“No, no.” I was really yelling. We were getting toward his car. We heard, “Hey, Hugo!” and the Brazilians were under the streetlight. We weren’t in that bathroom all that long but they must have gone to look and seen that we’d split. They were running toward us. “Oh, shit,” Fred said, fumbling with his keys. He got that door open, pushed me in, and was around the other side, moving like he never did onstage. I got the door open in his side and we were out of there. I felt a thump on the back of the trunk but I wasn’t looking. “Christ.” That was all Fred said as we hit 17th Street. “Christ. Christ.”
I wouldn’t let him take me home because I figured they would go there to see if they couldn’t intercept me. I was getting very neurotic. Maybe they were going to shoot me up with something and ship me off to Rio. I made Fred take me to his place in Miami Shores, figuring I’d call Mom early in the morning and tell her I’d stayed over because it got late or something.
So we went to Fred’s. On the way, I spilled the beans. All of it. Not all of it. I didn’t say anything about Glenn Elliott and me. Telling him that Roberto was my father seemed enough of a shock for one night. He was pretty knocked back by that news. And when I told him that he had a little plan to make me into a porno star he stopped the car and pulled off the highway. “You’re not on anything, Hugo?” “No, life just seems to have gotten a little out of hand here, Fred.”
He pulled back onto the highway. “Very Miami,” he said. “Very Miami.”
At his place, the standard mattress on the wall-to-wall and a TV. I just wanted to go to bed. And then we did the unwise thing. We slept in the same bed. There really wasn’t anywhere else to sleep. Mom says nothing is by chance. So maybe I was setting this whole thing up. Who knows?
Anyway. I was feeling very much like a baby. Dad a porno magnate. Mom dating the man I love. And me only seventeen. I know, there’s no excuse and I don’t excuse myself. Fred for all his Carmen Miranda numbers is really very manly and kind. He held me tight and rocked me and I hunkered down and felt better. And of course we did it. Two healthy young fellas like us. In the morning I called Mom and then told Fred, “We shouldn’t have done it, Fred. I’m sorry.” From the bathroom he yelled back, “You’re absolutely right. But it was great.” In the night he had said he loved me but in the dawn Fred-Myrtle was back. I really appreciated that.
the fleet’s in
This is really seedy. My double date with Glenn Paul and the two guys we met in New York. The sailors. Ben and John. I was riding home from school on my bike and Glenn Paul pulled up beside me at a stoplight. I think he was out looking for me.
“Ben called,” he said.
“Ben?” I said very wittily. Blocking, I know, blocking.
“The guy we met in New York.” We had never ever said a word about that trip before. Now it comes up at Pine and 24th. The light changed. I yelled, “Wait for me at home, I’ll be right there,” and Glenn zipped away.
He was there when I pedaled up. So cute in his blazer and short hair. You know that feeling, when you’re kind of short of breath and nobody else in the world makes you feel that way? That’s old Glenny.
“As I said,” he said, leaning on the car door.
“As you said,” I replied.
“Ben and John are coming to Miami and they would like to see us.”
“I daresay.”
He doesn’t really like it when I indulge in smart repartee. Just looks at me, as though he hasn’t understood what I said. Which he has, of course.
“Would you like to see them?” he asked me. Sometimes I feel like I’m in some kind of training course. How decadent can you get? He doesn’t really want me to be decadent, except in his way. Quite a guy. “I’d say it’s more like do you want me to see them?” I said.
“Yeah, I kinda do. I’m getting a little hard-on just thinking about it. Yeah, let’s see them. It could be fun. They’re showing up here Wednesday.”
“Their ship is coming in? To use an expression.”
“No, actually their ship is in New York. They’re flying down.”
“Just to see us.”
“More just to see you, I think,” Glenn said.
“No,” I said, “I’m sure it’s to see both of us.” And the deed was done.
They arrived in a taxi at Glenn’s apartment. We didn’t go meet their flight. Enough is enough. They were pretty well dressed, actually. I thought they might be in polyester suits or something but they weren’t bad.
Ben was wearing chinos and a blue blazer with a blue and white checked shirt. He’s the blond one. And John, the dark-haired one, had on jeans and a white T-shirt. Loafers and no socks. And a navy blue sweater over his shoulders. Crew neck. Not bad. Also nice bod. They had these small canvas bags with them. Where were they planning to stay? Not my problem.
We decided to go over to Gloria Estefan’s place, the Allioli. I like that place a lot. Tapas. I love tapas. We went over in Glenn Elliott’s convertible. The boys were enjoying it. The top down. The tropical night. The streets swarming with handsome guys on bicycles, roller skates, skateboards, some were even walking. And there were some girls on the sidewalks, too. But the percentage of fab guys is so high here. If you’re between the ages of sixteen and sixty in this town and not interested in women you wouldn’t dare go out with less than that buffed look. Or you’d have to wear a bulky raincoat.
What would happen in Miami if all the gay guys woke up one morning and were straight? There’d be some frantic dating and some happy women, that’s for sure. And all those gyms would close.
We sat on the terrace and the unending cavalcade of guys went on, back and forth on Ocean Drive. Ben and John were pretty blown away. I made sure they sat where they could see the sidewalk. Glenn and I really didn’t need to. We see this stuff all day, every day.
After we ate, Glenn asked them if they’d like to go somewhere and have a drink and we decided to go to the Warsaw Ballroom. It was Thursday night, one of their big gay nights.
Eldorada met us at the door. I hate her. She always wears this big white wig and is very “Oh, darling.” Bugs me. Drag queens. It’s like they know any attractive guy would find them repulsive so they take it to the extreme where everybody thinks they’re repulsive. Not amusing. But Ben and John seemed to get a kick out of it. Probably not a lot of drag queens on the USS Sumter or whatever they call their ship. And it’s the usual. Except I realize this is the first time that Glenn and I have ever gone to a gay bar together as sort of a couple. And taken another pair of guys with us to boot. All the tired business queens from Dade County were there and eyeing us like alligators watching an unwary bunch of baby ducklings. Of course they always do. And of course it never does any good.
A couple of guys from the club passed through and I did get up and dance with Max Shell. He wanted to know who these fab-looking guys were and I said I didn’t know, they were friends of Glenn’s and I was just along to show them some of sights of Miami Beach and I had to go home and study soon. Which was a laugh since it was nearly midnight by now.
I was the one who said I was ready to go. I wasn’t drinking anything but the big boys were. They were feeling fine. As we pushed our way out of the club Glenn said in my ear, “I’m right behind you.” I said, “I can feel that.” And I could.
So we raced back to Glenn’s place. Do you ever have the feeling that the situation is out of your hands? It’s like watching your ball bob around in a pinball machine but you can’t make it land anywhere you might want it to. It’s just going to land somewhere. That’s it.
So we go into Glenn’s flat. He goes into the kitchen and makes himself and the boys something to drink. They sit down. It’s all kind of awkward. I think maybe this whole thing will just burn out from general embarrassment. Then Glenn says, “Here’s my idea. I’ll make some slips of paper; one will be shorter than the others. I’ll mix them up in my hand and draw. Whoever gets the short one gets to ask anyone here to do whatever he wants.” Glenn gets up, takes a notepad fro
m near the telephone, and strips four pieces off against the edge of the telephone stand. Puts them in his hand and moves them around so nobody knows which is which. One of them he tore a bit off so it’s shorter. We each draw. I had the feeling there must be a camera somewhere. This was like the beginning of a porn movie. Maybe it was. One Glenn had been in.
John got the short one. Maybe the night was getting to me but he was looking more and more like Bob Paris to me. Very macho with that shy edge.
He said, “I want a blow job from Hugo. And you guys can watch. Is that okay, Hugo?”
He stood up and was starting to lower his jeans. Stopped partway and stripped off his T-shirt. He was wearing jockey shorts. They were not Calvin Klein. Give him that.
He looked at me. And he had this frightened look in his eyes. Like he really expected me to say no. And I couldn’t do that to him.
So I said, “Right on, John. Come over here.” And I pushed him down in the armchair I’d been sitting in and knelt down in front of him. I pulled his jeans down to his knees and then his jockey shorts. He lifted his ass so I could get them out from under him. He had been looking forward to this. He was already pretty well pronged into those shorts and Wee Willie Winkie popped right up once that waistband set him free. Not so wee either.
Glenn sat down on one arm of the chair and handed me a condom. I took him in my mouth without the condom for a few pulls. “That’s just to warm you up a little,” I said. And then I tore the condom pack open and unrolled it down him. Ben had come over and was sitting down on the other arm. John was already stretched back with his eyes shut. So I did the sucking. Glenn was massaging his pectorals. Ben had his hand under his ass with a couple of fingers in him. He had his hands in my hair and was groaning and bucking all over the place. Pretty exciting even if you wish you weren’t involved.
Glenn pulled the condom off and washed him up with a washcloth. Then he started undressing and said, “Well, what’s next? Or should I say, who’s next?”
I said, “I’ve got to go. School tomorrow.” And started toward the door. Glenn said, “You’re being an awful spoilsport, Hugo.” I said, “I think you’ll have plenty of fun without me. I played the game. Now I want to go.” My voice was getting a little shaky so I knew I had to go.
Glenn was out of his clothes pretty much by now. Except for his sweatsocks. And Ben had everything off but his T-shirt. Sexy guys, no kidding, but not for me. John was pulling his jeans back up. I went out the door and down the stairs. John came down the stairs pulling on his T-shirt. Somehow he had his loafers back on, or were they ever off?
“I’m coming with you,” he said. “You can’t,” I told him. “I’m going home and I’ve got my bike.” I really felt like crying now. But big boys don’t cry, big boys go home to their mother.
“Why don’t you ride me over to the Kent Hotel, then?” John said. “The Kent?” I turned around and looked at him from my bike. “We have reservations at the Kent. We were going to go over there later. And I don’t even know where it is.”
“It’s over on Collins. Come on. I’m not going to give you a ride but I’ll go over there with you.” And we trundled through the tropical streets of Miami Beach. Me pedaling slowly. Him walking beside me, touching me on my back from time to time. And he talked and talked. About how he had been thinking about me a lot. And how he realized after tonight that I wasn’t really into this scene with my father. And I told him that Glenn wasn’t my father, that maybe he was my lover, I wasn’t sure about that, and I did not tell him that Glenn was my mother’s lover. I didn’t think the whole scene needed to look any tackier than it already did.
And I deposited him at the Kent. And let him go in and struggle with the desk clerk himself. Wandering in out of the night in a T-shirt. They couldn’t care less. A lot of stuff had wandered in out of the night and into a bed at the Kent.
Home I went. Thinking about all this open relationship stuff and how Aristotle said, “Once is a learning experience, twice is decadence.” And so on. Glenn just loves to get excited and then forget it. We are not the same people.
hurricane andrew
The storms have been circling us for days. Great piles of clouds rumbling, cracking in the distance. There are high winds in Fort Lauderdale. Drenching rains in Dania. Wind and rain and storm circling, circling, but here in Miami Beach the sun continues to shine, the breezes blow, trudgers move back and forth to the beach with their folding chairs and umbrellas, and towels. Hurricane warnings are long overdue.
It’s sort of Last Days of Pompei-ish except that it happens every year. The big storms are reported out at sea. You can kind of imagine them raging over nothing, strong enough to push over buildings, with nothing to push over except waves. Brainlessly wandering around until they come in contact with something worth knocking down. Like us.
All the time we’ve been here, every hurricane season is like this. The storms are offshore. Everyone’s nervous that something is going to happen, nobody believes that it really will. Los Angeles has its earthquakes. We have our hurricanes.
Nobody you run into has ever actually been in one. I saw pictures taken from the air over Miami Beach in 1925 when the last big one hit head-on. There were just a few lone palm trees sticking up here and there. There wasn’t even much foliage left. Miami Beach was in its Venetian period then, so you can tell the buildings that survived because they have a kind of plastery Grand Canal look.
I read somewhere that then people knew so little about hurricanes that when the first half passed and the eye of the storm was overhead everyone thought the storm was over and headed back in their cars across the wooden causeway that connected the beach to the mainland in those days. When the other side of the hurricane hit, it just swept all those cars right off into the bay. That’s the main reason quite a few people were lost.
There had also been a train down to Key West built back in the end of the last century. Down through all the keys. Another storm took that out and killed a lot of train line workers who were in a camp down on one of the keys. The sea went right over their key and the only survivors were a few men who were lucky enough to get caught in some trees.
It makes you think. And not think. Everybody’s afraid. And no one has any real plan. Only when the TV told us that Hurricane Andrew was heading directly for the beach did everyone get panicky. And of course the weather report was wrong.
I’d been out prowling around with Macha and Myrtle. The usual night weather. Those winds that come and go. Clouds pink against the navy blue sky, reflecting the city lights across the bay. Something dramatic, something romantic in the air. But it always is in Miami Beach. Drama or its potential is nothing new to us.
So I was pretty surprised when Mom woke me up at 7:00 and said, “This is it! That Hurricane Andrew we’ve been hearing about will be here today. So up and at ’em.”
Macha checked in early. She was heading over to Coconut Grove to stay with Ken and wanted us to come over there. This does not bode well, I thought, but Macha talked to Mom and she thought it was a good idea. We should get off the beach but she didn’t want to go far away. And no use going north and trying to find a motel. We’d have to leave immediately and even then it was a question of whether we’d find anything. And Mom wasn’t going to leave her house unprepared for the storm.
I called Myrtle, who of course knew little about what was going on, and told him to go down to Ken’s also. He doesn’t really know Ken so he didn’t think much about it. He just thought it was cool that we’d all be together during the storm.
What surprised me was that Glenn Elliott didn’t object. I think he likes to play with fire. The idea of going through the storm with his old boyfriend, his new boyfriend, and his girlfriend probably struck him as a good scenario. What I’m kind of beginning to pick up about Glenn Elliott is that he doesn’t really project what’s going to happen with anything. He lives in the minute. A storm is heading our way and we have to go somewhere else. Someone suggests we go somewhere els
e and that’s cool. Is that dumb or is that smart? He’s just a completely different kind of animal. Like Mom and I are cats and he’s a dog. That’s probably why we like him.
So we hauled everything we could upstairs: the books, the dishes, the rug, the smaller furniture. We packed up food to take with us, we pulled the mattresses off the beds and leaned them against the windows. Glenn Elliott and I took a run past the lumber company to see about plywood. They were staging the sinking of the Titanic there. The lumber company wouldn’t dream of cutting wood to any size in good weather. Now they could really show disdain for the peasants. The fact that the lumber company employees are all Spanish speaking and their customers all Anglos has to have something to do with it. Not very often they can treat them like shit and have them come back for more. We decided not to bother. There was such a mob waving money around, it was almost better to let destruction roar over you than to be one of those hysterical assholes. On that much, Glenn and I agreed.
By this time we had stuff upstairs, the mattresses in place, the cats in the house and food and water out for them, and the kitty litter box freshly filled. It was really and truly time to leave. Mom said cats were great survivors and would climb up to the driest and safest place in the house, and she couldn’t take all five of them over to Ken’s and she wasn’t going to play favorites. So they were left in the house.
I called Macha over at Ken’s and told her we were on our way. I asked her if she had storm-proofed her place before she left. Her parents were still in the Grand Tetons, where they go every summer, and hadn’t called. Or had she called them? She had put their four or five cats in the house with food, turned on the police alarms, and split. “What if they come home and find the place a wreck?” I asked her. “Fuck ’em,” she said. Oh, Macha. So independent. So sassy. How I admire her.
It was after lunch when we left and we must have been among the last. The highways were completely empty. I thought about Mrs. Rasmussen, the old lady who lives behind us. We asked her to come with us but she refused. Maybe she’s incontinent. Maybe she doesn’t like to meet new people. Maybe she just figures that if the hurricane wrecks everything she’d just as soon be wrecked along with it.
My Worst Date Page 21