constant reader (he taught me how to read at age six, when public schools failed); but also, very Southern, he loved hunting and fishing and hung out with salty “good ol’ boys.” I still remember his conversational style, the way he stood around with a Camel cigarette and fresh cup of coffee and ta
lked in the easy but courteous way that Southern men loved to talk.

  He was a great armchair adventurer, and introduced me to Sinbad the Sailor and the Tarzan stories, and I always had that sense of being protected and loved by him. He did not have a shrewd bone in his body—which is probably why he was a repeated failure at business—and he was also contrary, headstrong, and had Greeland’s whiplash temper. He had been a spoiled only child, and I followed in his rebellious footsteps. When he died, he left us penniless and at the mercy of my mother’s, for the most part, uncaring wealthier family: a classic Southern story, with a Jewish twist.

  I inherited all of these traits, all of these “characters” within myself, and many of them played themselves out in the Mirage stories. There is a real thread of Jewishness as well as the South and gayness within them. Growing up as I did, in the South of the 50s and 60s, where courtesy was held in much higher importance than honesty, I could easily envision the feudal courts of Ki, its castes and hierarchies, and also its magical elements. People have asked me how I came up with the motif of the third testicle, the “Egg of the Eye,” and I realized that that is something gay men have always had: the ability to know one another—we call it “gaydar”—and to talk openly, truthfully, together.

  This closeness to people also came from being Jewish and Southern—two very marginalized subgroups in American life—and I know that I am both very Southern and very Jewish; but most of all, for want of a better word, I am very “gay.” My closeness to other gay men, after leaving home at seventeen, has been what has literally kept me alive. This closeness has made me believe in gay tribalism, a concept that I think will attain more meaning in the new Millennium, and that I deal with often in the drama of the planet Ki.

  In the Same-Sexers of Ki, I see our own earthly gay tribe, a tribe filled with its own conflicts, jealousies, and cruelties, and also with its physical, tactile closeness, warmth, and healing rituals. I see in the tribe our own sense of gay continuance, whether that be biological—on Ki, gay men can reproduce together, and have been doing that way before our current gay baby boom—or spiritual in the sense that we pass down tribal lore and customs through our elders.

  I have become now, after more than thirty years of writing, an “elder” of the tribe and I realize how important it is for us to tell our stories, and also to listen to them. To see that our own stories are simply continuances of the past, a true, living, gay past, that we do need to know about. In Mirage, I go back thousands of years, and see our own “gay” or same-sex presence there. Although some aspects of the novel, like the scenes of an Act Up demonstration, may seem dated already, most gay men live in what I call now the “continuing present.” This means that our generations flow together, our memories stay real and recallable, and 1969 does not seem totally remote from 2009. All of this is a part of the “mirage” and reality of our own lives, something I have been privileged to write about and share with you.

  Perry Brass

  Chapter One

  The canopy of leaves above us was so thick that light from the Star fell through in soft patterns. It was midday in the deepest part of the forest; the part we knew with our eyes closed. There in the shadows, away from the raw heat of the hunting marshes, Greeland stopped for us to be alone. I had been promised to him for years while he watched me grow up with expectations. I knew he loved me and wanted to hold and protect me. My heart beat furiously. He looked into my face in the sweat-soaked light. I saw myself reflected in his dark eyes.

  "You are more astounding," he said, smiling his wild, intense smile, "than an evening of the Ten Moons." He lowered his charcoal eyes; his steady voice halted, then fell to a whisper in the quiet forest. "The Goddess has promised you to me in our ancient way. In my heart, I cannot look at another man." He paused and took me into his strong arms. "I will hold you always, and love you like my own flesh."

  He untied the short breechcloth of animal skins that surrounded my slim hips. His strong hands caressed my thin upper body and stomach. He massaged my small nipples, and then began to fondle the slender shaft of pale flesh between my legs. I became excited. My male pipe grew thicker; almost hard. He ran his lips down my chest, already sprinkled with downy fur, until he grazed the mushrooming tip of my pipe. Suddenly I felt so breathless the ground under me began to tremble. My fingers reached into the coarse thatch of his hair for support, but I only sank to the ground while he made love to me with his mouth.

  He stopped. "Your seed—in my mouth—please?" he pleaded.

  I groaned. What could I say? I was so happy now in the dark center of the forest. Alone with Greeland, the hunter chosen by our elders for my friend and partner in life. A trace of dried blood from the small, very special buck-deer he'd just trapped stained his large sinewy knife hand. The deer had only one point on each antler, and died soundlessly. He gave up his life easily for us. His meat would mark the first meal of our new life. Tonight, after cutting the flanks into small, tender steaks, roasting them, and eating them with friends, Greeland and I would share his bed for the first time. He had spent many hours with me, but I had never before slept with him. He repeated my name. "Enkidu, Enkidu." The thick, hairy fingers of his right hand groped and then found my swollen, tender scrotum.

  "So nice," he whispered. His face softened; his breath paused with expectation. He lifted the sac gently with his bruised hand and then felt something floating between my other two testes: the sacred, promised Egg itself, the third testicle in my sac, which like Greeland's own—a larger darker Egg than mine, I was sure—separated our own kind from the other distant men of the planet. He put his face close to my scrotum, so that his bristly cheeks probed the tender skin. My eyes closed. I began to see powerful visions, which my fathers said were only mine; each Egg, they told me, drew forth its own visions from a secret order of emotions that, also—they promised—was mine. But no one had prepared me for my own reaction when Greeland put the third Egg close to his mouth and began boldly to suck it. For then I knew instantly I belonged to him.

  The testicle, which we called "the Egg of the Eye," began to pulsate. I felt it grow larger, warmer. Then a rush ran through my brain, and I felt dangerously off-balance, like someone was swinging me by one arm. I saw wild glossy colors, unlike anything even from our forests: purples edged in pink. Greens that streaked into oily black. Waves of glistening greenish-yellow. I became frightened. The colors stopped. The tree leaves tinkled like small bells. A shrill wind whistled through every hair on my body. My hands and feet tingled. My chest and stomach flesh kissed the forest air. My ears burned. Suddenly, I smiled; I was happy.

  The dizzying, hurling feeling stopped.

  Greeland was controlling all movement of the Egg with his hands and mouth. My eyes opened, and I felt connected with him. A warmth streamed up from my sac; my pipe throbbed like it was sheathed in its own heat.

  I breathed harder. Now, what was going on? Greeland? Greeland? My body thrashed uncontrollably in spasms. I wanted him to guide me through this, while my fingers grabbed and raked his hair. A shiny white syrup spurted out of me.

  Greeland howled. His wild, happy sound flew out into the forest as small, orange-banded black birds exploded from the trees in every direction, then settled back again as quiet resumed. Greeland happily brushed some of the syrup up from my chest.

  Light from the Star hit; my seed glistened. He licked up the syrup and closed his eyes; then kissed me, warm and sweet on my face. He felt nice, so naked beside me. He was big for one of us; very muscled. I had never felt this close to anyone else before. He looked at me. Kissed me many times. He was certainly growing "larger" in one direction, too. "I want to satisfy myself with you," he said.

  It was all right, I told him.

  He smiled. "Good." He reached for my male sac, and felt the third testicle. It was still large, squirming between the other two. "You want more sex," he said. "I can tell. We can never lie."

  He was right. I wanted it. More and more sex. This was wonderful. I h
ad no idea what he'd do next, but I was curious. He knelt over me and put his pipe into my mouth. I enjoyed the warm, fleshy feel of it. The animal smell of his groin, matted in thick, wild hair. At first I could barely feel everything in his scrotum when I stroked it. Then I felt the Egg. It was swollen, hotter, and not much bigger than mine. He pulled out of my mouth, breathing harder.

  "Greeland, are you all right?" I asked.

  He only smiled then gently turned me, so that I was lying on my stomach. His mouth began to nuzzle the back of my neck. He lay on top of me and I felt good.

  His breathing and mine became unified. Even the birds that had returned to their trees seemed quiet. There was only the soft musical sound of his breathing and mine. It reminded me of the flutes our men played at dance ceremonies, when the Moons were out and we were charged with pleasing Ki, the Goddess who rules our planet. "The Goddess likes our music," the men say. "It is love to Her." But nothing was as wonderful as Greeland on top of me, easing himself deeper between the cheeks of my haunches.

  "Enkidu, you have become mine today. Today is the day of our Promise, and I happily give you my seed as you have given me yours."

  "I want you to hold me," I told him, as he pushed deeper. He began to breathe harder. Then he reached in front, stroking my Egg, warming it with his hands.

  I turned my head and looked up. The sky got darker. Would it rain? Birds. Thousands of small, alarmed birds were shaking the upper branches of trees, and shrieking with an ear-splitting noise. This was no vision. Greeland sprang up, as a large figure jumped out from the thick bushes around us.