by Hal Bodner
“Is that you, dahling?”
“Who the hell else would it be?” Chris grumbled back.
“Did we have a rough flight, dearie?” Chris realized Troy was not, in fact, trying to emulate Tallulah but was, instead, doing a very bad Bette Davis.
“Yes, we did,” Chris shot back. “If you’ll buzz me in so the whole neighborhood doesn’t have to hear the details, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Did we get our period on the plane?” Troy quipped. Then, as the loudest buzzer Chris had ever heard sounded, he pulled open the door and entered the courtyard of the building.
Chris located apartment 113. While he fumbled to get the keys Troy had sent him into the lock, the door was jerked open, practically ripping his arm from its socket. In another of his ever-wretched imitations of Maria Ouspenskaya, Troy intoned, “Welcome to your castle, master.”
“Knock it off, monkey,” said Chris with tired affection. “Just let me get inside.”
Troy, wearing some kind of spandex pants and shirtless, as usual, suddenly bowed deeply from the waist, one arm bent behind his back, the other sweeping the floor in a grand opera gesture. “Won’t you come in?” he droned in a sepulchered tone.
The tension vanished as Chris put one foot across the threshold and was immediately assaulted.
“Darling!” Troy leapt into Chris’ arms, upsetting the suitcase and planting a big, wet, messy kiss smack on the end of Chris’s nose. “Did you have any trouble getting here? I tried to be as clear as possible, but, my dear, you have no sense of direction. Here, let me take that.”
Troy grabbed the suitcase, nearly tripping Chris in the process, flung it into the center of the living room where it landed with a crash, and hauled Chris through the front door.
He plastered his lips against Chris’s mouth and, forcing his lips apart, began to try and give him a tonsillectomy with his tongue. Chris felt the remnants of tension from the drive fade as he allowed himself to relax into Troy’s delicate oral ministrations. Little shivers of pleasure ran up and down his spine as he wrapped his arms around Troy, slipping his hands underneath the rear waistband of Troy’s skin tight pants, and gently kneaded the tight little rear end underneath. Troy emitted moans of pleasure and alternately tightened and relaxed the muscles of his rear end teasingly.
“Let me look at you!” Troy backed away, squinting critically and, after a pause, said admiringly, “Not bad for 240-plus. You don’t look a day over forty-five.”
“Twenty-eight, you bitch,” Chris grinned tiredly.
Troy smiled and flounced down on the couch, fidgeted for a moment, and finally became still, one arm resting along the back of the couch, legs spread, his left hand dangling invitingly over his crotch. He stretched, leaning his head back, obviously confident that his taut little body was being shown to its best advantage.
“Welcome to L.A.,” Troy breathed throatily. “How about a drink to celebrate?” He moved his hand up from his crotch, over his belly and chest and lightly across his throat. “Just a little nip before dinner, hmm?”
Chris glared at him briefly and debated on his ability to win an argument given his present state of fatigue. Deciding to ignore Troy for the moment, he closed his eyes, steeling himself for any eventuality before he began to examine the apartment.
Chris grimly recalled the last time he had sent Troy ahead to secure living accommodations; it had been when Chris had decided to move from Boston and purchased the Philadelphia townhouse. On that occasion Troy had indulged his sense of humor and had furnished their living quarters with his own slightly twisted idea of what was appropriate. The current refurbishment was witness to the fact that their home had never quite recovered from the onslaught.
The upholstered sofa and chairs had been rather obviously new imitations of Victorian pieces, covered with dark forest-green velvet shot through with a pattern of gold vines. The drapes, also velvet, had been a deep wine-red, tied back with heavy gold tassels. Chris remembered Troy’s choice of artwork with a shudder; he loved the boy dearly but, honestly, Troy had no taste! The paintings had been restricted to several atrocious dark and forbidding oil landscapes in heavy gilt frames. The room had been cluttered with a variety of matching pairs of marble-topped ormolu end tables; the gilt trim on the coffee tables and breakfronts had been almost blinding. And everywhere, Troy had put candles, dozens of candles in black and various shades of red, not for light but merely for effect.
The little monkey had carried the gothic motif even further, Chris recalled with fond annoyance. He’d almost suffered permanent damage to his eyesight the first time he’d tried to read the Philadelphia Inquirer in his new home. Troy had removed all the lighting fixtures and had replaced them with imitation candelabrum; each sconce bore a flame-shaped bulb, barely sufficient to illuminate a thimble, which flickered annoyingly. He’d twice retired to his bedroom with a blinding headache before he’d finally convinced Troy to go out and buy some real lamps. Troy, of course, had thrown this incident up to him years later when Chris had decided to restore their home to a pre-electricity state.
It had taken Chris months to find a buyer for all the pseudo-Gothic crap that Troy had installed. He’d finally helped a Mrs. Braverman, an elderly widow from Pennsauken, New Jersey, to achieve her lifelong ambition to reside in a splendor reminiscent of the Addams Family by selling the lot to her for less than a quarter of what Troy had initially paid. Prior to the move to California, Chris had thought himself wise in limiting Troy’s furniture allowance in the hope that a similar decorating fiasco could be avoided.
Chris finally opened his eyes to look. The walls were painted stark white and the room was gently lit with a few dark red enameled torchere lamps. So far, so good. The sofa and two upholstered armchairs seemed innocuous enough, except for the fact that they were also blood-red—apparently to match the carpet. The tables, at least, all appeared to be devoid of froufrou and any hint of a baroque influence; they were, however, laminated with some sort of ruby-colored, plastic looking material. Of course, Troy had been unable to resist hanging several paintings on the walls; one was a modern print depicting what Chris assumed was a scarlet lightning bolt slicing through a field of jet black. Another showed Marilyn Monroe desperately in need of a month-long sojourn at a fat farm, squeezing her bulk into a cherry-red roadster.
As he walked into the kitchen, Chris’s first thought was that the previous tenants had been axed to death and the landlord hadn’t bothered to clean up the mess before re-letting the property. The appliances were deep scarlet; fire engine-red checked wallpaper added to the effect. Troy had purchased vermilion potholders with matching kitchen towels, and a set of perky crimson ceramic ducks were lined up on the counter. Chris was starting to get a headache.
Coming out of the kitchen into the pitifully small dining nook, Chris finally discovered the major Troyism he’d been expecting. A huge butcher-block table was squeezed into the tiny space, eight upholstered chairs, also red, were arranged around it with their backs tightly crammed against the sides of the table. Chris attempted to pull out one of the chairs in an effort to sit down. The dining room wall, however, seemed to be in the way, so he miserably hopped up onto the table and stretched out flat, sighing ruefully.
“Don’t tell me. The table. You saw it and just had to have it.”
“I got it on sale. Consider it your daybed,” Troy quipped with a winning smile. “It’s not my fault someone was being just a teeny bit stingy with the checkbook.” He scratched absently at an itch on his upper thigh and, suddenly catching himself, began sensuously stroking his crotch.
“I found a lovely place on the corner of Crescent Heights and Fountain,” he whispered seductively. “The perfect little love nest for two. It’s about seventy-five years old and has these wonderful high ceilings.” He paused then added flatly, “The old furniture would have looked fabulous there.”
Chris made gagging noises from his prone position on the table, “I’m sorry, monkey. I never again wan
t to live in something out of Gas Light.”
Troy harumphed, annoyed. “They wanted something like two thousand dollars a month,” and filed the building away in the back of his mind. He’d pester his lover about it later.
Chris looked around the room again. “It’s kind of bright in here, don’t you think?”
“Well, since you asked for my opinion, I think we should start keeping up appearances for the neighbors.”
Chris sighed patiently. “I asked you to try and be discreet. This place looks like the site of the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre.” He supposed, if he weren’t so damned tired, that he would actually find Troy’s attempt at decorating rather funny. Oh, well, he thought. We won’t be here that long. I guess it’ll do.
“Nobody in Los Angeles is discreet,” Troy said warmly. “It would be considered ostentatious to even try to be unassuming.”
“What are we going to do about those?” Chris waved his hand to indicate the louvered windows running the length of the back wall of the dining area.
“I covered the ones in the bedroom with a blackout cloth. You’ll be fine.” Troy got up from the couch. “Come on. It’s still early. Get changed and I’ll show you Boys’ Town. You’ll love it!”
“Please, monkey! I just got off the plane. I’m exhausted. We’ll go tomorrow.”
Troy’s pixie face twisted into a moue of disappointment. “What kind of a homosexual are you? Here you are in West Hollywood, the gayest city in the world, and you’re bitching about a little airplane ride.” He began waltzing around the room, in the arms of an imaginary partner, humming Where the Boys Are.”
Chris pointedly looked around the apartment. “What kind of a homosexual are you? Did you get a good look at this place? What decorators did you hire? Manson and Manson?”
“Look, girlfriend,” Troy began snippily as he marched over to the table and stood, looming over Chris, “I have been busting my adorable little ass for over a week to set this place up for you. I don’t know what the hell year you think this is, but nowadays it ain’t so easy making living arrangements.”
“I’m sorry for being so bitchy.” Chris gave Troy a little peck on the cheek and, sitting up a bit, nipped him affectionately on his bare shoulder. “I just don’t like apartment living. It makes me nervous. There’s no privacy.”
“It’s only temporary. I met this cute little real estate person. He said he knows of a couple of places for sale. He’d be able to show them to us by tomorrow night.”
“Did you ever think about renting a house?”
“A house? In Los Angeles? For what you gave me to spend?” Troy looked at Chris, one eyebrow raised hopefully. “I didn’t think we’d be staying long enough to need a whole house,” he said tentatively.
Troy silently prayed that Chris would somehow decide to remain in Los Angeles. Los Angeles, with its celebrities, palatial homes, and beautiful people, was Troy’s idea of heaven. Even better, they made movies here! It had taken them a long time to get out to California and Troy had every intention of convincing Chris to stay. But he knew Chris too well to try to convince him directly. If Chris made up his mind to go back to Pennsylvania, wild horses wouldn’t be able to keep him in L.A.
“We have been in Philadelphia a long time, you know,” Troy ventured gently. “I’m not saying I don’t want to stay put,” he continued. “After all, with all the moving we’ve done, I feel like Mother Courage with her cart.” He slowly ran one finger around Chris’s ear and down along the side of his jaw and throat in a way calculated to give him goose pimples of pleasure. “But if you’re worried about what the neighbors might notice...” He trailed off.
Chris reached up and took Troy’s hand from where it was playing idly with the collar of his shirt. Sitting up suddenly, he grabbed Troy’s other arm and lifted him onto the table, flipping him over onto his back. He pinned Troy’s arms above his head with one hand and began nibbling at his bare torso while stroking Troy’s sides with the other.
Troy wriggled with delight. “Nine days. Almost two weeks,” he murmured contentedly. “It seemed endless.”
“Maybe I’ll cable Harlan tomorrow for more money,” Chris said as his fingers moved lower to elicit a little shriek of pleasure from Troy. “It wouldn’t hurt us to have a home out here — but only for emergencies. I don’t think I could settle in a place where the state flower is the avocado.”
Nine days apart isn’t such a long time, is it? Chris asked himself as he began to play with Troy in earnest. Their years together had given him an intimate familiarity with every part of Troy’s body; he knew exactly what his lover liked.
Amazing, Chris thought for the ten thousandth time, No matter how long we’re together, he never bores me.
Chris continued gently nipping, licking, and stroking. Troy, arms still pinned above him, started to thrash back and forth helplessly. Enjoying himself immensely, Chris refused to even allow him to moan or gasp; each time Troy opened his mouth to do so, Chris cut him off with a kiss. Finally, starting at his feet and moving up along his body to his tightly gripped hands, Troy’s body was shaken with a series of little shudders, growing bigger and bigger until he was actually lifting himself from the table and slamming back against it with lightning speed. Chris could barely hold him down.
As Troy lay, panting on the table, torso slicked with sweat, Chris released him and stood up.
“Maybe we’ll do it half in cash and take out a mortgage for the rest,” he said with blithe innocence. “If he can find us something by the beginning of the week.”
“Huh?” asked Troy, still slightly dazed.
“The house,” Chris said with a grin.
Troy hoisted himself up onto his elbows and exhaled luxuriously. He shuddered once or twice more and then, only slightly recovered, panted, “This is Los Angeles, my darling. Here, wearing shoes is considered formal attire. Half of the town’s economy is based on selling movie star’s homes. Boy, that was fabulous!” His body twitched again. “The ones who aren’t standing on the corner trying to convince you that Tom Cruise lives in the building next to their uncle’s deli are in real estate. You have to give them enough time to scurry around for a few weeks, make ‘deals’ and get six of their broker friends involved so they can all split the commission. Otherwise their children all go hungry.”
“Good God!”
Troy leapt up, hands covering his ears in mock horror. “You said it! You said the word! My heart! My heart!” He clutched dramatically at his chest and plunged to the floor, writing spasmodically.
Chris couldn’t help grinning. “I love you, you little shit.”
Troy finished his impression of Cleopatra, gasped once, and was still for a moment.
“You die beautifully,” Chris commented, sliding off the table.
“Don’t you ever forget it, sister.” Troy rolled over onto his stomach, wriggling his rear end. “Want another bite?” he asked coyly.
“Tomorrow. I promise.”
With that, Chris stepped gingerly over Troy’s prostrate form and walked toward the bedroom.
“Love ’em and leave ’em?” Troy asked mischievously.
Chris looked at him. “Never,” he said tenderly.
“I may hold you to that,” Troy warned.
“I hope you do. Unpack for me, will you monkey?” he called over his shoulder as he went through the doorway.
“Yes, Missy Scarlet!” Chris thought Troy was trying for Butterfly McQueen this time, but it was hard to tell.
Chris closed the bedroom door behind him and looked at the blackout curtains with satisfaction. He peeled his shirt over his head and, after skinning out of his jeans, folded everything neatly and placed it carefully in the corner. He opened the closet, intending to put on his favorite robe, and blinked in amazement. Along with his meager selection of favorite clothing, which he’d managed to sneak into Troy’s luggage amidst the profusion of multicolored T-shirts, spandex shorts, and leather vests, he discovered the results of one of Troy’s
gleefully wicked shopping sprees. There, in a neat row on the rack, like so many deflated penguins, were no less than five black tuxedos. Hanging next to them, like huge dark moths, were three ebony satin opera capes, each of them lined with vermillion silk.
Rolling his eyes heavenward, Chris fished out his worn brown terry cloth robe, put it on and, hoisting up the lid of his casket, slipped inside for some much needed rest. With a wry grimace as he pulled the coffin lid closed and settled down into the rich, black Massachusetts earth, he reflected that Los Angeles and Troy had at least one thing in common: Both took quite a bit of getting used to.
CHAPTER TEN
Chris was awakened by the steady staccato sound of someone beating out an unidentifiable rhythm on the lid of his coffin. As his mind gradually cleared, he realized the tapping was accompanied by Troy’s off-key rendition of “Good Morning” from Singin’ in the Rain.
Chris groaned and sat up, opening the coffin lid.
Troy had already dressed. Chris’s eyes opened in amazement as he surveyed the “vision” standing in front of him, a perky smile splitting his face, poised to show off his fashion creation to best advantage.
“They’re not really dressing like that, are they?” Chris felt a pang of longing for the conservative frock coats and vests of his youth. “I mean, you might want to wear something that actually covers part of your body.”
“Why?” Troy asked disingenuously. He pirouetted slowly, showing off baggy cotton pants which only barely covered his behind, the knees halfway to the middle of his thighs. A seam of bright red underwear peeped out from the waistband, almost but not quite concealing the mounded globes of his butt. Covering his torso, Troy sported a blindingly bright multicolored vest which was at least a size too small, the fabric straining at the buttons. Two rainbow-colored handkerchiefs were tied around his right bicep. A bright pink baseball cap bearing the motto, BEND OVER, I’LL DRIVE was cocked at a jaunty angle, Troy’s blond curls escaping from underneath in artful disarray.