by Perry Brass
Immediately, Wright established himself at the Smithsonian as a Visiting Scholar in Oriental Antiquities, Specialty: Assyriology. The process was easy enough: a friendly, obviously gay man in the Dept. of Visiting Scholars, Antiquities Section, checked Wright's résumé (which we had typed the night before). They chatted and dropped names, hairpins, and hints for an hour. He knew even less about Assyria than Wright did, but was sure no one else would find out. Then Wright was given his identification badge, a letter of introduction for the research facilities at the Library of Congress, and—most importantly—an impressive little card that allowed him to eat the cafeteria food at the Smithsonian's cheap but private Dining Commons.
The badge and card were useful. They gave us entrance into back stacks at libraries, the back rooms of museums, and a position on the invitation lists to scores of cocktail parties. At these we floated around with drinks in our hands. The Smithsonian was crawling with gay men, who were all quite civilized and charming. They maneuvered through the trench wars of a great institution the way Lawrence of Arabia got through the rear lines of Turkish defenses.
To my surprise, Wright blended in beautifully at parties just as he did later in the evening at the bars. Eyes normally dove to him. He found himself becoming a magnet, a real talker. I had no idea what the old Wright was like. But I had a hunch that although attractive, Wright hadn't been the social star of the couple. Alan had been the talker. Smooth. Funny. Socially adept. Now we reversed roles. Wright became aggressive, like there had been an injection of hunter's adrenalin into him. Now, I tended to hide in the background. I was happy avoiding people I didn't know; Wright sought them out.
With a drink in his left hand, he'd extend his right: "You look interesting," he'd say, with his infectious smile and that wonderful twinkle in his blue eyes. "Let me introduce myself. Wright Smith. Visiting Scholar. And you?"
I had no real cover to hide behind. I just couldn't look straight into someone's face and say I was a composer. I knew nothing about music. When pressed, I told them I wrote. Sometimes I said I did office work—which must have said I was looking for a job. In Washington, where jobs—especially Government jobs—were the big draw, I started to feel like a non-person.
Obviously, we had exchanged the social parts of our personalities. I became more bashful; Wright opened up. He practically bloomed. I wasn't sure how real it was. Maybe it was another act he was putting on—like the way he fooled them at work in New York. But he did it well.
Maybe our personality exchange resulted from something else: sex. It was a new experience—becoming lovers with an old lover, who was actually a new one. I couldn't keep my hands off him. I wanted his body and I was happy he reciprocated. This was a change—Wright and Alan had basically stopped having sex "before." Those two bad buddies of any relationship—Boredom and Jealousy—had set in. But I was nuts about Wright—in every sense of the term. This was a whole new ball game, as they said on Earth. When I had nothing left from my third Egg, I would give him my "human" seed, my word for what did not come from the middle ball. So I wondered if "human" seed itself caused this other exchange.
On Ki, exchanging seed from the third Egg—which contained so much of our genetic code—was preparation for producing a son. I had little experience with this phenomenon. I'd gone from being a kid back home, freshly promised, to an adult relationship on Earth. But I'd heard that on our planet, Same-Sex couples started to look and act alike. Transactions of this type were common. Some of us saw it as blending, and loved it. Others saw it as obliterating individualism, and it produced conflicts.
But even in Washington, as we went out to bars and parties and I started to look at other people, I saw gay couples who dressed alike, talked about the same things, had the same opinions, and started to look alike. Did they start out this way, and pick each other for it? Or did it happen with time? I wasn't sure, but it started to upset me. I wondered if I was becoming like Wright Smith—more closed in; colder; a bit . . . predatory. As much as I loved his body, I wasn't sure how much of Wright I wanted to have rubbed off on me.
But another, more upsetting, exchange happened later; I would say about a month after we settled in Washington. Wright started to cruise constantly. He was always on the prowl. His own body language said he was available. He started exercising outdoors. Doing pushups and chin-ups at a small park a few blocks away. Running just before nightfall in Potomac Park, sometimes making a loop that took him as far as Arlington, which was also used by servicemen and handsome, athletic Washington government workers. He wore white, almost transparent nylon running shorts—often without a jock underneath—usually bare-chested. He wore dark glasses. His hair in the evening looked like sand and silver. He looked naked; he loved the attention.
Summer in Washington was no picnic at the beach, but no hotter than the forest we came from. It wasn't just the sidewalk sizzle that made Wright like a dog in heat. He'd changed. He'd been a private person, with a little hedge of privacy around him. His interests were simpler. Scotch. Work. Me. What was going on immediately around him. Now, it seemed that there was always somebody else there. We couldn't go out to eat, or a movie, a play, the National Gallery—anywhere—without his neck turning. His eyes became hard and alert. I could see the hunt going on directly in them.
His eyes followed the Marine guards sweating in front of the White House, or out-of-town husbands, dragged by their kids to the Washington Zoo. He stopped talking—even thinking—and watched them. His expression, although the color of his eyes were different, reminded me of something else: the face that once tracked animals. Wright's mouth developed a slight, sexy twitch. The twitch passed from side to side, then broke into a smile. I had seen that smile before—just before Greeland took his knife and raised it for a hunting kill.
But Greeland didn't look at other men, and now all Wright did was that.
Alan—I knew—had been the cruisy, flirty one. His attitude was softer; he was seductive; he liked those kind of games. Wright liked to make it in the bushes and the dark, but on the street he stayed to himself.
Now Wright couldn't get his mind off his cock. Or any attractive male body in the room. Or on the sidewalk. We never talked about it. Whenever I caught him off-guard, and saw that blank look on his face, which said he was getting hard down there—while going soft in his brain, he would ignore me. "So he's cute. What of it?" he'd snarl. "Just because I'm looking at a man doesn't mean I want him. You're the type that wants to lick every twinkie dick in town."
I was hurt when he said these things. So hurt I couldn't even defend myself. Maybe I was just too young to know what to say. But I knew they weren't coming only out of Wright's mouth, but through Greeland's brain as well. They still hurt. It was Greeland's more violent nature that made Wright say them—even while Wright went running before dark in his transparent shorts; even while his eyes followed dozens of men on the street.
Then he started taking them back to our house. I caught him the first time when I went out for the day, but by accident came back early. He was with an attractive kid, in his late twenties, dark haired, with Latin coloring, obsidian eyes and high cheekbones. He was well-built, and for a young man had a lot of silky, black body hair. "This is Enrico," Wright said to me, smiling, when Enrico came down the stairs smoking a thin cigar and wearing only a pair of red briefs. It was hot. Wright had his running shorts on, but nothing else. "Enrico, I want you to meet my," his voice halted, "—my roommate, Alan."
"Muy bueno. Reet, you did not tell me you had such nice friend." He shook my hand. "I'm from Argentina. Summer Exchange Student. Accounting. Not very interesting, no?"
I made some small talk, and after Enrico left, Wright explained that Enrico practically "attacked" him that afternoon when Wright went out for an early bare-chested run on the National Mall. "Who could resist those eyes? They stopped me dead in my tracks."
I nodded my head. It was nice that Wright still pretended innocence—as if he really didn't want these things to hap
pen and plan for them. I decided to give him more rope—better than coming home to surprises. I told him exactly how long I'd be out, and then I stayed out for that amount of time. I wasn't sure how well this worked. Usually when I came back, Wright was either out running or he was there casually reading. If something did happen, it was quick, over, and probably not that satisfying.
The next twist were threesomes. It was kind of a new shot for us. We had sex with four guys Wright brought home from the bars. The first, I remember particularly, was small, Jewish, and worked as a clerk for the FBI. He said it was as gay as anyplace else. He often acted as a mole there, sabotaging the records of gay men who were slated to lose their jobs elsewhere. "We all have to do our part," he said.
The others I can hardly remember. They were simply warmer spots in the bed between Wright and me. Wright became an animal between the sheets, or on top of them. We were starting to buy rubbers by the case. We had to have two electric fans in the bedroom. The hard part was making sure none of the men touched our balls. I don't know if Wright did that—he swore they never did, but I wasn't sure.
He went out often to the bars at night, while I stayed home. There was also a bathhouse, in a dangerous section of town, that was still open. It was not as crowded as it once had been, but there were still a lot of men who were afraid to cruise the parks, who went there. "You should go," he told me. I didn't want to. The gay meat market—the baths, the back rooms, the dunes at the beach—places where the sex was hot, but the guys cold—had never been my scene. Alan wasn't an instant turn-on like Wright, and I knew it. I wasn't afraid of AIDS. I was afraid of rejection.
Finally, Wright came in one night at two in the morning from the baths, smiling. "It must be the last hot place in North America," he announced. I was downstairs in the office, reading a gay California mystery I couldn't put down. I'd had three glasses of iced tea; it was cooler downstairs anyway. I was just about to go to sleep; I looked up from my book and saw his blue eyes searching for mine. "Guess who I saw there?" he said.
I told him I had no idea.
"Reggy."
"I thought he didn't go out to places like that."
"Sure, and they have 'homosexuality in their family.' He goes a lot. In fact—Alan—Reggy brought me there the first time! But you should have seen him tonight. He was like a pig in heat. I'll tell you one thing: don't judge him by his small feet. There's nothing small about Reggy."
I pretended I was going back to my book; that Wright wasn't going to bother me. "I'm glad you decided you liked him," I said blandly.
"Who said I liked him? I mean, he's hot, that's all. In fact, maybe we should take him up on his offer of a threesome. I betcha he's never seen a white man with three balls!"
I smiled. "He's seen yours, hasn't he?"
Wright's face dropped. "What do you mean—you think I'd just show it to him? You must think I'm the sort of little trollop you are."
I explained that I didn't mean that, it was just that there was no telling what he did with Reggy—if Reggy had taken him to the baths in the first place. Maybe Reggy had tried something with him. I was tired, I started to go off towards the stairs. I didn't want to get into a fight; I wanted to go to sleep. I should have been in bed, anyway.
He turned towards me. His face got very cold. "You really think I have the hots for Reggy? That I care about him?"
I told him I didn't. Actually, I didn't think he cared about anyone—then, but I didn't say it. But I had to ask him something. Now finally seemed the right time. Why was he doing this? "You've changed so much. I mean, you used to cruise, but not like this—constantly."
"I'm looking for him."
"Him?"
"Sure. The one we're going to bring back."
"Bring back to where?" I asked. "Here?"
"Not here!" Wright said. "Don't play dumb and innocent."
"Innocent?" Suddenly, I exploded—I'm sure I'd held it in too long. I loved Wright, but he'd given me so many mixed signals and they were all coming in at once. "Who's playing innocent? I know what you're doing: you're going to get all the sex you can now, because you won't be able to get it back home! You're not going to hunt him down in bed, Wright."
I paused for a second and tried to collect my thoughts. My hands shook. "Besides, Wright, why would one of these men want to come home with us? And by home, I don't mean the Holy Resurrection Burial Society and Social Club."
Wright's face fell. "You think I'm lying, don't you? I know exactly what you're up to. You're worse than I am—you're the liar. Do you think you've fooled me? Suddenly you're so sweet and shy. Alan, you used to be sharp as a knife, but at least I could trust you. There was something between us, and sex alone wasn't going to spoil it. It's different now. But at least I know what you want."
"You do?" I asked. My nerves relaxed. Did he really know how much I wanted him?
"I sure do. I know exactly."
My eyes closed; I thought I was going to cry. It was late, and I was tired, and couldn't hide my feelings anymore. Did he know? He must have, that I was only a kid, and I wanted Wright to take care of me. That I loved him, and I was willing to surrender completely to him.
I opened my eyes, and what I saw was completely different.
His face smoldered with rage. "You're the worst slut in the world! You're crawling after every twinkie you can get."
"No," I cried. Then I saw it: Wright, mixed with Greeland's aggression, had become paranoid.
"You lying bastard," he shouted. "You're going to dump me for some younger man!"
He grabbed me and slapped me hard. I fell to the floor, and then got up and ran up the stairs to our bedroom. I locked the door, while Wright banged on it with all of his strength. If I didn't let him in, he threatened to break down the door. He screamed and howled with pain. Finally, he kicked in one of the plywood panels, and I unlocked it. He jumped on top of me and started beating me more. I tried to run away, but he grabbed me and ripped my shirt off, so that buttons sprayed all over the room. He's gone completely berserk, I thought.
I tried to hold him down, but it was impossible. He had more strength than I did. The strength could not have come only from Wright Smith. Finally, he threw me on the bed and raped me. The rape was horrifying. He tore my pants off so that the belt buckle gouged my skin. He flipped me over, and parted my ass, and using only spit as a lubricant fucked me. While he was doing it, he grabbed my testicles. "Who's been having this?" he screamed. "Who!!?"
I couldn't talk. I was so hurt all over, inside as well as out, that I couldn't say a word. I thought he was going to rip my Egg right out of its sac. I started crying desperately. Finally, he came inside of me, and we both ended up whimpering together. "I'm sorry," he cried. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Enk. I don't know what this is. I don't know who I am anymore. Don't you see?"
We lay in silence for what seemed like an hour on the bed that was now reduced to a raw mattress. "The only way I can work out this confusion is in sex," Wright cried. "I'm like a person pretending to be a person, pretending to be another person."
I stroked his hair. Suddenly I didn't hurt so much inside. I felt terribly sorry for Wright. I was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. He did not know how much I loved him. But then, when you don't know who you are, how can you know someone loves you? "You're just not that good at lying," I told him.
"We can't lie," Greeland cried softly. "I can't lie." I could tell it was Greeland. Right there. The eyes, the voice; even in the dark of our bedroom, I could see his eyes. They were no longer Wright's blue eyes. They were dark as hell, and twice as truthful. "You can do it, Alan. I know I can't. This has all been a nightmare for me. Lying. Being someone I'm not."
He was correct. I had enjoyed being Alan Kostenbaum much more than I'd enjoyed being Enkidu. Perhaps being younger, the transition had actually been easier for me.
"We've got to get out of here," Wright said, pulling me to him, and kissing me on my neck and face. "We've got to find this man, and get the hell out."
/> Chapter Fifteen
A week later, this ad appeared in the Washington Blade.
Homeless? Hopeless? AIDS?
Has your family given up on you? Are you alone? No money? No future. A small, private foundation wants to help. You must be gay, male, single, and willing to take part in our study. We promise complete confidentiality. We offer hope and encouragement. No religious ties.
We concluded it with a new phone number we had installed. We kept our first number (unlisted), and printed the number of the Smith Foundation, Inc.—a "Non-Profit, Non-Denominational, Non-Sectarian, Arts-Oriented (always a good thing to get past snoopers) Foundation," which we took the time to register with the District of Columbia. Registering, to our delight, was quite easy. The day we registered, we went into Reggy's office. He handed us some papers of incorporation from a top drawer in his attractive French provincial desk. We signed them in front of him, while Yvonne witnessed. We gave him a token fee of $75 in cash, and walked out incorporated.
The phone rang constantly the first few days. We logged the calls into a ledger book from Woolworth's. We listened to about ninety voices by the end of that first week. Some of them were just jerk-offs. They were easy to sift out. One man wanted to know if the size of his dick counted. Another asked if we weren't just the Salvation Army in disguise. "You guys ain't Sally Queens, ain'tcha?"
It took me a second to understand what that meant. But he went on to tell us that sometimes the Salvation Army and other groups used ploys like this to weed out AIDS patients from their services. Or to try to sell them services, and "Salvation" at the same time.
"Just the usual sermon, you know—if you straighten up and fly right, God will forgive you so that after you kick the bucket with this stuff, you won't burn in hell. Who needs that?"
I told him we were not the Salvation Army, and took his name. Another man wanted to know if we were a Mafia front trying to launder money. I gave him an emphatic no. I realized that people who had AIDS had been through so much that their suspicion level was justifiably high. There was so much false hope, so many blind alleys leading nowhere.