“Shane,” he said in a direct and matter-of-fact tone. “I’m hanging up now. You’re sloshed. I’ll call you sometime soon.”
He hung up on me.
He never did call me back, although I think I’ve always wanted him to, honestly.
* * * *
Downtown
Sponge Dock Way
Briefs Bar
August 3, 20—
10:11 P.M.
I saw Coffler at the Briefs Bar, enjoying the company of a blond who was twenty-eight years old with the frame of a boxer. Coffler fed Boxer many beers at the bar. Of course, Boxer became drunk quite quickly. Once inebriated, he laughed, rosy-faced with bloodshot eyes. How much alcohol had Coffler given him? I was sure the tight end didn’t know, and nor did I.
To my surprise and horror, Coffler took the guy inside the bar’s dirty back room. What occurred there was something I would never learn and didn’t really want to. I didn’t doubt for a second that the football player had taken advantage of the intoxicated boxer. Was Boxer forced to do things with Coffler that he didn’t want to do? I’d never know the answer to that question. What happened in the back room at the Briefs Bar obviously stayed in the back room at the Briefs Bar. I had to accept it at the time, perhaps unconditionally and foolishly.
Approximately twenty minutes later, Coffler exited the back room, but the blond guy didn’t, which alerted me. What exactly had happened between the two? Why had Boxer stayed behind? Again, I was upset with Coffler, disbelieving his careless behavior at the bar, unsure of his thinking, motives, and selfish needs. Disgusted, I waited for him to exit the bar and vanish into the night. Afterward, I went to find the guy in the back room, unable to mind my own business.
Part 3: Tommy
Chapter 13: Stranger, Unconscious
Downtown
Sponge Dock Way
Briefs Bar
August 3, 20—
11:01 P.M.
What I didn’t want to witness inside the back room at the Briefs Bar: Boxer being rammed by two Daddies at the same time, torturing him; the blond bleeding from his asshole because he was raped by either Coffler or a different brute inside the bar; the guy mangled and butchered to death by a razor sharp knife, having his neck sliced open by some prejudiced bigot that worked along the Gulf; Boxer fully naked and pinned to one of the walls in a pair of handcuffs and being whipped by two hooded black men with bodies similar to Coffler’s.
What I witnessed inside that reddish-illuminated dark room was the sound of a local band called Mush. Their hit, “Bad Boy in Blue,” blared down from the ceiling’s numerous speakers. I smelled the stench of marijuana and saw stick-like male figures in a corner having anal sex. The back room was decorated with a come-covered sticky floor and black walls. Three leather daddies sat in a circle, all sharing the same tiny spoon to sniff cocaine. A military man, semi-dressed in his Army fatigues and covered in tattoos, was banging a jockish cub over a plastic-covered chair, slamming his unprotected cock inside the man’s tight ass.
I spotted Boxer inside the room. He was slumped over one of the plastic-covered sofas. To my surprise, he was fully dressed and looked unharmed, but I really wasn’t sure. He wasn’t moving. Nor did he look as if he were breathing. No one was on the sofa with him. He was slumped to the right, inebriated and passed out.
Some naked dude, with gold hoops in his ears, a leather whip, and amber-colored eyes, stepped up to me, rubbed his nine-inch erection against my hip, and inquired, “Do you want to fuck around with me?”
I ignored Whip and moved up to Boxer’s side, sitting on the sofa by him. I felt his neck for a steady pulse. He had one, so at least he was alive. Then I lifted his head. It rolled and slumped against his shoulder, which told me that he was unconscious. Maybe he had a bad drug or drank too much alcohol during his playful night of fun with James Coffler.
I wondered if Coffler or someone else had given Boxer something horrible to swallow. Zenkin. Graymer. Bustlust. All street drugs were common at the time. Was Boxer drugged by one or all of those pills? Did I have to take him to the hospital? Did he purposely take an oxytocin-based downer or similar depressant to enjoy a night of slumber at the bar? Was he now sleeping it off? Or had someone tricked him into taking a popular drug like Pin, Bar, or Galvanized? Did he fall under Coffler’s sex spell?
I didn’t know what to do with Boxer. I couldn’t just leave him there the way Coffler had. Anyone could have abducted the guy and raped or murdered him during the night, disposing of his body in the Gulf or a nearby swamp or Dumpster. Men in their twenties were known to vanish from gay bars, never to be seen again. There were fag haters everywhere on the planet, even in Florida. Their horrendous stories ended up on Dateline and 48 Hours. Queer butchers sometimes went inside bars just looking for someone like Boxer. Bodies were sometimes noticed in marshy grasslands next to the Gulf. Nightmares regarding gays were a part of the world, and I felt I could prevent one from happening by simply rescuing the guy, caring for him, and saving his life from a bitter and murderous end.
Again, I lifted the man’s head, but it was no use. It fell to his shoulder. Calmly, believing that he could hear me, I whispered in his ear, “I’m going to help you. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.”
I carried him out of the bar, allowing his weight to lean into my left side. He felt heavy and clumsy to hold, muscular with no fat, similar to a sack of wheat. I thought he would wake from his state of unconsciousness, but he didn’t. I hailed a cab on Sponge Dock Way, told the cabbie where my apartment building was, and paid him for the ride with Boxer at my side.
Maybe I should have taken the stranger to the hospital. That thought constantly raced through my mind. I didn’t really know what to do with him. I knew that he could sleep off whatever was in his system and that he would be safe in my apartment. Sometimes we never think about right and wrong in immediate situations. Those decisions simply come to life on their own, without a clear mind during their development. In other words, shit happened, and that’s exactly what unfolded, unconditionally.
* * * *
11:31 P.M.
I struggled to get the blond boxer up the three flights of stairs in my apartment building since the elevator was on the fritz. He felt like lead against me by that point. Part of me wished he had the frame of a twink instead of a jock. That wasn’t the case, though. I had to man it up and carry him to Apartment 3-B, using every amount of energy and muscle I could muster.
I managed, though. The task ended up being rough and exhausting, but eventually I hauled the stranger’s ass up to my apartment and used my key to get inside. I practically dragged his muscular bulk to my bedroom where he would spend the night, or however long he wanted to stay since I felt responsible for him.
Once inside the bedroom, after sitting him on the edge of the bed, I decided to undress him. With skill and tender hands, I removed his tight T-shirt and shorts, which both smelled of beer. His boxer-briefs were snug against his thighs, and I felt it inappropriate to slide them off his bulky legs. So I left the cotton briefs exactly where they were. I finally got him positioned on his back, still unconscious, definitely under some type of drug or drink. I pulled the summer sheet up to his chin, exited the bedroom, and entered the narrow hallway. I decided to leave the door open, in case he woke in the middle of the night, confused or possibly thinking he had died when he really didn’t.
That night, I slept on the sofa. When had I done that last? I couldn’t remember. My head rested on a sofa pillow, and my feet hung over one of the couch’s arms. I closed my eyes, felt sleep take me on its mindless travels and comforting embrace.
Drifting into a cloud of dreams, I whispered to anything inside the apartment that would listen to me, “Sometimes we find other people’s pets and want to keep them.”
That’s what I did.
That was my clumsy rationale.
* * * *
11:58 P.M.
The city slept, and we slept along with it. There w
ere no loud bangs in the middle of the night. No fury. No nightmares. No insomnia. The apartment was at peace as I relaxed in a dreamless state with a complete stranger in my bed. Perhaps it was the most irresponsible thing to do since I lived alone: welcoming a guy I called Boxer inside my apartment and spending the night with him. Was it any different than a one-night stand, though, minus the sex? Of course, not. The night remained harmless, uneventful, and not once did I feel ill at ease in the Boxer’s presence. Never. How strange.
Chapter 14: Boxer, Revealed
Downtown Turtle Bay Reef
Shell Street
Turtle Bay Reef Apartments
Apartment 3-B
August 4, 20—
9:04 A.M.
The outside world started to melt: one hundred degrees and climbing. The sun baked us alive. An air conditioner hummed, but it didn’t even feel like it. The rooms inside the apartment were scorching, on fire, full of unlimited heat. I imagined Boxer was also hot since the single cotton sheet was nothing but a tangle at his feet.
Tucked in the bedroom’s dim shadows, peeping in on the man, I studied his motionless body: five-ten frame, approximately one hundred and eighty pounds of all muscle, and broad shoulders. He had strands of blond and spiraling hair between his firm pecs, and four abs cut and shaped with muscle. A thin line of blond hair began beneath his navel and traveled down to the cotton rim of his boxer-briefs. The fabric outlined his four inches—I only estimated this at the time—of soft dick. He had meaty thighs, hairless legs, and size-nine feet. The man was on his back with his toes pointing at the semi-illuminated ceiling. His gym-built chest rose and fell as he slept. His nipples looked sharp, steel-like structures that also pointed to the ceiling. Caught by his handsomeness, I studied his nicely sculpted abs again, counting in my mind: one, two, three, four.
Enough. I left him to his sleep, realizing that he was going to be fine. He was alive and had made it through the night. Good for him. And good for me.
* * * *
10:26 A.M.
“My name is Shane. Shane Polk.”
It was the second time I had told him who I was, which convinced me that he was groggy, unsure of his whereabouts, and not quite capable of remembering every detail of last night’s events at the Briefs Bar, with and without James Coffler.
“Do you remember your name?”
“Tommy. Tommy Rawe.”
“Nice name.” I sat by his head in a high-backed reading chair that was uncomfortable. I rarely, if ever, used it because I really didn’t like it. “Do you remember who you were with last night?”
He nodded, recapping the night’s unclear events. “I do. The guy’s name was Coffee.”
“Do you mean Coffler?”
“That’s the name. He drugged me with something, but I’m really not sure what it was. Some of my queer friends said that he does that to guys, but I didn’t believe them. They warned me, and I didn’t listen. Coffee has a reputation of drugging datable men and having his way with them.”
“Coffler,” I corrected him again.
“Coffler,” he repeated, yawning.
“And you went out with him anyway?”
“Like I said, I didn’t believe my friends.”
I absorbed his information, I believed Coffler had a dark side like every man. The man was a piece of top-notch shit, in my opinion; a crazy asshole because of his sexual antics. Someone needed to confront him about his ludicrous behavior, or do the same thing to him as he had done with the city’s men.
I don’t know why I moved a hand to Tommy’s forehead and pushed it through his blond hair, which was soft, thick, and rather smooth. I had always enjoyed a man’s head of hair, although bald men, like Coffler, were also attractive.
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” He sat up in the bed, showing off his muscular chest for my pleasure.
“Will eggs, toast, and sausage work?”
“All of the above.”
“I’ll have it ready in a few minutes.” I stood, and started my exit from the bedroom.
“Thanks, Shane,” he called weakly from the bed, probably still exhausted from the drug he had accidentally taken, his night of beer drinking, and other doings of city life that had consequently occurred that maybe neither of us were familiar with at the time.
* * * *
11:51 A.M.
Tommy gobbled the food down as if he hadn’t had anything in days. I was concerned about his nutrition and wondered when he had last eaten. Although he didn’t look emaciated or sickly, I was convinced that he was ravenous, depleted of calories and nutrients. He was slovenly when he ate. Egg hung on the left corner of his mouth, sausage juice was smeared against his bottom lip, and toast crumbs decorated his chin.
I passed him a napkin and asked, “When did you last eat?”
He couldn’t remember, which surprised me. “I don’t know. Eating isn’t important.”
It was maybe the first time I realized that he was homeless, living on the streets, and a hustler. Did he have sex for money? Had he made sixty bucks for a blowjob and a hundred for anal sex? Did Tommy have a history of working the city’s streets, occupying his time by performing unsafe homosexual sex for cash?
“You were starving,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize. We all have to eat. You’re just lucky I found you. You could have withered away to nothing.”
He ignored me, took another bite of his toasted slice of rye bread, and began to chew it up. Thereafter, he reached for the glass of juice on the bamboo tray and chugged half of it down.
“After you eat, you can use my bathroom and take a shower.” He smelled rank, of body sweat, dried semen, and urine. “There’s a bathroom to the left, down the hall. I can set out a towel, razor, a fresh bar of soap, and whatever else you need.”
“Do you have a washer?”
Not in the apartment. The tenants of the apartment building shared a line of coin-operated washers and dryers in the basement. Some of them worked; others didn’t. I could have Tommy’s clothes washed in an hour, if not sooner.
I told him, “I’ll wash your clothes. You can wear a few of my things until yours are ready. What do you say?”
“I’ll owe you,” he said and produced an egg-covered smile.
“Trust me, you won’t. Certainly not after what you went through with Coffler last night.”
“It’s happened a few times. That wasn’t our first date.”
“You date him?” I inquired, taken aback by his news.
“He likes blond guys. What can I say?” He gave me a puzzling look that consisted of arched eyebrows. Tommy held a corner of toast in his hand. “You look familiar. Where do I know you from?”
I told him about my football career, impressing him.
“You ever play against Derek Rawe?”
I did. He played for the Atlanta Arrows as a kicker. The guy was good, but not as good as our hometown kicker, Matthew Jordon.
“He’s my cousin, not that I really talk to him since my family wants nothing to do with me.”
“Why doesn’t your family want anything to do with you?”
“Because I’m queer, and they don’t approve of my lifestyle. They think being gay is a choice.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, feeling sorry for the kid and other men in the world who had lived lives just like him, void of families because of differences. “Some people can’t think outside the box.”
“They can’t. That’s my whole family.”
“How old are you, Tommy?”
“Nineteen.”
“And how long have you lived on the streets?”
“How did you know I live on the streets?”
“Just a guess.”
“Two years.” He finished the last of his sausage and wiped a bare arm across his mouth. Following his meal, he asked, “How about that shower?”
“Sounds good, guy. Help yourself to the bathroom.”
/> And he did.
Chapter 15: Tommy, Revealed
I studied Tommy like an insect: his childhood, family, his street life, addictions, his singlehood, sister, his safety in the world. Concerned, I wanted to care for him, without prying into his life too much.
* * * *
His childhood:
Thomas Kelly Rawe was born on August 6 at the Plains Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona. He was a quiet and healthy boy, smart and polite. He had his mother’s blond hair and his father’s somewhat oval-shaped eyes. His demeanor was sweet and timid. Never was he a heathen child filled with meanness. He enjoyed reading mysteries, watching reality TV, and liked to study the stars, although he never really wanted to be an astronaut or astronomer. He played video games like a normal boy, but failed to be entertained by performing in sports. He had a number of female friends in junior high (Missy, Samantha, Bready, and Ki) and even more in high school.
He told me once, “I was popular. Girls liked me. The jocks hated me.”
I could relate to everything he told me. Everything.
* * * *
His family:
Yvette and Ralph Rawe. Could parents be so cruel and horrible? The middle-aged couple lived in Tucson, Arizona, for the last twenty years. Rawe Office Supplies was quite successful and offered Tommy’s parents a comfortable living and swollen savings accounts. Not once had the two reached out to their queer son when he exited his uncomfortable closet of difference, exposing his secret to them. Ralph was a hardcore Republican, a McCain supporter, and despised gays, thinking they would all go to hell, including his son. Yvette was what Tommy called a “Bible Thumper” and couldn’t possibly have a fag as a son.
When she did attempt to console her youngest child (Tommy was sixteen years old at the time), she handed him a faux leather Bible and said, “Choose better. You’re the Devil’s child. You’re a sin and blasphemous.”
Because Tommy failed to choose better, Ralph kicked his son out. Uneducated and homeless at sixteen, Tommy traveled across the southern part of the United States and landed on the Gulf Coast. He enjoyed the warm weather of Florida, the water, and realized he could live on the streets throughout most of the year, and the years to follow, without needing a permanent shelter.
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