How Long Has This Been Going On (51 page)

"Hey, would it knock you out to be nice to him? Because, I'll tell you, boy, Jim's your ace today."

Nearing port, the boat cut its speed to just above floating and wafted into the egg of water that the Pines called a harbor. It was near sundown, and tea dance at the Botel had reached its prime, the deck crowded with the blindsiding beauties, the deft arbiters, and the hapless followers of circuit life. Heads turned to examine the boat as it passed, and the ferry looked back. Frank was spotted; friend nudged friend and made remark.

"Are you ready for that?" Frank asked, nodding at the celebrants of the Mass that never stops. "Jailbait without a job or a friend?"

"I have a friend," Eric replied. "You're my friend." Eric was looking at Frank as a chipmunk looks at an oak: I'll believe in you.

"You go back down to Jim, now. Tell him thank you for his help."

"Okay."

By then, the ferry had landed, and Frank came down with Eric to find

Jim patiently waiting on the dock. They parted there, for Frank was heading west and Jim's house was so far to the east that his housemates kept a typical Pines red wagon locked up at the harbor to use in transporting groceries down the boardwalk.

"They're big as tanks," Jim explained to Eric as they walked, "but for some reason the idea of carrying bags of groceries..."

Eric wasn't listening, so Jim stopped talking. It was nearly a half mile to Jim's turnoff, but they took it in silence, till Eric grabbed Jim and whispered, "Look at that!"

It was a Pines deer, frozen still, not precisely looking at you but very aware of the traffic patterns in its vicinity.

"Can we feed it something?" asked Eric. "Animals are always hungry."

Jim took the second half of his train sandwich out of his overnight, pulled out the lettuce, and gave it to Eric. "Try that," Jim said.

Eric approached the deer with great care, holding the lettuce before him. Suddenly, the deer elegantly swung its head toward the food, sniffed, and turned away.

"He doesn't feature it," said Eric.

"Maybe it's the mayo from the sandwich. Try pulling off a branch from that tree there."

"Yeah!"

Eric backed up, pulled on a branch, and extended the freed leaves to the deer. It waited a long time, then finally turned to Eric, stretched forward, and calmly bit off a bit of green.

"Say!"

"Easy. Don't scare him."

Eric stood as the deer ate and, without warning, bounded off.

"Wow," said Eric. "The whole zoo's here."

"Come on," said Jim, leading off at the turn. "I want you to be sure of where it is in case you aren't happy with..."

Jim's house was one of those small, rudimentary rectangles—one bedroom on this side, one on that, combination kitchen—living room in the center, bathroom tucked in somewhere, and a deck running along three sides, the whole thing sitting on stilts and costing each shareholder maybe five hundred dollars for the season. It was Pines Basic, quite unlike the palazzo that Jim now took Eric to, the abode of his would-be gentleman, one walk over from Jim's and down to the ocean.

"I'm impressed," said Jim, looking at the place. "This guy is really loaded."

"Yeah," said Eric.

"You okay?"

Eric nodded.

"Maybe you better practice a smile."

Eric tried.

They started up the walk, then Jim halted. "Look," he said, "it's just an audition. If you don't want the part, come back to my place. You remember where it is?"

"You're real nice, aren't you?"

Taken aback, Jim said, "Well, I'm... I'm trying to..."

"No, you're really looking out for me. Helped me get this travel bag together, so I don't look like a doofus. And you wear those neat shirts, all striped and colored just right. You always know what to say. I make the dumbest jokes, and you laugh." Eric extended his hand. "Thank you," he said.

They shook, Eric said, "Here goes," and he abruptly turned and walked up to the house.

A moon of dire magic hangs over the Pines.
Careful!,
it warns, your dreams may come true! Some find the place dangerous, some seek out its romance, some deplore its rigid sense of style. To Frank, tonight, it was a workplace, as he trudged the beach, firming plans for his movie. He had, he was sure, a sound premise: A pleasant-looking but unerotic young man arrives on the island and strolls the walks, wrapped in trees and mystery. At intervals, strangers invite him into a house and the two of them have sex, each rendezvous more intensely physical than the last—and each time the young man leaves a house, he dons the clothes of his partner. Thus, he first exchanges his nondescript garb for the white T and slacks of his affectionate but undemanding first date; he later changes into the pastel Lacoste shirt, Speedos, and Mickey Mouse wristwatch of his second, somewhat more possessing date; and at last he mates with an infinitely forceful leather master (our own Frank), leaving in jeans and a leather jacket. The crescendo of the sexual quest, the building of the hotness, seemed to Frank to suggest the outline of a gay man's growth as a sensualist—and the tale could be told entirely in visuals, thereby forgiving the lack of an on-mike sound track. The cast was—let's just say—personable, and the locations ready. Frank could crank it out in two days, tops. But how, he wondered, was this story to end? Clearly, the third episode, with its dark lord of pleasure and its touches of S & M, marked a climax of some kind. But where did the young man go then?

* * *

The young man named Eric went to Jim's house a little after one
A.M
. that same night, but the place sat black and still, and Eric paused on the walk, wondering if he dared risk waking Jim up. At length, he decided to compromise: He'd knock, but quietly.

There was no answer. Listening at the door, Eric was sure he heard noises of some kind. People noises, sort of like talking, or very quiet singing.

Eric knocked a bit louder, then louder yet. He waited, heard heavy footsteps, saw a shape loom up in the black. He hoped it was Jim, but Jim didn't move that fast.

It was some big nude guy, his skin slick with sweat and his cock bobbing out hard and aching in front of him.

"What?"
he said.

"I'm looking for Jim."

"Hey,
lawyer!"
the nude guy called out, letting the door bang closed as he turned and stamped back to his room.

Well, I can't get into any more trouble, Eric thought, slipping inside to look for Jim. And here he was, pulling on a sweatshirt over his shorts, drowsy yet smiling.

"Sorry I blew it with your roommate," said Eric. "Woke him up, I guess."

"It didn't work?"

Eric shook his head.

"Put your bag down. You can have the couch tonight and then we'll... You want something to drink? How about beer in a tankard? That ought to... Let's see what we have here." Peering into the fridge.

The sounds Eric had heard before poured out through the open door of Jim's housemates' room.

"What's the deal in there?" asked Eric.

"Sex."

"With noises?"

"Here."

Eric took the beer, hoisted it, and glopped a heavy first taste right through the foam.

"As long as I'm up," said Jim, "you want to talk about it?"

Eric hiccuped, wiping his mouth. He was a total teenager: rough, unformed, trying to figure things out.

"I don't want to get that big guy angry," Eric murmured, pointing at the other bedroom.

"Grab your sweater and we'll take a walk to the harbor. It's lovely at night."

Eric's sweater was an oversized horror of holes and patches, but the kid was clearly proud of it. "Big Frank gave this to me," he said.

The harbor makes a handsome vista at night, its oval ringed by bobbing pleasure cruisers, faced on the west by the lights of the Botel and other commercial establishments, and on the south by the vast line of wagons, some pristine and others weathered to rust.

"Wow, it's quiet," said Eric, as he and Jim parked themselves on a bench. "Look at all the wagons, though. It's as if nobody but little kids lived here."

"So what was this guy like?"

"Oh, he was all right. Tried to make me feel comfortable. He said, 'What music do you like?' What was I supposed to say? Yeah, sure, I dig minuets and opera singing. Hey, spin the platter and we'll all have a polka."

"What did you say?"

"Oh, then he goes, 'What would you like to wear?' I go, 'Sorry?' So he takes me to a closet of... costume clothes. Like, we're going to do a show, and here's your part, you know. He had, like, pirate, cop, cowboy... or, he says, would you prefer street boy? What's a
street boy?"

Jim nodded. Nothing to say.

"I don't want to have to be what some guy expects," Eric went on. "How would I know what that even is?"

"It's like your parents all over again."

"You got that right," said Eric, looking up at the sky, then ahead of him, at the bay.

"Look," said Jim, "just tell me if I'm out of line. But do you miss your parents?"

"They kept shoving me around and throwing me out. Who'd miss that?"

"You like Frank, don't you?"

"Who doesn't?"

"Nobody doesn't. You want to know why?"

Eric smiled, a stray kid in a strange place with—luckily—a kind man.

"Frank is perfect hot," Jim explained. "He's got it all. And in bed he gets into some hungry-animal mode that fiercely possesses you yet never in any way would hurt you. So I've heard, at least. But it's more than that. He's this... this titanic authority figure. You know, he's very protective of the people he likes. Like you."

"Yeah?"

"He'd wreck anyone who did you harm."

"Really?"

"That's why some guys are afraid of him. He's not just a major beauty. He's an absolute. It's like trying to date... oh, Clark Gable or someone. There's too much there there."

"Tell me a story," said Eric.

"A story?"

"Isn't this a good time for one? With the boats dipping, and the moon. This big place with all these things in it, but the whole world is still. We're the only ones alive."

"A story, huh?"

Eric moved closer to Jim. "Yeah, something... where I can listen and don't have to
be
anything."

Jim shyly put an arm around Eric. "That okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"A story, now..."

"Tell me how you came to be here. Or how the place began. One of those legends."

"Would you like to hear how the bar Harry's Back East got its name?"

"Yeah."

"This is legendary," said Jim, warming to it. "There was this very hot guy named Harry, and he was breaking hearts up and down the city. Everywhere you went, there were guys keening and sighing for Harry."

"What's keening?"

"Getting all torn up."

"Was Harry like big Frank?"

"No, he was a mere mortal. One of those blonds with notable deltoids and nifty teeth. Now, Harry's best friend was... I don't know,
Tim.
Fine, good-natured fellow, crazy for Harry. They went everywhere together. But it was that typical gay thing, where Harry allowed Tim to worship him, but never responded in kind."

"Would Tim cry as he thought about it?"

Jim, chuckling, patted Eric's shoulder. "Tim accepted it as his debt to pay. But after a while it became so painful that when Harry announced that he was moving to Los Angeles to improve the quality of his promiscuity, Tim secretly rejoiced. With Harry out of his life, Tim made himself over. He joined a gym, started going to back-room bars—"

"What are they about?"

"Beer up front, sex in the rear."

"Woo."

"With Harry gone to the West, Tim became his own hero. Circuit beauties who once sneered at him were now lining up for a date."

"And he told them, 'Get lost'?"

"Are you kidding? He grabbed them, one after the other. This was the new Tim, and he wanted to enjoy it to the utmost."

"Yeah, he was in charge of what would happen to him."

"He was indeed," said Jim, daring to tickle Eric's ear.

"Then one day, a friend told him, 'I have good news and bad news—Harry's back east.'"

After a moment, Eric said, "I don't get it, but I like it."

"Let's start back."

At Jim's house, they drank some water, bathroomed, and set Eric up on the couch. The house was silent, except for the soothing pulse of the breaking Atlantic below them on the beach. But after a bit, those noises started seeping out of Jim's housemates' room again, and Eric decided this was reason enough to tiptoe into Jim's room, naked and nervous.

"Can I come in with you?" Eric whispered.

Jim made room, fitting his body against Eric's jigsaw-style, part to part. Then Jim whispered, "I don't know what I'm allowed to do with you."

"Let me be your boy friend," Eric replied, "and you can do anything."

Catching his breath as he held Eric by the sides of his torso, Jim said, "I'm not one of those rich Pines gays, you know. I'm just—"

"Does it have to be a millionaire?"

"No, I guess it doesn't. So... what do you like to do?"

"I don't know yet. Show me and I'll tell you. No—wait."

"Where are you—"

"Taking a peek at your roommates."

Eric slipped across the house to the muscle queens' open doorway, panoramaed, and slithered back to Jim.

"I don't know what that's called," he said, "but we're going to, like, save that one for next year."

* * *

Back in the city, Frank called Larken to crow over his new movie. The shooting had gone off without problems, the cast had surpassed itself, and this time they had a lighting man who seemed to know his craft. Best of all, Frank had finally thought up a fitting ending to his tale: After his high-octane experience with the leather daddy, the protagonist parades the boardwalk in his new uniform of S & M pleasure and—through a trick shot with the use of a double—passes his former self without the slightest recognition.

"And we fade on that."

"But, Frank, what does it mean?"