Three Ex Presidents and James Franco (7 page)

              "A hundred years ago all the gay men had kids. I
t’
s what was done. Now they all move to San Francisco, or wherever. Their sperm condemned to oblivion. Condemned to a condom, or to be swallowed, or wiped away, forever.

              "Yes, maybe there were gays who just didn't have kids. James Buchanan didn't. But now there's more guys like that. Less gay guys having kids, genetic kids. The gene is dying out. Not fast. If I had kids the genes, the gene combination, or whatever it is would be recessive. Chances are my kids would be straight. But if I don't have kids tha
t’
s one less recessive gene out there. And in a hundred years that could mean ten less gay men out there. Think about that."

              My voice had risen all the time during my rant. My moment, my firm declaration to Jake of my independence of thought. He was silent for a while. I thought he was offended by my aggressive tone.

              But he was just thinking. Suddenly he took a left and we were headed off the freeway to a town called Lancaster.

              "Where are we going?" I was a little exacerbated.

              "We're going to save the lives of those 10 gay men. Your not born yet great, great, great, great grandchildren. We're going to a sperm bank."

              As we sped up the turn off, my mood changed. Strange, but I thought this could be the most romantic thing I'd ever done. We were two boys about to jack off and give sperm together in order to save gayness in the world. The cogs inside my brain began to creak as the little men began to panic.

29.
The romanticism didn't last long. We got to the sperm bank. Just an innocuous, sterile looking building. Having never been to one before neither of us was aware that we couldn't just make a deposit. It wasn't like a blood bank. There was an initial sample to be given, a questionnaire to be answered and a three month delay as the bank waited on tests to confirm we were suitable donors.

              We both made our deposits. When I was done Jake was waiting for me with a grin of real pride. His sprits weren't dimmed in the slightest. "I have a treat for you now. We won't make it to the prison until tomorrow morning anyway at this stage. So we may as well make the most of this detour. We're in Lancaster. Wheatland is here."

              I showed no look of recognition.

              "The home of James Buchanan. It would be rude of a family member not to drop in and say hi."

30.
The tour guide was dressed as a woman from 19th century Pennsylvania, but was speaking with the unmistakable accent of a 21st century South African. There was something peculiar, jolting, about a white South African giving a tour which required her to say things like "Here are the old slave quarters" or, "The president was popular amongst the slaves, he treated them well."

              As we walked through the magnificent, high-ceilinged mansion, Jake ignored what was being said and busied himself trying to find somewhere discrete for us to have sex. I wasn't sure if I was keen. Anyway, the tour guide had her eye on him. On entering he had declared with an impressed whistle, "My God, the old queen certainly lived like one." The piercing stare he received left no doubt but there was no sense of humour amongst the staff when it came to Buchanan's sexual preferences.

              She kept following him with her eyes as he discreetly, or so he thought, peered around corners in search of somewhere suitable. Jake seemed determined that we would treat the ghost of Buchanan to a special presentation. "It’s nothing these walls haven't seen before," he said, taking my hand and rushing around a corner. The time was well chosen, the tour guide being distracted by an elderly woman who couldn't figure out what she was trying to ask. We found a stairway, an old servants stairway, went up and found ourselves in a long drawing room.

              The act had to be done quickly. Having no energy for much myself, I happily agreed to get on my knees as Jake stood there, with that proud grin still stuck on his face. As I was sucking him off I had a good view of the grin and the vacant stare that always crept over his eyes during sex. But I was soon distracted by the picture over his shoulder. With the tall hat and the long beard it was obviously the profile of Abraham Lincoln. I shouldn't have been surprised. I was in a Presidential residence. They were from the same period in history. Still, I thought it unusual that a President would hang a picture of his successor in his home. Especially one who had completely eclipsed him in history long before Buchanan's death.

              The thought lingered and may have come to some sort of fruition had Jake not started to shove me away and give me a shake. The motion surprised me, as he wasn't done. I thought maybe he too was drained after our exertions in the car and the sperm bank to continue. But as he took himself out of my mouth and adjusted himself back into his pants I saw someone standing over his other shoulder. The cold and angry eyes of the South African tour guide stared down at me. Behind her was the tour, not scandalised particularly, just laughing. On either side were two large, heavy set and unfriendly looking men, who I assumed were security.

              As I stood up I looked to Jake, the grin was still there. Over his shoulder, Lincoln looked back at me. Not coldly, or judgmentally. I fancied he almost smiled.

31.
I don't know why I wasn't particularly embarrassed.

              The manager was in his thirties, but balding. Looking at us with a mix of horror and anger. "I've phoned the police. They're on their way. Good thing Simon and Greg were here, so you couldn't get away." Simon and Greg were the security guards standing on either side of us as we stood in the manager's office. "You perverts are going to be punished. This is worse than vandalism. It’s sacrilege."

              Maybe I wasn't embarrassed because I was in a foreign country. Maybe at home I would have been mortified. Indeed, I wouldn't have done anything like this at home to begin with.

              "This is a national monument. The home of a President. And you've tried to sully it with your New York sick ways."

              Maybe I was just not embarrassed because I was with Jake. Maybe being with him gave me a certain confidence. Nonetheless I offered up a silent prayer to the ghost of Buchanan to intercede if he could.

              "How many people visit here each year?" Jake asked.

              "It’s a national monument, it’s our national heritage," the manager spluttered.

              "Fine, fine. We're trapped here. We might even go to prison. So just tell me. How many each year?" Jake persisted.

              The manager looked at him suspiciously, but answered. "20,000 a year."

              Jake snorted. "That’s all?"

              "Listen mister, what you did isn't going to be mitigated by how many people know about this place. It’s a national treasure..."

              "I agree. It’s a national treasure. But not many people have heard of this place. We have. And do you want to know how we heard? Because Buchanan was gay. I got the impression that your staff doesn’t like to hear about that. But it’s true.

 
             "We travelled two thousand miles from San Francisco to be here today. To be in the home of the gay ex-president. I'll admit we became a little overcome and we apologise. But if you send us to the police it becomes a by-line about perverts in the local media. On the other hand if you let us go, you can go to the press. You can go to the press and let them know about the peculiar numbers of gay people coming to the house. You can say the place has become like a gay pilgrimage.

              "It won't take long before that word is out. And believe me when I say, if this place gets a reputation as being somewhere the gays have to visit, you'll be dealing with 20,000 people a week."

              There was a momentary silence as Jake concluded. The manger looked him up and down. He stroked his bald head.

              "Do you know what that would do to your budget? 20,000 a week?"

              "I could still do this and have you arrested. Having you arrested is proof for the papers. The word would still get out." Money, wow, money, I thought to myself, amazed the manager was taking Jake seriously.

              "Then the by-line is about how intolerant you are to the gays. It won't work. It will scare people off."

              Five minutes later we were driving away from Wheatland. Free men. Jake still jubilant, me a little rattled. I wondered if Buchanan's ghost had indeed seen us, and if he approved of Jake.

32.
As we drove on, and after Jake 's loud hoots to celebrate his victory over the backward bigoted man had died down, I mentioned the picture of Lincoln which I'd noticed. Jake didn't seem fazed by this, suggesting Buchanan had had a crush on him. The long beard and the height of Lincoln might have been considered very attractive at the time.

              I didn't buy this explanation. Surely an ex-President wants nothing more than to be remembered well in history. An admiration of Lincoln seemed to suggest to me a sadness on Buchanan's part. A disappointment that he could not achieve the success of his illustrious successor. A fatalistic acceptance.

              "Perhaps they were boyfriends," Jake joked. "Abe spent a few years sharing a bed with a man. He hated women. He used to write loving letters to his male friends."

              "Lincoln was gay too?" I tried to sound sarcastic, but ended up sounding extremely interested.

              "Who knows. It’s like the argument people have about ancient Greeks. They acted gay. But they didn't know what homosexuality was. So we often say they weren't gay. Back around the civil war they probably didn't know what it was either. Maybe Lincoln did things that we'd called a bit gay now. And he wouldn't do them now because of that. But at the time it was just the way he was."

              "So you think there's a chance?"

              "Of course I do. I think there's a chance anyone is gay." Jake said. "Though that kind of thinking doesn't get you anywhere. If anyone can be gay, what does being gay mean? What does that make you and me?"

              "Open and honest I suppose."

              "Ever slept with a girl?"

              "Sure, in school." I lied.

              "Does that make you bisexual or straight?"

              "No. Just stupid."

              "Well if we're going to let you get away with such macho straight behaviour, we can forgive straight people a few feminine traits."

              "I think you don't like the idea that we're all a shade of grey." I said. "It offends you somehow. You think it denigrates your being gay if everyone is bisexual."

              "No.” Jake said. “I just think its not very useful talk. If everyone is a shade of grey, if everyone is bisexual, then what’s the need for terms like gay and straight?"

 
             "Exactly. That’s what a lot of people would like to see, an end to those definitions. We can go back to Greek times when everyone slept with the people they loved and that was considered normal."

              "Fine." Jake said. "Bring it on. But until such time forgive me for believing we won't roll back two and a half thousand years of western history tomorrow. Saying everyone is bisexual is just too close to saying gay and straight are the same thing. But they're not the same thing. And we know they're not the same thing."

              "I think that’s a healthy way of thinking." I said. "Too many people try to segregate the two as though homosexuality is a new gender. Surely saying we're all the same is exactly what every gay man should be doing. We should encourage that thinking."