Strange Twilight Urges

"You find him . . .attractive now, don't you?"
"Not really."
"What do you mean 'Not really'? He's good-looking, isn't he?"
"Well yes in a kind of 'standard' way. I just don't find him attracive."
"But you'd do it with him, right?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Oh I know he's not gay, but what if you had the chance."
"No."
And then he chuckled softly. Robert always seemed to be chuckling softly Slyly even. Slyness was his stock-in-trade. Or so he thought. He didn't think I knew what he was up to. Or rather he pretended not to think I knew what he was up to. For there he was, sizing up Billy Cowsill of all people. Billy was a big open-faced sandwich of white Americana. With his family's music career slipping into eclipse (soon to be obscured forever by the fictional version created when they declined to "come to terms" with the production company -- thus extended Shirley Jones' carerr and unleashing Danny Bonaduce on an unsuspecting world) Pace was a nice place for Billy. Not for me. And certainly not for Robert -- restless as bi-polar Siamese cat.

Robert was certainly attractive. Far more so than Billy. The floppy brown hair. The clear skin with tight well-proportioned facial features. A nice body, as far as I could tell (never saw him naked, or even shirtless.) The turn-off was his manner. He was trouble. Big trouble. I didn't trust him "from here to the door." He knew it. And he liked it. If he hadn't existed Patricia Highsmith would have invented him. Or Paul Bowles. Gay as Hell, but would rather die than admit it. But instead of deny outright he changed the subject. It was always "but let's talk about you." And in talking about me Robert could talk about himself.

I rarely notice people anymore. Why did I give him a second glance? Maybe it was where he was sitting. In the back. Looking forward. His face not blank exactly, or false "expectant." Just interesting. So I sat in the side seat for a good view, my sunglass clips firmly fixed (Anouk Aimee at CostCo.) It could have been his physical disposition. He didn't slouch. A maroon pullover over a white T. Blewjeans (as Zazie would say.) Close-cropped brown Protestant rat-fur (hair) and close-cropped beard (like mine) About, oh late 20's? Can't really tell anymore. Definitely young enough to be my son if I were straight (an ever-expanding category of male loveliness.) Uh, oh -- there's something in his hand. It's a phone. (Crap!) He holds it nervously, occasionally glancing at it. Just as we pull up to Santa Monica and Fairfax he makes a call. No one there so he leaves a message. Considers another call then changes his mind. As he gets off the bus he gives me a quick glance. Had he noticed me all this time? Difficult to say. Where is he going? Impossible to say. 20 years ago it would have been to the Spike. Now -- who knows? The louche magnificence that was once Santa Monica blvd has vanished. Nondescript yuppie emporiums and Russian emigre foodshops now reign. Jumping into the Wayback Machine




I follow him into the Spike. We eye each other for a half an hour. He sips a beer, I a gin and tonic. Then we sidle up. He takes me back to his place. I peel off the maroon pullover, the T, pull down his Blewjeans and have at him -- and he me. Lovely.

We never see each other again.

The whitest body I've ever seen. White like the page in Mallarme. White like the figure the looms up at the close of Poe's The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. The hair was white too. Long. cascading. But it was the smile you saw first. Do I remember his body moving at all. It seemed to just be there. Present. Glacial. The Prince Albert was a nice touch. But it was the white, the white. So white you couldn't see his cum when he came. The sound of his sigh so soft. He melts into memory like a cloud floating over the WeHo sky.