Mirage

by Perry Brass

  Which, I must say, I did pretty well. I poured some gin into the martini pitcher, and then let the vermouth "breathe" around it. Just kissing the gin with it.

  "Martinis!" Ceil exclaimed. "Heavenly idea, darling. Aren't you as excited as a yard full of elephant poop about this party?"

  I clunked two ice cubes into a glass, and poured Ceil a martini, popping a fat green olive into it. Then I looked at Ceil, and then at Wright. Wright looked at me. Ceil picked up his martini glass and stuck his thick tongue into it as far as possible.

  "I'm giving that olive a good tonguing," he said. "Don't you think any hard-working olive deserves that?"

  "Certainly does, Ceil," I said. Then shut up.

  "About this party," Ceil went on. "Do you think I'm dressed right for it? I'd feel really funny if I looked out of place."

  "You seem fine to me," I said seriously.

  Ceil let out a long sigh. "You boys are a real mitzvah. I can't tell you how much better I feel. You guys go to these things all the time, but I'm just a country girl from Westchester. So what do I know?"

  There was now an eon of silence between me and Wright. He got up and looked out the window at the garden below. I wondered what was on his mind—either mind. Did the word party make him think about Jack? With a little effort, I could have crawled out one of the living room windows, found a convenient drainpipe, climbed down a tree, and escaped.

  But how could I do such thing? Escape? Not when I was supposed to be the party one, and Ceil was supposed to be my friend?

  "What's wrong?" Richard said, squirming among his pillows. "Cat-got-your-cunt? You don't remember this party? What drug are you broads on? Alan and I blabbed for hours about it last night. My phone bill, oy-vey! Then she told me about her menstrual problems and I told her about my hemorrhoids." His voice lowered. "Mamalah, let me tell you—spooning hot Chinese mustard up there doesn't help one bit. But it is very soothing."

  I began to laugh hard.

  "It is soothing. When your twat is as chapped as mine, even an onion helps."

  "I'm sure," Wright agreed.

  Ceil paused for a second, then looked at both of us. "You still look confused. Girls, I told you I was coming in from Westchester for this party. It was hard enough getting invites. Thank the Goddess herself, Kenny, that hunk bartender from Boots and Saddles, had some."

  "The Goddess?" I said. "What Goddess?"

  Wright smiled. "Jesus, Alan, wake up! Ceil always refers to God as the Goddess."

  "Goddess, God, he, she," Ceil explained. "As we all know, it's not the pronouns of the world that really swing it. It's the nouns. Right?"

  Wright started to slink off towards the bathroom. I knew he was going to desert me. "I'd better get myself cleaned up. Sorry, Ceil, this'll only take a minute." He vanished.

  "Sure," Ceil said. "One of the three great lies, after one size fits all and I won't cum in your mouth. Just one little minute to make myself pretty. You think I don't know how long it takes you two beauties to get yourself gorgeous? Hours! Go ahead, disappear. See if I care. Who does a girl have to rim around here to get herself another drink?"

  I poured Cecile another martini. He had the capacity of a landfill, sucking in gin as if it was seeping directly into the rattan chair. "Tish, I thought you and Hermione would be ready by now. Don't tell me you both need showers."

  So, I was Tish, and Wright was Hermione. It was nice at least to resolve that.

  I explained to Ceil that we were late coming in from Jones Beach. While Ceil dished on, I tried to figure out what—if anything—Wright and Jack were doing in the bathroom. I didn't have to wonder for very long. Jack, now fully clothed, appeared in the living room.

  He smiled sheepishly. "I guess I should say goodbye," he said trying to be as delicate as possible with a stranger in the living room. I got up and kissed him. I thought Ceil, would swallow his drink, ice, glass, and all.

  "No wonder you couldn't remember my little party!" he screamed. "Have you two been checking in on the early shift?"

  Jack started laughing and introduced himself. "I just met them at the Library," he said.

  "The Library, I thought they were at the beach?"

  "Both," I said. "It's been a busy afternoon."

  It was an awkward moment, one that cried out for a pause. So I excused myself, went into the kitchen—caught my breath—and brought out more crackers and ice. Then I sat next to Jack. After Ceil, I needed someone vaguely normal.

  I poured myself a drink from the pitcher, and then took an exploratory sip. It was a new experience, like falling off a cliff into a tub of jumping frogs. My insides felt hot and tingly; my head felt furry. I was not, myself, used to drinking. But I gathered Alan Kostenbaum was a real pro. Amazingly, I could make a great martini without ever tasting one.

  Ceil went on chattering. He was sure Jack was the reason why we'd been acting so strangely—why the party kept slipping our minds. "Some girls can't get enough; even in these rough times we find ourselves in, when Abstinence keeps rearing its filthy head."

  I asked Ceil what he meant.

  "You know—tonight's a sex party. But you've already had sex on the beach, sex in the afternoon; sex here—sex there. Now you want sex at night, too? But I'm sure Jack wants to go as well. After all, he's perfectly named for it."

  Jack started laughing. The laughter bubbled up from deep inside his gut, like he had finally caught on. His wide, horse-tail of a mustache wiggled.

  "What's he talking about?" I asked.

  "Ceil must mean the big jack-off party at the Buffalo Club. The party's called 'Shooting Stars.' Great name, isn't it?"

  Chapter Nine

  I left Ceil and Jack in the living room, and opened the door to the bathroom. It was full of steam. Wright was still in the shower, but was drying himself off. "Wright, what's a jack-off party?" I asked.

  "You'll love it," he said. "We—I mean Wright and Alan—went to a lot of them. All safe-sex. Lots of fun. Just don't get involved with any young chippy types, like you usually do. You always want to bring them home. Made Daddy-Wright mad, remember?" He suddenly smiled at me; I wanted so much to kiss him. I couldn't believe how crazy I was about Wright. "You're the only young man in my life," he said. "Keep that in mind."

  I told him I would. "Wait a second," I added. "Sex? Like we're not going to have our clothes on?"

  "Sometimes. Sure. God, Alan. Where've you been?"

  I went up to him and playfully tried to grab his testicles. "Where is it?" I asked.

  He smiled. "You know. Just reach a little deeper."

  I did. It was right there, up above his other two. I wondered how he managed to pull it up so far into his ball-sac.

  He seemed completely casual about it, like every man walked around with three balls. He asked me if I wanted to shower next. I said yes, and took my clothes off. Suddenly, a whiff of raw sexual excitement hit me in the steaming bathroom. I felt nervous being naked with him, even though it was our own apartment. I got hard just looking at Wright, but I was shy about him knowing it. He acted suddenly embarrassed by my new interest in him. "I'm not sure what I'm doing to you," he said. "But I like it." He pulled my face to his, and kissed me. It was difficult to break away from him. I felt so young in his arms, like a child, not like a man past thirty, in the arms of a lover he'd known for eight years.

  I wanted to get into the shower with him, but we had guests, and there was no telling what Ceil would do to Jack by the time we got back. Or vice versa.

  Wright left, went into the bedroom to dress, and I jumped into the shower. The water revived me. I soaped myself down, relaxed, and looked around. Again, as in the kitchen, everything felt immediately familiar. Containers were marked "Conditioner," some gritty material called Face Scrub, and something clear labeled BABY OIL. It all made sense to me, including some gooey stuff in a plastic tube labeled PRELL. I wondered what PRELL meant, but I knew what to do with it. Obviously, you washed your face with it.

  The bedroom though mad
e no sense at all. Luckily, Wright was waiting for me. He pulled out a pair of jeans for me, and a green cotton tee shirt. "You always wear these," he said. I slid the tee over my head. It was well worn and comfortable.

  "Tish," Ceil screamed, "That tee shirt! Every time you wear it, I think I'm going to plotz."

  He and Jack had finished off the martinis. Wright winked at me. Then I remembered, and let myself in on the joke. In faded letters, the front of the shirt said:

  BIG WALLY CONSTRUCTION CO.

  It Can't Be Too Hard For Us.

  (We're Union.)

  We walked over to Simple Simon, a small gay restaurant on Hudson Street in the West Village. It was dark, loud, and smelled of beer and charred hamburgers. A young waiter named Billy greeted us and sat us up front at our regular table. He asked us if we wanted the usual, and Wright said sure. Jack said he'd have a beer, and Ceil ordered another martini.

  He came back with a gin sour for me, and a Glenlivet, ice water on the side, for Wright. Wright closed his eyes, put his lips to his Scotch, and smiled. My drink tasted raw, like pine needles. I pretended I liked it, while Billy watched. He winked at me. I wondered if I'd had some kind of quick affair with him. Then I remembered that I'd met him once on the street and brought him back to the apartment while Wright was away. But that was at least three years earlier.

  Ceil had a few more cocktails and screamed through most of dinner. His voice cut through the dark air like a razor. Everything affected him like he'd just sat on a carpet tack. Wright laughed a lot, too. I watched. Most of the time I couldn't hear anything. Jack kept groping me. I liked his big warm hands between my legs, but I was glad when dinner was over and we got into a cab for the short ride over to the Buffalo Club.

  It was on a deserted street near the river, in the section, Jack reminded us, called Chelsea. When we got out of the cab, Wright gave me a look that said he'd drawn a blank. He had no vestigial knowledge at all of the club. We followed Ceil up two flights of stairs. A bare-chested man in a full leather chest harness met us in front of a closed door.

  "Invitations?" he asked.

  Ceil produced three small pieces of paper. The doorman said alright, and the fourth? Jack took out his wallet and showed a small membership card. "Alright, gentlemen. That'll be fifteen dollars each. You can check your clothes on the left as you go in."

  We paid him, and the doorman let us in to a large, dark room. It was crowded with men in various degrees of leather or denim. Some were bare-chested or wearing only a pair of riding chaps; others were already totally naked. "I can't believe we're back here," Jack said. "I come here all the time, but I never saw you two before." Then he added, "I would have remembered if I had."

  Wright smiled. "I'm sure your memory is better than ours," he said.

  Ceil looked around. He became very quiet. "Tish, I don't think I'm dressed at all right for this place," he whispered.

  I told him not to worry. Dress was one of the less important aspects of the Buffalo Club. Jack proved this by disappearing, and returning a moment later wearing only his sneakers. I liked the way he looked naked. He was big all over and seemed natural about it. There are men who make you feel that they like their own bodies. They accept them. And he was one of them. He made me feel better about myself. I didn't have Wright's scrumptious gym-built anatomy, with a Roman monument of a dick attached. Wright was the kind of man whom if you found in the dark you'd want to linger with forever. Perhaps that's why he liked these situations: they were all no deposit, no return. What you saw—or, if it was dark enough, didn't see—was what you got. He walked off into the direction of the checkroom, and came back a few minutes later wearing only his white cotton briefs.

  He looked wonderful. Very cool. Like he was born to be there. Already there were a dozen pairs of eyes on him.

  I felt too hairy, slope-shouldered, with love handles. It was the luck of the draw. Alan Kostenbaum. How did I end up living inside him? I guess that's a question we all ask ourselves at some point. It occurred to me how little I knew about myself. The Alan-self. I had a lot more memory about Wright. I wasn't even sure where I went to school; it had to be in New York, but I had no idea what I studied. I did know that I had a great sense of humor. At least that's what Ceil kept telling me, as he clung to me like an overboard sailor to a life raft.

  "Tish, I think this has been a mistake. I'm not sure this is my kind of place."

  I told him to relax. Have another drink. Somewhere they had to serve something. Suddenly one of Ceil's doubles, with maybe a little more hair on his shoulders and less on his head, settled in on him. I wondered if he even had the same shirt with the carnivorous flowers on it, buried in the checkroom. He was wearing only a black jockstrap.

  "Grace!" Ceil screamed.

  "Would you shut up? Since when are they letting old pishekas like you in here"?

  "Pisheka?" Ceil's hands went to his hips. "Tell me, how many doughnuts you got stuffed in that jock, anyway?"

  They went on like this for a while, and then Grace led Ceil away for a drink. This left me with Jack and Wright, which was a nice way to be left, after all. Jack persuaded me to check, at the very least, my tee shirt and pants. I did and then with the two of them, I hesitantly folded my way into a crowd of men in the back of the room.

  I felt very self-conscious about my third nut. That was the only way to put it. There were hands groping me all over, but I didn't want them in my testicles. Several men walked around with large bottles of slippery hand lotions. You could take a squirt whenever you wanted. The whole idea was just hand-sex. Nothing oral allowed beyond kissing. I had to admit that with all the hand lotion and flesh around, it was an easy idea to slide into—there were so many willing dicks offered, to touch, rub, fondle, play with. They popped out of every corner; poked out of every bend. I couldn't keep up with them, or with Wright, who disappeared into a dream of his own lust.

  "Wait a second," Jack said. He took me into a corner by himself. Jack was all over me, kissing me while we fondled and hugged. I felt good. If he found it, I wasn't sure how to explain the Egg—perhaps as a genetic characteristic—but at the moment I was enjoying myself so much that I lost track of everything except his mouth.

  My cock was in the palm of his hand, with his fingers exploring deeper, when I felt another man next to me. My eyes were closed, and my face was buried in Jack's chest and neck, but I knew some one else was there. His body felt different. Harder. More muscular. He began groping me, too, with strong, insistent fingers. His hands went to my chest, playing with my nipples, pulling them out of their hairy covers, and his mouth started kissing my neck.

  I let myself get into this—whoever this excellent stranger was, he certainly found me appealing, despite what I felt were my physical shortcomings. Jack released his fingers from my cock and another hand took over. This hand knew exactly where to grope, and found the Egg.

  My eyes were still closed. If he found the third ball repugnant, I didn't want to see what his face looked like. I didn't feel like facing rejection for any reason. His hand suddenly released me, although I could tell by the warmth close to me that he hadn't left. He was frightened. I knew it. I could tell. A noticeable tremor went through him, while a cool draft blew on my face. Immediately, I felt alone, like everything around me, including Jack, had disappeared. Then a man's familiar breath hit me. I felt safe again—on familiar territory. I reached out and felt his nuts in the dark. Wright's. Three. Thank God. The Egg, larger, warmer, twisted about.

  "I'm so glad you're back," I said. He held me closer to him, and tenderly began to kiss me. I felt swept up into him, almost semi-conscious by my desire for him. I realized I was no longer Alan Kostenbaum; I was falling in love with this man who was no longer Greeland. I had not been promised to him on any level, and yet Alan had already lived with him for eight years. What a problem. Why couldn't we synchronize our existences?

  "You're more beautiful than I expected," he whispered. I still felt dazed by his touching my Egg. Wr
ight, I thought, do you really feel that way? I opened my eyes. He was black.

  "My name is Zachariah," he said to me, his voice barely above a whisper. He rolled my Egg delicately in its sack in his hand, knowing exactly how to start the wave of visions and orgasmic ripples weaving through me. My breathing became heavier. "I've come to take you away."

  I looked at him. He was exquisite, like a god carved in dense wood. There was something ancient about his face, the heavy nose and lips, the eyes that never stopped, that went on with their blackness forever. He was naked, but wearing heavy, black leather boots that shone like oil in the dark.

  "We'll get your clothes," he said.

  "Wright?" I asked.

  "Forget about him. You must come with me. I knew you were here, and I found you. And the other big man here has forgotten about you; I have seen to that."

  I felt like we were invisible as we walked through groups of men who gathered in knots, both sexual and social, until we got to the check room. I handed Zachariah my clothing check, and forgot everything else. I couldn't tell you anything more that happened except that soon we were out on the streets and then in a taxi.

  The driver was black and had long, clay-red hair worked into heavy braids. He was playing a jazz station very loud.

  "You like Miles?" he asked us in back, through a half-opened glass partition.

  "Fine, man," Zachariah said. "I like Miles. I'm an old dude."

  "You guys mind if I do a jay?" he asked, and lit a small roll of paper with the car lighter. An unfamiliar smell rolled through the taxi. It was sensuous and felt to my nose the way certain deep purples appealed to my eyes. He passed the joint back to us. Zachariah took a deep suck on it. Then he passed it to me. I declined it, and we passed it back to the driver.

  "We're going way uptown," Zachariah said. "To Harlem."

  I remembered the attack in the Library; now I was alone, away from Greeland. "Will I be safe?" I asked. "I don't know where that is."