The American People, Volume 2

by Larry Kramer

  So all in all, what with the ones he’d called and the ones they’d called, Garfield knew his doorman would clock about eighty single gentlemen in before (a new record) nine-thirty. Through the portals came, among others, five attorneys, three art directors, seven models, ten would-be models, twelve said-they-were-models, five journalists (including The Avocado’s Divine Bella, and Blaze Sorority, who writes about the White House for The New Gotham), three hairdressers (one who only does coloring), two antiques dealers, one typewriter repairman, one manager of a Holiday Inn, one garbage collector, two construction workers, one toll collector from the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, three policemen, two firemen (one from out of state), seven hustlers, one elevator operator (Garfield’s landlord’s son), one bass player, five doctors, twelve students, one ethnic dancer, a couple of writers for The New York Truth, two restaurateurs (one gourmet, one shit food), one judge (rather old, but Garfield had to think of business), one newscaster, one sportscaster, one weatherman, two football players, one folk singer, four truck drivers, twenty-nine on unemployment, eleven unidentifieds, and the new assistant rabbi for an Orthodox congregation on Long Island. And these were just the early birds. The evening had all the earmarks of an eventful one, and Garfield was already busy in the maid’s room with a Puerto Rican efficiency expert when Winnie Heinz from across a crowded room fell in love with Timmy Purvis.

  Timmy did not know that anyone was looking at him. His head was beginning to have the light buzz he’d been told to expect by Troy, who kept injecting the thin cigarette into Timmy’s mouth and telling him to “suck, suck, you gorgeous number, suck, and hold it in like this,” and then expanding like a peacock to illustrate. Troy was old enough to be Timmy’s father, if only his father had had the sense to be as attractive and worldly and well-dressed and to smell of nice cologne and just-brushed teeth, and Timmy was a bit surprised to discover that a tingly feeling was appearing not only in his head and arms but also in his crotch. He found himself relaxing into Troy Mommser’s warm, enveloping arms.

  “Oh, you little darling,” Troy sighed as he nibbled at Timmy’s ear and then kissed him warmly on the lips. It was Timmy’s first true kiss from another man on a nonfamilial level. It wasn’t bad. And in such a nice, comfortable, homelike apartment, too. And the man being old enough to be his father made it even more cozy and safe. He was going to love New York.

  “Come on, you beautiful thing,” Troy said, practically picking up the young package and carting him into one of Garfield’s homelike bedrooms.

  Winnie watched all this and his heart sank. Why was he not in the right place at the right time when it mattered? Why had he not brought his own dope and dust this evening? He could have turned the kid on. Oh, he was beautiful, and his heart wanted to hold him, no, he wouldn’t have this one walk on him, he just wanted to hold him and kiss and cuddle and go for weekends in the country and swims in St. Bart’s and make a life together—my goodness, the entire gamut of a fantasy future was jelling before him. What is happening to me? I’m not like this. I’ve always played the field. And I don’t even know his name. And he doesn’t look Jewish. Oh, well, Troy’s a nice man, my friend. The kid’ll be bored to death with a nice guy like Troy. So, swallowing his impatience, he joined a cozy corner foursome that included a black kid wearing a Star of David around his neck, to kill the time until the moment when his cutie would be free.

  In the dim-lit bedroom, drapes to match the walls, four inches of Bigelow underfoot, Timmy was naked in Troy’s arms on the king-sized walnut four-poster. Troy’s big strong barrel chest, warm with soft hair, was something he wanted to curl up against forever. It was safe, he just knew it—was this what it was all about?—and he wanted it to go on and on and on and on. They both tried to pretend there was no one else in the room, not too easy a task when there were twenty or so, each busy in his own way. But if one could ignore the grunts, the smells, the slurps, all your usual sounds of foreplay suckings, the patches of sheets beginning to get damp from sweat, the three hustlers, Vladek, Cully, and Midnight Cowboy, practicing a synchronized muscle-flexing gymnastic arrangement by the headboard, the three models, Carlty, Lork, Yo-Yo, forming an observing triptych at the foot, yes, models all, uptown and downtown versions but all paid for essentially the same thing, plus a busy Paulie, who should be home resting for his big scene tomorrow, darting about looking for his own future, plus Maxine sticking his head into groupings, searching for Patty and wondering if it might not soon be time to change, then one could more or less imagine that one was more or less alone.

  “You sweet little thing,” Troy mumbled, and heaved his big self up and reversed positions so that he could suck young Timmy’s young cock while placing his own huge thing close enough to the lad’s mouth so that it might get the same idea. Troy was certainly enjoying himself—young flesh was always a treat—but he did wish the handsome thing were a wee bit more experienced and didn’t just lie there and would the Gnome be here tonight, because his supply of drugs was running low. The pretty ones are always bores in bed, Troy thought, and as creative director for Heiserdiener-Punic-Slough, America’s butchest agency, he was certainly in a position to know. Every gorgeous male model had passed through his portals.

  Troy sucked on, vaguely aware that Timmy was having trouble encompassing as much food as he was offering, but at least the lad was trying, bless his heart. Suddenly, before Troy could wedge his nourishment a little farther into Timmy’s perfect if still inexperienced mouth, Timmy’s perfectly inexperienced cock began to emit his little load and Troy, the perfect gentleman, concentrated less on himself and more on keeping up the lad’s excitement to the last second.

  “How was that, you little pumpkin?” Troy asked Timmy after a suitable pause, as the lad lay against his chest again and they both tried to ignore the hovering presence of the thirty or so others who had gathered around to watch with relish.

  “Mmmm,” Timmy mumbled. It had been nice. Should he admit that it was his first time? “It … you were my first.”

  “Holy shit,” somebody muttered in the dark.

  “A virgin,” sputtered another.

  “I didn’t know they still made them.”

  “He just did.”

  “Fucking Troy, he’s done it again.”

  “Don’t pay any attention,” Troy whispered to Timmy, patting the lad’s head. “I loved every minute of it. How do you feel? No guilt?”

  “Unh-unh.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “What’s gilt?”

  Troy smiled. One certainly didn’t need an upset violated virgin on one’s hands. Then, patting the firm white tush, he said, “I’m flying to Tokyo in the morning, but perhaps I’ll see you when I get back.”

  Winnie, who had just concluded a deal with the Gnome for a gram and a half of Best Angel Dust, sampled, purchased, delivered on the spot, was doubly pleased when he saw Troy come back into the living room, fully clothed and alone.

  “Where’s the beauty?” Winnie asked him.

  “I think he fell asleep.”

  “How was he?”

  “I was his first. I feel one hundred and five. I didn’t even come.”

  “You were his first?” Winnie felt hugely despondent. How could he have missed out so outrageously?

  “He’s beautiful. So are you. Go take a look.” Troy caressed Winnie’s cheek as he thought to himself, About to be unemployed, poor baby, I’m glad I arranged a shoot in Tokyo so I don’t have to tell you. “See you in the factory.”

  Winnie watched Troy leave. He was glad to have such a fine old friend. Then he went into the bedroom to look for the kid.

  Timmy was not asleep. Ten men were devouring him. Two held his hands and played with his fingers. Another sucked his toes. One, of course, was sucking his front thing while another, of course, had a finger up his back thing. Another naturally played with his young marbles and one more sucked each of his titlets. Another man had his fingers in Timmy’s ears, and several others massaged his st
omach, touched his teenaged skin, touched him all over, wherever prior prospectors had not staked their claims. Timmy was being worshipped like a god. If this was New York, then he wished to live enthroned here forever.

  Suddenly activity ceased. Timmy opened his eyes and looked up. Someone was standing over him, was standing up tall on the mattress with one leg on each side of him. Suddenly no one else was on the bed or in the room or in the world.

  It was the Winston Man. He knew it. The whole world knew the Winston Man. Timmy had masturbated over the Winston Man, taking his father’s American Legionnaire magazine into the bathroom and jerking off with the faucet running, wondering how one ever became as handsome as the Winston Man, wondering down deep if it would ever be possible to meet someone so perfectly handsome, so perfectly the perfection of one’s dreams. Seeing him there, Timmy winced. He winced at first because he thought he might be hallucinating from the drugs. He winced at second because he was a little frightened to have yet another dream turn into reality—too many dreams were coming true too quickly today in New York, things he hadn’t even known he was dreaming about. And he winced at third because he didn’t know what to say. Whatever he said to such Perfected Beauty he felt would be not good enough.

  The Winston Man spoke first: “Hi. My name is Winnie.”

  “I … I know.”

  “Now how do you know? We’re just meeting for the first time.”

  “You … you’re the Winston Man.”

  “That’s right. And who are you?”

  “Tim. Tim Purvis.”

  “Hello, Tim Purvis. Would you like to come home with me?”

  Winnie helped Timmy find his clothes, scattered to the four corners of the room, and helped him dress, pushing away other hands which, LaocoÖn-like, wished to impede, and then dressed himself. All was silence. Something in the room was ending, phase one of the evening perhaps, and with the departure of Adonis, Junior and Senior, something would be drained away, some of the energy, some of that ideal physical fuel necessary to heat the rest of the night. Winnie felt this tangible atmosphere and knew that he and Timmy were responsible for it. Still no one spoke.

  Instead, two arms reached up and pulled Winnie down and pinned him to the bed. Since these arms belonged to Vladek, the Hungarian hustler, thick, hairy, and overbeefed in biceps and wrist, Winnie could not resist. Another two arms began to unbutton his shirt, another set to extricate him from his trousers. Others attended to Timmy, like handmaidens to the princess in some movie about ancient Egypt, pulling him down and back, removing his raiment. Soon the two naked beauties were laid out side by side on center stage, the edges of the wide expanse of king-sized bed now packed with spectators, each watching the animal of his choice, as if two cocks were pitted in the arena, which, in truth, they were.

  Winnie and Timmy, mesmerized by the moment, by their naked exposure, by the sheer exultant glory and joy of being so visibly, forcefully worshipped by fifteen pairs of eyes, now growing to twenty, thirty, thirty-five, as word spread around the apartment: “the hot stuff’s in the master bedroom,” “which one’s the Master’s bedroom?,” and other rooms evacuated swiftly, as naked bodies, forty-seven flavors of manpower, fought to witness beauty meet perfection meet beauty, these naked witnesses now coalesced into one huge grabbing organism, with undulations of its own, as a group and not as individuals, all swaying, holding, watching, breathing, wishing, empathizing, Stanislavskians all, as Winnie and Timmy kissed, two long planes of flesh layered together like some delectable French pastry, then began to twine and intertwine, into cruller or Danish, receiving pleasure from each other’s movements, from the touchings each to each, each growing hard, Timmy still too young to know that this, his additional coming within one hour, would be a record many of them, try as they might, could not emulate, Timmy learning how to experiment with his tongue and fingers, learning how to duplicate the movements perpetrated upon him by Winnie’s tongue and fingers, Timmy, being Crisco-ed anally by a strange hand reaching from ringside, Timmy, on his back, receiving from Winnie, for the first time a man’s cock up his ass, so this is how they do it!, his own legs grabbing around that famous narrow waist, wanting to cry out in pain, the virgin on her wedding night, her hymen pierced, he thought of that, of reading 23 Ways to a Sexually Fulfilling Marriage in a plain brown wrapper, hidden in an old suitcase under his parents’ bed, expecting pain, but no, there is no pain, for Winnie is deep inside him, up, he thinks, to just beneath his heart, he feels his heart massaged, he feels the love within it, imprisoned within it all his lifetime up till now, begin to explode out toward Winnie like a life handed over, take my life, Winston Man, take all of me because you are the most beautiful human being I have ever known and felt and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, just like this.

  “Fuck him, fuck him…” There they go again, soft chantings from the witnesses, “Fuck his tight young pussy…” Shut up, Timmy tries to call out, if he only could speak, don’t ruin it all with those ugly words … “Fuck him, fuck him…” and Winnie fucks this virgin chicken, excited in a way that he hasn’t been since little Bernie Rosen at Hill School in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, and getting pleasure from a fuck, no boots, not even a Jewish boy, no extra paraphernalia necessary, though he wished the lad were circumcised, well, perhaps this was nice for a change, the beginning of a new era, feeling his own love grow as he comes closer and closer, no, hold it back, make this time last, uncircumcised only requires extra cleanliness, extra attention to smegma, hold it back, hold it back, make it last, wanting to cry out: I love you, you little fucker, but not doing so, never say “love”—what is happening to me?, it must be the audience, it must be the angel dust, why am I turned on so?, Jesus God, it never felt like this, his little ass is squirming for more, wriggling about wanting me to fuck it, look, no don’t look, at the drops of blood on Garfield’s Bill Blass sheets, Christ, he really is a virgin, “Oh my Christ I’m going to come!” and damn it, come he does, and, would you believe it, at precisely this same moment, always a good omen, Tim shoots all that’s still left inside him, up and into the air to stick to Winnie’s stomach like squirt against the ceiling, and Winnie falls on top of Tim and the two adhere together, clutching each other, holding tight to prolong the moment, unconscious, oblivious to the fact that around them sixty, no maybe only fifty-five other orgasms have been reached with such intensity that this night, Garfield will be proud to remember, will go down in history, and he will go down as the Perle Mesta of the Orgy Circuit, Garfield’s future as a primo New York party thrower assured.

  Winnie’s eyes opened and looked down at Timmy’s, looking up at him.

  The Winston Man spoke first. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  And Timmy answered, “I love you, too.”

  And they held each other tightly, and each began, unseen by the other, to cry. If this was love, this was wonderful, and the moment must last forever, and each tried to memorize the feeling so that, in years to come, when they remember this, and they must remember this, they would be able to summon up at will just what this historic moment brought them. They were still holding on to each other, neither knowing how to get the hell out of here before it’s too late, not knowing that it is now about to be too late …

  A NAME BY ANY OTHER NAME

  Isidore Schmuck Medical Center is renamed Isidore Peace Medical Center. It had been impossible to break the old man’s ironclad will legally, so it is done illegally. A long-lost cousin presents to the Washington District Court in Punic Center a piece of paper saying that Isidore Schmuck, on his deathbed, had given her permission to allow a name change whenever she saw fit. No one believes either her or her piece of paper, but so many people are so tired of driving past so many signs in their neighborhood saying, THIS WAY TO SCHMUCK, including the judge, Everett Tuschey, who has his own problems with last names, that his ruling in favor of the change is allowed to stand.

  Isidore Peace it is to this day, though not so peaceful as its new name wo
uld have one hope.

  AMOS WANDERS

  How do you end a life you decide to end? I don’t mean by what means. Where I grew up, gentlemen used pistols for that. Yes, I have my pistol, my ever-faithful companion, my Averva pistol. It’s accompanied me around the world a number of times on my assignments carrying out my government’s nefarious instructions. Have I actually used it to shoot anyone? What self-respecting spy would ever tell you? Yes, I have used it to shoot at people. I cannot say my aim was always successful. However did they come to choose me as a spy, I used to wonder. All the shit I’ve shoveled for Uncle Sam! What could possibly have been on my record that encouraged my Yaddah professors who enlisted me to offer me up to such unseemly tasks? “You are being chosen for great things! You and a number of your brothers in Toad and Frog.” Hitler, the OSS, the CIA, Partekla, it was one big never-ending vaudeville show of juggling false information and tossing bodies in the air to be shot down somewhere by someone. Spying is like that. It has very bad manners. I have never had a thank-you note from anyone. When I retired I just left my office. There wasn’t anyone left from the old days in the entire building anyway. Why did I stay there for so long? The turnover became so substantial, I couldn’t tell you who was in charge of what. They’re so disorganized down there now that I’ll bet they think I’m still sitting in that office. Yes, it became an embarrassment to work for them, not that I had anyone to tell this to but myself. The first Standings were in the Revolutionary War. And in that French and Indian one. No one else knows that now but me. All things come to an end. The brothers Dulles long gone and James Jesus growing into a paranoid aging crone, naming the names of practically every leader in the world as being under Communist control. By now there’s such an entrenched rivalry between the CIA and the FBI that if one doesn’t get you, the other is sure to. And I definitely do not like the growing smell from old spy-in-arms Bill Casey now more and more sniffing his crooked nose into and around a growing number of “things.” Get out while the getting is good.