by Larry Kramer
Fred tried to jerk off so he could leave. His heart and his hand weren’t in it. He then endeavored to make one final round of the wards, giving himself the old American locker-room pep talk: yeah, Coach, I’ll go out there and fight and rush rush rush and look look look for any, any, half-way decent assbole or mouth to take me before jerking myself off in the old locker room before finally, sorry Coach, guess it wasn’t my game, my day, my year, my lifetime, hitting the showers.
He hit the showers. He washed his body for the second time this date beneath this stream, wondering how the two pieces of shit lying on the shower-room floor had appeared, plus the adjoining cockroach, up-ended, probably fucked to death, glad somebody got something, he thought, looking down at it, then drying off and heading back upstairs toward his room. Some days you just can’t get arrested.
And then he saw one! A perfect specimen of what he’d best start looking for again if Dinky was going to play Nervous: early thirties, blond and handsome, an obviously intelligent face, yes, a definite possibility to take his mind off his present Dinkylessness.
He jumped into action, feeling a sudden surge of love for the old tubs, the whole scene, this is what it’s all about, the chance of life!, a fondness for storms weathered together and a harbor in view, for happy moments after miserable ones, for HOPE.
He hastened after Mr. Perfect. Where was he? Where the fuck had he disappeared to among these crowded corridors of towel-clad parading flesh?
There he was! Fred gulped. Not bad, though perhaps a bit too stern. And, as occasionally happened when Possibility reared its impossible head, Fred became a slightly helpless, slightly speechless, bordering on the ditzy, futile wreck.
Randy Dildough, for it was he whom Fred was approaching, saw that he was being cruised by a nervous man who was definitely not his type, this immediately conveyed to the suitor by an avoided eye contact and an ongoing journey. Randy, not a top executive for nothing, recognized the nevertheless note of persistence and hoped he would not have trouble ditching this one.
Why did I let Slim talk me into it? What the fuck am I doing here? And without even a pair of dark glasses. What if I run into somebody I know? Or there might be a fire! Or a raid!
Randy shivered as these dark thoughts and questions tingled his handsome sturdy body, fully knowing the answers: the joy of playing with fire! and terror!, a drug habit that couldn’t be licked. Well, it’s better than shoplifting, he thought, recalling an earlier turn-on he’d reluctantly put back on the shelf when executive duties increased.
Walking around and viewing all the potential, Randy wished that Slim would not be here. It had all seemed a cute, if conciliatory, idea, when, after a particularly annoying disagreement over the WATS line to Los Angeles concerning his lack of return for Slim’s birthday, Randy had accepted the compromise of Slim’s: “I’ll come to New York for the holiday weekend and meet you at the Everhard at four in the morning, so you have plenty of time for dinner with some big shot…and anything else, and then we’ll find a big black stud and have a threesome. You always enjoy seeing me get fucked by a big black horse and you asked me what I want for a present, that’s what I want.”
So Randy continued to poke along the hallways and into the cubbyholes, wishing he’d convinced the kid to take a Cartier tank watch instead.
Timmy and Slim sat in a cubicle waiting for Randy to show himself.
They had left Garfield’s with Hubie and Morry, all flying high on whatever pink-and-white pills Hubie was popping generously in all directions when a decline in spirit warranted and, at Slim’s request, had headed for the tubs.
“He’s medium height, reddish-blond, very handsome, and I wish to fuck he would hurry up,” Slim said to Timmy, wondering if he should go out himself and look for his lover, if lover he was, always in New York when home was in Los Angeles, if lover he was, when all Slim seemed to do was cook and clean and be there on the several nights a month Randy wasn’t out dining with the stars, if lover he was, who had sex with him rarely and much preferred getting off on watching Slim get fucked by someone else. It’s too bad Hubie and Morry had left in self-disgust—the drugs too much to allow their black Colossi to colossize—, and shame for letting down their brothers everywhere.
At this point, a familiar face stuck in his head.
“Hey, there, gorgeous, remember Yootha?”
Yootha Truth plopped down on the bed with the two of them, causing Slim, as yet unintroduced to this foreign element, to move away a bit. Yootha wore, in addition to his towel, a smart little sleeveless jacket of sequins appliquéd on see-through net. “I am exhausted. I have been humped by twelve different white gentlemen. I have, however, not found love.”
“Where did you get the money?” asked Timmy, recalling Yootha’s condition earlier this evening.
“Honey, Dame Fortune has finally smiled on this swishy schvartza. I was cruising the Doubleday Book Store at Fifty-seventh and Fifth when I am seeing a portly gentleman of approximately sixty-three years of age and impeccably dressed in gabardine military twill and broadcloth shirt give me the eye in Non-Fiction. I immediately walked past him with a smile and toward the staff men’s room, which only I know is rarely used save by our loitering sisters, to whom I am saying ‘shoo shoo,’ and in moments in walks my prince who looks side to side and, seeing a clear coast, enters my stall. He immediately inquires ‘how much?’ I, not expecting such bountiful tidings, because I would have done him for free, I mean who wears broadcloth shirts anymore, also undershorts made from pongee silk, a forgotten quantity, silk, also undershorts…I am saying ‘My pleasure,’ and he is saying ‘No, no, you must be paid,’ so I am saying ‘No, no, my pleasure,’ and he is saying, ‘No, no,’ so I am letting this problem hang in the air while I am doing on him an extra special good and fine and satisfying job, hoping all the time he will whisk me off forever to his triplex overlooking Central Park from the Fifth Avenue side, though his thing was not so large as I would have liked or expected from such an imposing gentleman…”
“Then he spirited you away in his Rolls-Royce,” Slim said, recalling his own earlier experiences.
“No, he then asked if there was anything in the world he could do for me, and I, in return, replied that I had ambitions to become a famous rock-star singer, and happened by chance to have in my pocketbook a demo record of a song I and some of my uptown slag sisters put together one rainy day, and he took same, jotting down my name and mailing address and giving to me fifty dollars.”
“You stoned?” Slim asked.
“Yes, I am stoned. I am stoned and I am happy and I leave you now to pursue more of same.” He tried to stand up, but fell back down, then upped himself again by using Timmy’s shoulder as a ledge. “Come, young beauty, give Yootha a shove back into the world.”
Timmy helped the happy, former scraggy, black cat out into the corridor where they strolled along taking the night air.
“You take that job with R. Allan?” Yootha inquired.
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you be careful. R. Allan is not to be trusted.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t take the job.”
“Honey, it’s a home and we all got to live somewhere. It’s more than I got. Just be careful. We have to look out for ourselves in our little apple jungle.” He then touched Timmy’s face with his thin, dusty hand. “You’re knockout handsome gorgeous. But I hope you got brains. Or can get them fast. Or else you’ll wind up doing stage shows at The Pits, having twenty pounds of chain pumped up your keester.”
And off he waltzed, his sequins twinkling down the corridor like the tacky stars they were, leaving Timmy to stand there at an intersection, holding up traffic, as at least twenty men of differing colors, creeds, ages, and desires, all hoped this beauty might flash a green-light look at him.
One of these twenty was Randy Dildough. He looked at Timmy Purvis and thought that Timmy Purvis was the most perfect speciman of the male sex he had ever seen. His search was ended. There, in one body,
was compounded every dream, fantasy of youth, adulthood, too, the ideal speciman he must have for life. Not only would he get this paragon, even, if necessary, and it would be necessary, Slim-ming down his life, but he would turn him into a bigger star than James Dean ever was, thus making it possible to spend every moment with him, taking him out in public, perhaps even acknowledging that male love did exist.
He beckoned to the lad with a crooked finger.
“Come here,” Randy said, never pausing to think if such movie-studio tactics worked in a bathhouse.
Something about the man’s look made Timmy feel cold and frightened and helplessly responsive. He found himself walking over to him and saying as coolly as he could: “What do you want?”
“Do you have a room?”
“Yes. I mean, I’m sharing it with a friend.”
“Could we get rid of him?”
“…yes”
Such tactics worked in a bathhouse.
Timmy led Randy back to home base and in they went and Randy saw his lover, Slim, and the two of them looked at each other suspiciously, wondering what the other had been up to, and Slim decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, because seeing him, just seeing him, the selfish executive prick, made him realize how much he’d missed him.
“You found him,” Slim said to Timmy.
Timmy, knowing as sure as he knew anything that trouble might have been avoided for the moment but not for very long, said “Yep.”
Randy took his lover in his arms. “Happy birthday, baby.”
Fred prowled the corridors looking for the vision who was Randy Dildough. Keep active, keep busy, idle hands ate the devil’s workshop, don’t think of Dinky and your current case of The Why Didn’t I Do Such and So’s and The What Might Have Been’s. I shall corral this new one, somehow summon up witty repartee and dazzling displays of intellect and interject casually that I am responsible for the movie that nine out of ten faggots simply adore and then another dollop of wit and razzle-dazzle and he will point his finger saying “I want You!” and I will come and all my future lifetime problems will be solved. Yeah. Just like Dinky.
He looked into an open door. Inside, the man of his fantasies was sitting talking to two beautiful young boys. Oops, he likes chicken. Forget it, Fred. Forget it! He’s not even a real blond. He’s a reddish. You don’t like reddishes.
But Fred stood there mesmerized. So much beauty, particularly in the Junior Department, in one cubicle. Perhaps the three of them would start doing it together and desire an audience. I shall be an audience.
Instead, the just-deposed prince of his dreams looked up at him, grimaced and uttered in distinct tones of unmistakable discouragement: “Get lost, you crud!,” thus causing “one of America’s finest, most talented screenwriters, why doesn’t he work more often?” (Albert Surge, San Antonio Alamo Torch) to once again, would his losing streak never end?!, fall into disrepute.
But if he was hurt, wounded, now that the blow had fallen, had he not almost expected it, and what was the pain of being called a crud by a stranger compared to the stomach ache of Dinky preferring an evening sucking steam?
So on he marched, attempting to pick himself up, dust himself off, and, as the song goes, start all over again.
“I guess I’ll take another walk,” Timmy said.
“Hey, what’s your name?” Randy asked, reaching into Slim’s jeans and pulling out a cigarette, which Slim knew Randy only did when he was working something out.
“Timothy Purvis.”
“Well, Timothy, I’m Randy Dildough. Where are you going?”
“I’ll let you guys fuck.”
“Want to watch?”
“I don’t want anyone to watch,” Slim answered, looking at Timmy with not the friendliest of eyes.
“Come back later,” Randy said. “We’ll all go out for breakfast together.” And then, noting that Timmy’s clothes were hooked up there as well, so that he’d have to come back sooner or later, he threw his cigarette on the floor and began to wish his lover additional birthday greetings.
Timmy walked the corridors. Life was becoming complicated. Something in that Randy’s eyes had bored inside of him and touched something. But what? And wasn’t he still in love with the Winston Man? Yes, I am. Honestly and truly.
So in his red-white-and blue-pilled way, he prowled back and forth, slowly, methodically, one floor after the other, looking for the Winston Man. Everyone else seemed to be here tonight; perhaps Winnie would be, too. Passing doors and throngs and orgies and twosomes, threesomes, solos, barging into rooms to study faces, hoping, behaving like an old-timer, fearless, drug-courageous, he was in love with Winnie and Winnie he would find. He pushed away all grabbers, ignored smiles and hellos, thinking only of that moment earlier this evening when perfect bliss and harmony were experienced and exchanged like vows. He, Timothy Peter Purvis, would be faithful to those vows. Wasn’t that what love was all about?, this fine thought now guiding his feet faster and faster, now through the first-floor maze of lockers, past the long line of impatients waiting to get in, down to the showers, by that first heated swimming pool in New York, into the sauna, now into the steam room, wading through the mist and fog and impenetrable atmosphere, bumping into bodies doing things with bodies, in corners, on slabs of concrete, neath jets of drizzly steam, all rained upon by drops of scalding trickle from the ceiling, baptizing all, and on the very stone-hard floor itself.
And there, as luck would have it, was Winnie. With the guy Randy had called a crud.
Winnie was down on his famous knees, sucking off the Jewish cock of Fred Lemish, a little older than he liked them, but young Jews tonight seemed hard to find. Fred, of course, could not believe his good fortune, this, again, was why he loved the baths, for the jackpot nights, like riding the subway and knowing you’re better than somebody, this gorgeous beauty certainly thought so, where had he seen that face?
Timmy watched Winnie and Winnie looked up and saw Timmy watching and this apparently made Winnie go crazy, now demanding something of his partner, Fred could not quite understand what.
“What?”
“Walk on me! Walk on me! Walk all over me!”
Well, it was an unusual request, and while he preferred to have a continuation of the cock suck, still it was a day of new attempts, breaking the sex barrier, so Fred found himself looking down upon the now supine body of this beauty, it certainly was a gorgeous face and body, now, gingerly at first, be careful not to slip, I wonder just what kind of kick can come from this, for either of us, what the hell…New Thing Number III!
Timmy didn’t know what to make of it. But if what he was witnessing was all new to him, he responded to it nevertheless in time-honored fashion by becoming jealous and furious and pushing the Crud Person off of his Winnie, and he bent down to kiss his man all over, his man who evidently didn’t want to be kissed, this kid was beginning to be a pain, he’s not even put off by my most perverse acts, Timmy not believing it as his Winnie threw him off and back against that concrete wall, hurting his head against its curve, not believing that his Winnie could have done that, thrown him such a curve, not believing that his Winnie is now walking away from him, leaving him!, and all alone in this steamy circle of hell.
Furthermore, Winnie was walking away from him with his arm around the Crud Man’s waist, they’re going off together, oh who will I hold on to for dear life?, in this, his moment of his second greatest abandonment, not noticing that his earlier worshipper, the man who is now about to become so very important in his young, impressionable, malleable life under the Big Top, the specter lurking in said steamy shadows who is Cunard Rancé Evin Dildough, is now watching him, still wanting him.
Timmy looked up and saw Randy and immediately felt relief. I want, I need, somebody’s arms around me right this very minute, and to these waiting arms he goes. Disbelief on both sets of arms is rampant, on the part of young Timmy’s that they feel so good, and on the part of our Randy’s that at last they hold his soug
ht-for conquest, something so perfect that nought else compares, do I really, actually, maybe, have a heart in working order that can make me feel so warm and good?
Whatever hidden fantasies are coming true, the two of them stand there tied up in minglings of passion, need, affection, desperation, sweat, hard-ons, or is it hards-on?, neither could, in a steam room, distinguish which from which. But holding each other they definitely are.
And watching this, was it not ever thus?, and hurt in a way that the biggest prick in the world could always do, about-to-be-ex-lover Slim, now tapping hand to forehead to signal “So long, Randy,” then walking off into the mist of morn, and from our story, going…going…quick, Randy, lest it be too late…Gone, unnoticed by the loser, from his Randy’s life…so ends one near climax to our evening? morning? who can be quite certain which?
“Come along, young Timothy. Do you know who I am?”
“No. Who?”
“I’m your new lover. I’m going to make you a star.”
And Anthony? Anthony was preparing to come.
…oh that feels good, this one’s even better, this one’s a real find, make it last, don’t come, Anthony, don’t come, make it last….
Well, perhaps not. Perhaps he’s not ready.
Fred is now with Winnie, Winnie is now with Fred, Randy is with Timmy and Timmy with Randy, Boo still twists and kicks alone on the thronged Capriccio dance floor, Laverne is asleep with Robbie after having successfully used his mushroom, Patty and Juanito are honeymooning, Irving slumbers, dreaming about “Dinky, my Dinky, wherever you are….,” and isn’t it wonderful that at last it looks like a few of our boys might be bedding down for a rest?