The Passionate Attention of an Interesting Man (15 page)

Richard’s face was so close to the sailor’s that he felt a bit dizzy, and he decided to steady himself by putting a hand, very gently, flat against the sailor’s chest.

“Yep,” the sailor continued. “One go flip and the other go flop. Tha’s the song of the world, I venture to say. Song of the world, hear? And yet I be so put out when my lady go and front me like so, ‘specially when I got a heavy case of the flips for her. An’, son, I’m tellin’ you, that sweet miss flop real tight and tasty when she be willin’ to.”

Winking at Richard, the sailor threw back a big swallow, his arm so heavy on Richard that the two of them seemed to move together like a dance team. Easing his way onto his feet, the sailor announced, “Here I go to fix me a shower. Okay for you?”

“Be my guest, please.”

The sailor was already pulling off his clothes. “Yeah, ‘cause now I’m overheated through…jus’ a minute here with the tunic…through
sufferin’ the flips for my lady Miss Tina. Too biggety for me, I guess. Or I don’t know. Get a guy full of rush and then…these buttons here…don’ know why they don’t jus’…then deck me flat, you know?”

Richard, staring as the man’s body gradually hove into view, said nothing.

“Man,” said the sailor, not to Richard as much as in general, as a public-service announcement, “I got the flips so fierce tonight that someone bes’ flop for me soon, or there surely be trouble at the crossroads.”

Then he breezed into the bathroom. Richard remained on the couch, slipping off his loafers and drinking his scotch as the narrative cues told from the bathroom: a quick whiz, humming,
the water smacking down from the shower nozzle. Always the same theme in Richard’s life: dark-alley giants, suspicious and spiky—or, even worse, friendly, but with a catch. How did you get there, Richard? The cheap music is supposed to be potent, not fearsome.

“Got this
sorta crunch in my neck,” said the sailor when he came back, lazily toweling off like a model. “S’pose you could step up behin’ an’ take care of that for me?”

Richard put down his drink and rose as the sailor turned away for a neck rub, tossing the towel aside and then breathing out delighted gasps as Richard worked on him. More humming.

“See how I got all dry for you?” the sailor said. “Way up more the right side, now.”

Richard followed instructions, massaging the sailor’s thick neck and shoulders.

“An’ try my sides, too,” he urged. “Go far with it.”

He let his head loll forward, his eyes closed, enjoying the attention in a kind of reverie. Then Richard slowly ran his hand across the man’s stomach, and he snapped to, turning to grab Richard in rough play and push him back onto the couch, following the movement along so that he had Richard in a virtual embrace. Smiling, he reached for Richard’s drink and held it before them as if teasing Richard in some arcane ritual. He took a sip, put the glass down, gently tapped on the end of Richard’s nose, and said, “Where was we before? Do you recall, now?”

Richard was silent, his hands resting on the sailor’s sides.

“Oh, yeah. We was
considerin’ the fine points of the flippety flop. Remember? Now me, I prefer a partner who got to be a little talked into it, like they ‘fraid of it even though they want it. That give me a chance to sing to ‘em, like I showed you before. You like my singin’?”

Richard nodded.

“An’ what’s your name, f’I ain’ too personal?”

“Richard.”

“Hello, there, Richard,” said the sailor, stroking Richard’s hair. “I’m Norman.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Norman. You’re a…an extraordinary-looking man.”

The sailor’s eyes went sharp as slate as he forced Richard’s head back, and he moved closer as if to kiss Richard but veered off suddenly to whisper into Richard’s ear, “Listen at this new verse of the flippety flop song.”

Now he took hold of Richard with both hands, pressing him close while keeping his mouth on Richard’s ear.

“You listenin’, now?”

“Yes,” said Richard.

“Okay, now, Richard, here it go:

You be the bottom,

Pump you till you pop,

When we do the flippety flop.

Do you love my tuneful song?” the sailor went on, reaching down to unbutton Richard’s shirt. “Way I figger it, that melody tell about showin’ your secret soft side. See, it ain’ only ladies who get the flops. Guys do, too, though they don’ like to admit it. They give escuses, fearful ol’ Norman there’ll goin’ to enjoy hisself too much.”

Reaching the bottom button of Richard’s shirt, the sailor grabbed it out of his pants, freed the sleeves, and peeled the shirt off him.

“Do…” Richard began, but his voice faltered. Starting again: “Do any of the men on your ship get the flops?”

“Time after time,” replied the sailor, lazily running his hands over Richard’s torso. “‘Specially one fine blond boy named Chipper. I call him
Chipewee when we alone. I knew he had the flops for me, but he too scared to open up.”

“But surely…I mean…a crowded Navy ship doesn’t give you privacy…does it?”

“Shucks, they’s plenty of secret places. And I got
engenyuity
. Once, I catch Chip when no one’s aroun,’ fasten up the place, and sing to the boy. Pretty soon, he jus’ weepin’ how he got the flops and
please
don’ flip him.”

“Did you?”

Stroking Richard’s hair, the sailor didn’t answer. He was hard now, and when he caught Richard staring, he smiled and licked his lips.

“But did you flip him, Norman?”

Resting a hand on Richard’s neck, the sailor broke into a wide smile. “Sure I did. That the best flip of all, when they grow fearful ‘bout the ways of love.”

Tugging Richard’s trousers open, the sailor held him against the couch with his left hand on Richard’s breastbone while stripping him from the waist down.

“There. Now we both clean simple, we can talk honest to each other.”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“Won’t hurt you none, be you honest. ‘Cause I suspect you got the flops for me, an’ I want you to confess up.”

“I don’t have the…the flops, Norman. I’m almost positive I don’t.”

“You don’ want to front me, now,” said the sailor with a disquietingly tender air. “‘Cause I get pretty heavy on those who deny they true wish. I seen you eyin’ me up before.”

“I swear, Norman.”

“Well, you beat all, son.” Shaking his head incredulously: can you
believe
it? “Callin’ me by my name yet lyin’ right to my eyes about havin’ the flops. Now I espect I best check you out in the time-honor way, an’ if I find you lyin’ I don’ know what I’ll do.”

The sailor pulled Richard to his feet and hustled him into the bedroom, resting one hand on Richard’s head as he yanked back the bedclothes.

“Please, Norman, I don’t have the flops. I’m really quite sure about that now.”

“Then you got
nothin’ to worry ‘bout,” said the sailor, taking hold of Richard by the sides and forcing him, rather casually, onto his back on the bed. “I don’ flip a guy less he got the flops.” Looking around, he fastened upon the little drawer in the night table next to the bed. “Ho, what do we see? Got your works in here?” An overacted smile superintended the opening of the drawer in a slow tease, followed by the discovery of—as the sailor put it—“joygrease and the condom box.”

Taking them out and then straddling the silent, unmoving Richard, the sailor beamed down at him with “Le’s taste your kisses, find out do you got the flops after all. I can tell by the flavor.”

Now Richard entered into it, reaching up for the sailor as he swooped down to feast upon Richard’s lips. A connoisseur. “Yeah,” the sailor murmured, as Richard responded with helpless passion. “You’re a tiger now, givin’ it up to me.” He sounded pleased, but when his head came up a bit later his look was angrily aggrieved. Richard loved that part.

“You been
holdin’ out on me, Jack, tell that from the taste o’ you. Gone to have to wreck you just a bit.” Backing off Richard’s body, he said, “Get those legs high, ‘cause you got the flops and it be full steam ahead. Huh.” Then: “Jus’ a
little
grease,” he explained, “so you can feel this to the heart o’ you.” As he cracked open a condom, he paused to note, “The night was made for love, son. But this be the tough kin’.”

Nevertheless, the sailor handled Richard gently, almost protectively. He kept up a
patter of lewd encouragement, praising Richard’s “suction technique” and raving over his “liplock” as they closed up tight for the “kiss an’ come.” Richard himself remained silent to the end, when his lord breathed out, “Here go the flyin’ part” and crashed through moon and stars—Richard glimpsed them in the man’s lidded eyes as he threw his head back—to spend and droop and fall over, panting.

They lay there for some minutes then, utterly blank to each other, bodies without character. Then the sailor raised his head, patted Richard’s stomach, jumped up, retrieved his clothing from the living room, returned, dropped the clothes on a chair, and went into the bathroom for a second shower. Going over the evening’s events like a man reprieved for
thoughtcrime, Richard stayed put. He had not come, but he’d take care of that part later in nostalgic privacy. As always.

Norman came out of the bathroom, toweling off as before. “So,” he said. “How do you think the
vocab worked? I’ve been practicing on my friends—they probably think I’m rehearsing for something by August Wilson.”

“The contractions kind of came and went, I thought,” said Richard, still floating back to earth. “But
Chipewee was wonderfully sinister. I think you slipped a bit with ‘The night was made for love,’ though.”

“How so?” asked Norman, starting to get back into uniform.

“It’s a Jerome Kern song.”

“Yeah, the…shoot,
why’re there so many buttons on…the
Show Boat
guy?”

“It skewed the tone a bit. Oh, but the part about tasting my kisses to see if I had the flops was sensational.”

“Lock that in?”

“Roger.”

Half-dressed, Norman breezed over to the desk, where Richard had left four hundred dollars in twenties, fanned out and separated into groups of five so Norman didn’t have to count them.

“Same time next month?” Norman asked, pocketing the cash and turning back to Richard with a nice smile, his own this time.

“Well, I’ve got this idea,” said Richard, lazily stirring up the sheets with his feet as he lay in bed. “Mr. Prendergast. Suit and horn rims. Works as the Incentive Man for The Corporation. You know the type. Cool on the outside, but inside…”

“Your friendly neighborhood raging volcano?”

Richard nodded happily. “When a department’s earnings go down,” he explained, “Mr. Prendergast shows up to discipline the department head.”

“You?” Norman asked, turning the uniform tunic around to find the top.

Richard nodded again. “Or there have been too many changes in personnel. It hampers productivity, you see. No, how would they put it? It…threatens market share? Be sure to use the idioms of the parish. They’re always talking about money, but they’re thinking about sex. You know.
Earnings
.
Breakout
. It’s all pumping and coming. Mr. Prendergast should be the embodiment of that. I see it as an exposé of business life.
Mad Men
with skin.”

“Yeah, but…horn rims? Eek.” Getting his arms inside the tunic and pulling it over his head, Norman added, “ I won’t be able to see anything. I’ll be having sex with your pants.”

“The glasses are central, though. Like the cucumber sandwiches in
The Importance of Being Earnest.
”

“You’re the boss.”

“You should carry an attaché, too.”

Sitting to get on his shoes and socks, Norman asked, “Do you have a CD for me?”

“Oh, surely.”

Reaching for a bathrobe draped over the top left bedpost, Richard pulled it on as he rose, then crossed the room to the bookcase. Retrieving a disc in its jewel case, Richard turned, quietly watching Norman finish dressing.

“What?” Norman asked him, grinning.

Instead of replying, Richard simply handed him the CD. Taking it, Norman studied its cover, a rendering of snow-topped
Everests in the foreground with, in the distance, a sun feebly radiant in a vast cavern.

“What’s this?” Norman asked happily. “The beginning of all things?”

“Or the end. Strauss’
Also Sprach Zarathustra
. A tone poem on the ravings of a sage.” With a wry smile, Richard added, “It starts with the ‘Theme From
2001: A Space Odyssey
.’ You know. Music on the eternal beauty of power.”

“Who’s this conductor? Is he famous?”

“Giuseppe Sinopoli. Big noise, lots of excitement. No longer with us, unfortunately.”

“Nifty. Thanks, Richard.”

“Any news, professionally speaking?”