by Tim Curran
But it wasn’t just raunchy rivals Townhouse and Rustler that gave Hef’s accountants headaches. There were attacks from the Left, crusades against pornography mounted by feminists and lesbians (weren’t they the same thing?) who puritanically denounced skin mags as vehicles for the oppression of women, yada yada yada. Layboy had thrown them a bone back in the 1970s by including “fact sheets” on the living party dolls displayed on his glossy pages. While stroking one’s member one could educate oneself in the fascinating matters of each model’s turn-offs, turn-ons, favorite sports and movies, etc. See? Layboy cared about the whole person and would never think of reducing her to a mere sex object. But it didn’t do much to satisfy his shrill critics.
So one might say the Layboy empire was falling on harder and harder times. The Layboy Clubs and ski lodges had closed down years ago, except for a few in Japan, where they savored the camp chic of the 1960s. But it was equally true of Hoyt Hefti himself, for he was, after all, growing increasingly wizened and infirm. Though surrounded by a bevy of nubile sex models, most of them blonde and nearly indistinguishable from each other, Hef gloried in the rays of their smiles and well-oiled breasts like an ancient potentate with a well-populated harem ostensibly evidencing his superhuman virility. But old Hef, to the considerable relief of his own harem, was these days more of an impotentate. His girls, some of whom had their own TV “reality” shows, were pure eye candy, arm candy. His dentures would not allow him to actually taste the candy. At most, his liver-spotted, claw like hands would occasionally reach out to fondle a luscious-looking boob, its buxom owner shuddering as she tried to think only of the salary (“allowance”) she would receive.
But old Hef’s brain was still pretty sharp and shrewd. And what he had planned for his birthday gala stood to meet both his needs.
The day of his blessed nativity soon arrived, and Hoyt Hefti stood on an upraised dais at one end of his vast banqueting hall, surrounded and supported by his favorite concubines (he forgot which one he had “married”). He liked to call them Camilla, Cassandra, Carmella, and Cassilda, and so their fold-outs read. Sporting his jaunty yacht captain’s cap and wearing his trademark lemon silk pajamas, he welcomed a huge throng of guests who were even more stellar than his usual sycophants. There were government and military men, captains of industry, even numerous ecclesiastical leaders. Gallery owners, arbiters of taste, noted authors and poets, winners of Pulitzers and Nobel Prizes. A galaxy of stars. They had agreed to come once Hef’s lawyers had convinced them of the Mansion’s security arrangements, for there might well be certain activities that none could afford leaking to the public, who might not, with their bourgeois morals, understand.
“Welcome, welcome! My friends, as you know, I have asked that no one bring presents. You know the old saying about the man who has everything. I am that man, and this evening I want to share it with you, to give something back. Consider this shindig my present to you. Nothing will please me more than for you to have a roaring good time! I believe you’ve seen the instructions I’ve had passed out. And I see you’ve chosen your costumes from our wardrobe department. You look great!”
Hef was referring to a dazzling array of movie-quality costumes including leather and spikes, furry animal costumes representing various species (with a heavy emphasis on sheep, horses, and pigs), diapers, Catholic schoolgirl uniforms, pirates, cowboys, show girls, popes, etc. Most were cleverly designed to leave the faces, breasts, ass, and genital areas bare. The crowd was sprinkled with a number of wholly naked forms. And the grunts and bleats of real animals could be heard from adjacent rooms.
“But you’re probably eager for the fun to begin! I know I am!” With that, Hef signaled his DJ, who sat at a complicated mixing board. There were seven rooms surrounding the great hall, each with its own name as if it were a restaurant or a club, and this man was charged with piping play lists of different musical styles, all of them near-deafening, into each room. He secured his headphones and began, as the vast crowd began to fragment, following their maps to the room of their choice. Some were young and lithe, veterans of countless hours in the gym. Others were old and flabby. No one seemed to notice or to be embarrassed. It was time, as Hef had said, to get down to business.
Hef and his beauties, all naked and gleaming, watched their guests disperse. The sense of envy was evident in the expressions of the girls until Hef broke the tension: “Well, what are you waiting for, ladies? Go have some fun!” Off they went in different directions, with many a giggle and a jiggle. Grasping hold of his gold-plated walker, Hef stepped over to his diligent DJ and said a few words. Not wanting to distract him, Hef nonetheless wanted to make extra sure the many, many hidden video-cameras, long shot as well as close-up, were functioning smoothly. They were? Great!
And yet, despite such surveillance, none noticed the quiet arrival of a single uninvited guest. He had arrived already clad in costume, though one that left not an inch of flesh exposed to the eye.
The master of the house gave things a half-hour or so to warm up, then decided to inspect the festivities. First he shrugged off his pajamas and slipped back into his bathrobe, not bothering to tie it closed. His nurse, nearly naked herself except for her pert little nurse’s cap and white silk stockings, helped the old man into his wheelchair and slowly pushed him toward the first of the consecutive party rooms.
The first was the Gay orgy room, called Planet Uranus. Most there were male, and the favorite costume theme seemed to be Village People, though there were a few Roman togas, too. Old-time Disco music blared from the lavender walls, pretty stereotypical, but no one seemed to mind. Nothing all that new here, but Hef had to admit these lads were energetic. There was so much changing of partners, one might have thought it a square dance. And his guess had borne out: both televangelists had made a beeline for this room, though they weren’t engaged with each other, of necessity, as both were on the receiving end. But they weren’t the only religious superstars here. There were a couple of Indian New Age gurus present, and a kabalistic rabbi with numerous bestsellers to his credit. An ecumenical event, then!
As his wheelchair passed slowly through the room, having to thread its way through knots of struggling bodies who sometimes appeared to come from nowhere into his path, he shook his head, politely declining more than one invitation. He passed no judgments but was an old-fashioned kind of guy. He felt sure they all understood.
Next Hef and his nurse, who paused to wipe herself of some splattered bodily fluids, crossed the threshold into the S & M chamber, Medieval Times. It was outfitted like a torture dungeon, though of course all the deadly mechanisms were stage props, nothing more. But the horsewhips, chains, and cat o’ nine tails were real enough. One might have imagined oneself transported miraculously to Iran during the holy flagellation days of Muharram for all the whip-cracking and blood-letting. The main difference was no doubt the ubiquitous occurrence of orgasmic moaning among the sufferers here. No leather masks or hoods were allowed, because Hef wanted every face, every identity recorded for posterity. He hoped the revelers were not as annoyed as he was by the music of the rock group Om, which sounded like the Trump of Doom and gave one the sense of listening underwater like a fish retreating from an exploding naval mine.
Politicians and government bureaucrats were in the majority here, equally glad to be taking the punishments and dealing them out, just like in real life. He and nursey had to be careful, once or twice coming dangerously close to the bite of a stray leather tendril. Once again, it was not to Hef’s particular taste, though witnessing others enjoying any sort of sexual sport was exciting to him. And that was the point of his little tour. A lash got tangled in one of his wheels for a few moments, but soon he was on his way again, headed for the next room.
Mainly to avoid befouling his bright yellow robe, Hef did not really want to enter the Copro-Cabana, where naked women down in recessed tanks to either side of a central runway wrestled in shit. Others ate it,
while still others smeared it on passive partners and then sodomized them. Children at play. Hef waved as he passed by as quickly as he could.
The Play Pen was next, echoing with nursery rhymes set to music, alternating with classic selections from Alvin and the Chipmunks. Uncle Hef nodded paternalistically as he supervised the fun. Men naked except for urine-stained trench coats shoved their dicks up the assholes of women (and some men) dressed in plaid skirts, while others, garbed as Catholic priests, stuck theirs into the mouths of actual school boys and choirboys, dressed for the part. Hef had told them to BYOB. Again, he did not linger to join in, but the sight did its work, and his penis slowly tingled, thickened.
On through the Barn Yard, where some, dressed as farmers, pretended to rape pigs and sheep. One of the “sheep” was costumed as Shari Lewis’ Lamb Chop puppet. Others preferred the real thing. There would be no trouble telling who was doing what to whom, thanks to the clandestine camera work. Hef could not help laughing till he gasped as the repeating loop of “Old MacDonald” played and played again.
The special effects were top-notch in Area Fifty-One. Screens filled the walls with space’s starry voids and scenes from science fiction classics, featuring space aliens of all silly varieties. Several of Hef’s stable of Laymates wore Cone-head bald wigs and had gray-green powder over their bare bodies. Strapped to operating tables before them were more of Hef’s guests, face down, and enjoying rough anal probing from their unearthly captors, who wielded smooth rods emanating a mild shock. All this was accompanied by a hilarious soundtrack of weird background music from 50s sci-fi flicks.
The last stop on the tour was the Morgue. Hef’s connections in the city had managed to get him the loan of a number of well-chilled cadavers who were probably getting more action now than they ever had in life. Soft, soothing organ music drifted from the speakers, and many of the bodies were laid out in coffins capacious enough for their “mourners” to climb in with them and try to pump a bit of rejuvenation back into them. Hef knew good and well that it would not be too long before he joined their ranks, and not just in pretense. It would not be long at all. Hell. He was ninety years old this very day! But he planned on making every day count.
By this time, Hef’s virtually vestigial member was throbbing like the old days. It had taken quite a show to build him up to this, but he could tell it was racing toward him now. So he had his nurse wheel him back to the banquet hall and then rang the bell signaling his guests to reassemble there. He found he could not wait for all of them, but most were there, distinctly annoyed, straightening their costumes and trying to shake off their recent berserker lust.
The nurse pulled the hems of Hef’s robe aside and noted with pleasure the first solid erection her ancient boss had managed in many a year. She knew she dared not waste time, so she helped him into a large, stationary, cushioned chair, where she proceeded to sit astride him and lower herself onto his standing lance. This she did with increasing rapidity as the crowd looked on, some cringing, others applauding. At last Hef’s orgasm exploded as the old man screamed. His cry of joy segued seamlessly into a death rattle as the exertion proved too much for his corrupt old heart. He slumped over, as his horrified nurse climbed off him, wiping herself with his robe. She had not counted on a necrophiliac lap-dance.
In the ensuing melee, with coated physicians and paramedics rushing to the platform (they had never been far from their aging employer), no one took much notice of one more figure making his way onto the stage. But as the men with the stethoscopes shook their heads and stepped back, this robed and hooded figure, sporting a color very close to the lemon yellow preferred by the late pornographer, stepped to the front of the dais and spoke with a clear, cold voice that seemed to carry everywhere without rising noticeably.
“Hoyt Hefti is dead.”
Was this man, in costume like the audience, about to deliver a eulogy? Had this, like all the other bizarre details, been planned from the start? Was it all a skit, a cruel joke?
“Okay, who are you supposed to be?” shouted an Oscar-winning actress, her gown stained with semen and blood.
“I am the Phantom of Truth. I bring the truth to those who lack it.”
“What truth?”
“And take that damn mask off! Show some respect for the dead!”
“And what are we supposed to do now? We can’t have the police come in here to take the body!...”
His empty tones brought silence, perhaps from mounting fear: “I wear no mask,” though his face did appear to be tightly bound in featureless white linen. “As to what you shall do, that depends. It is up to you. But first hear my truth. Your host contrived to film your unspeakable revels. He required money and planned to release the films to the media if you did not pay him great sums.”
Eyes widened at this, brows wrinkled, faces reddened, mouths muttered agitation, indignation, nothing intelligible except for outrage and panic.
“But I have altered his plan.” Some vague signs of relief followed this, a few smiles.
“I have seen to it that the cameras fed what they witnessed directly to the news bureaus. They have it even now.”
There was weeping and gnashing of teeth.
“Perhaps you will dare to face opprobrium and censure and prosecution. But I have a way in which you may avoid it if you wish.”
Though the terminal issue of Layboy did not carry the story, all other media outlets did. The once-billionaire magnate of Layboy Enterprises and his hundreds of birthday guests were discovered stone-cold dead the next day by a delivery man who rang the bell for minutes on end, trying to rid himself of a crate of sex toys and another, a case of absinthe. Looking through the nearest window, he beheld the carnage. It reminded him of that nursery rhyme with the phrase “We all fall down,” only nobody here was liable to be getting up again. Autopsies were indeterminate. There were some indications consistent with poison gas, though no actual trace of any such substance could be detected.
The only corpse clad in yellow silk was Hoyt Hefti.
y apologies, I did not mean to scare you. Most mornings I wake screaming. I have bad dreams, but those dreams, they help keep me sane. The fact that such things still terrify me, in an odd way I find comforting. My sister likes to say that I came back from the war changed, others nod and whisper words like “shell-shock,” but it wasn’t the war that did this to me. It was something worse, something far worse.
It was after the war—I was still in Paris working as security for the American delegation to the Treaty of Versailles. I was on leave following a disagreeable turn of events involving a strange estate on the outskirts of the city and a rather disreputable doctor who, like me, was from Arkham. The Major had given me some time off and I had squandered most of it by wandering through the streets of the city, searching for something, though what exactly I cannot say. There was a sense of ennui within my soul, a longing that cried out to be fulfilled, but try as I might I could not find what I needed. Unable to satisfy myself I instead indulged in more earthly delights.
It was thus that I found myself one night on the balcony of the hotel that many of our mission had laid claim to. I was intoxicated, but not incapacitated. I was enjoying the view—the balcony was five stories above the square, and provided an excellent point from which to observe the comings and goings of those below, without being too close to those sometimes maddening crowds. As I have said, I was intoxicated, lost in the drink and the beauty of the city, for suddenly I was no longer alone at the ledge. There was a woman standing next to me, staring wistfully out at the city lights and its people. She was an attractive young woman, in a European way, but she was also disheveled. Her clothes were ragged, some of her hair had broken free from where she had pinned it, and three of her fingernails on one hand were broken.
She was uncomfortably close, and when I cleared my throat to gain her attention she stared at me with such a wild look in her eyes, such
madness and fear, I was suddenly taken aback. I recognized her, a girl from Guernsey, a singer, or at least a student of the art. She was fluent in both English and French, and therefore had been useful to us in the past. Her name was Evelyn—it seemed to me most girls from Guernsey were named Evelyn—and she looked at me with a touch of madness in her eyes.
Her voiced cracked as she spoke, “Have you seen the prints?”
I stuttered out a puzzled: “I beg your pardon?”
There was a book in her hand, a folio of some kind. She offered it to me. “The prints, have you seen the sepia prints?” The book slipped from her fingers and tumbled to the ground, its contents, photographs, spilled out and scattered across the stones of the balcony, like dry leaves in a light breeze, falling to earth, but with no intent of staying there.
My eyes caught hers, and there was a tear. “The prints,” she whispered.
“Not to worry,” I said kneeling down to gather up the images and the book itself. They were indeed sepia prints. As I crouched there by her feet I saw her weight shift. Her feet rose off from the ground. A shoe, black, shiny, but scuffed, fell back down. I put out a hand to catch it and as I did rose up as well, offering the errant shoe to the young lady like some prize, as if I were a conquering knight.