Spring was never waiting for us, girl
It ran one step ahead
As we followed in the dance
Between the parted pages and were pressed,
In love's hot, fevered iron
Like a striped pair of pants.
(McArthur Park – Richard Harris)

Quickly, he ducked to dodge a glob of Crisco and shit propelled in his direction—a close call. A doubt clouded his emerald eyes, but he remained nonplussed by the hand-balling fallout. Moments later, he tiptoed outside the room thinking of Gordon and him having seen quieter times.

Mr. Deluxe went to their room—it was out of bounds for sex, their rule—and lackadaisically combed his red hair before the mirror while pondering causes and options. He would sit out of this one. They could dog each other good for all that he cared. The abandon of their sexual guest, a young cub suspended in the sling set up in the living room made Deluxe reminisce and feel rather frustrated. Having been a destitute orphan didn’t mean he should forever roll over and take it, no matter what had gotten into his master’s head. Granted, the cub ‘du jour’ was a jaw-dropper, but Deluxe understood well how relative age is. Gordon’s pace had started ticking faster in the weeks since his fourty fifth birthday; summer had only added brio to this urgent biological metronome. He was the strong silent type but he used to pamper Deluxe—or D. as he used to call him affectionately—more regularly. D. didn’t ask for much, only some TLC. Maybe it was Gordon’s diagnosis so late in life that was making him change—Deluxe was not judgmental about infections; he prided himself in having a good grasp of the human psyche.

However, events seem to spiral down in the following weeks. After putting long hours hauling luggage at the airport tarmac, Gordon would come back to the apartment and tired as he was, tired of work and from nausea and vomiting from the pills ingested, he would obsess over sex. D. sighed and stretched as if it were none of his business. Pity had never been his strong suit. “You don’t care—do you?” Gordon muttered. “As long as you have food to eat.” Pity wasn’t, but, jealousy was D’s weakness and that very evening his jealousy was stoked when Gordon sprinted to the corner store. D. though it would finally be a quiet evening shared by the two of them and had waited by the window until he saw Gordon striding heavily up the street with a scrubby type in tow—tall, lanky, high military boots, worn out fatigues, and the greasiest tank top. At the corner, they stopped; they seemed to be negotiating. By the time they came in, D. was sitting on the ripped leather sling; a mischievous look in his eyes. The evening came to a screeching halt.

An eastern parade of Duracell fuck-bunnies later, Javeed, the Egyptian sphinx appeared in their lives. Both Gordon and D’s first impressions shifted quickly. Although not as young as his predecessors, or as energetic, Javeed was oddly charming in his wrinkled khakis, worn out loafers, an T-shirts with tiny lizards on them. On one of his visits Javeed shyly mentioned his “career” in the “health care industry”. “Doing what?” spat Gordon dryly. Javeed hesitated more than usual and whispered in his thick accent, “Er—orderly.” Gordon burped and yawned, and so did D.—they could do that on cue—and without further ado Gordon turned Javeed around by the neck to fuck him again but he resisted. They had run out of rubbers. Gordon rolled up his eyes, withdrew, slapped some clothes on and took off to the corner store, huffing.

In the few minutes that Javeed was left alone with D. in the apartment, instead of hoovering any remnants of Crystal as any of the others would have done, Javeed picked out an old record from a stack in a corner of the living room and played a scratchy tune.

There will be another song for me
For I will sing it
There will be another dream for me
Someone will bring it
I will drink the wine while it is warm
And never let you catch me looking at the sun
And after all the loves of my life
After all the loves of my life
You'll still be the one.

D. had lots to do with the scratchings in that vinyl. Their eyes met as they silently listened to a bit of past glory spinning. Gordon yanked the needle from the turning table. He had come back dragging in a squeegee boy and introduced him as Pete. The kid, barely seventeen, made a beeline for the little mirror and bent over to snort a couple of leftover lines. Javeed saddened and soon after he left claiming he had a nightshift at the hospital. D. felt dismayed. Oddly, Javeed had kept on coming over and D. had taken a liking to him but Gordon seemed not to care one way or the other—“He can take a mean ride, this Javeed boy,” he said to D. disdainfully. “I’ll give him that.” But Deluxe knew Gordon, and he had overhead them having one or two good conversations.

The same night, a Saturday night, after Javeed had gone and the squeegee boy had climbed up on the patched up sling, like a monkey on a tree, Gordon didn’t stop bingeing. More nose candy was produced and they partied on. Gordon got on line, sending and receiving messages, exchanging photos of implausible erections and body twisters—among them, one snapshot of D. playing with a Gerbil that D. thought of as a tad tawdry. One or two hours later, two Germanic king-size types and a Chihuahua shaking like a vibrator came over, at around ten. “Shit, there’s enough meat on those two to feed that wretched dog better,” reflected Deluxe. Gordon checked the goods. Tiny. His disappointment was evident. The Germanic boys seemed to want to stay, Gordon was a hot looking leather man, the squeegee monkey on the sling could be removed, and D. . . well, who is to judge? They were a couple pussies themselves. On-line, they had said they were tops, but they all say that, and Gordon was used to stepping up to the plate. “Uh. Uh. It’s the gym drugs,” huffed one of them while looking at his endowment with a zigzagging smile. There was a probation period. Five minutes. They couldn’t perform and Gordon sent them packing unceremoniously. At this point the nose candy made them peak and a sort of desperate frenzy galvanized the room. D. decided to maximize his options and dragged out a serious dildo in between his teeth. He sauntered into the living room with a docile expression in his face. Quick on the uptake, Gordon shoved it up the squeegee’s, where the sun doesn’t shine.

It was two in the morning by the time they realized there was trouble. The dildo had no handle and would not slide out. Gordon got enough presence of mind to swap his leather chaps for 501s and throw a T-shirt over his heavy harness. “We’re going to St. Paul’s,” he decided. D. was pacing, worried, and Gordon kicked him. The squeegee remained plunked on the couch smiling idiotically until Gordon pushed him towards the door. Deluxe had barely a second to act. His master and the smiling squeegee had almost made it out the door when D. managed to slide past them with a concerned expression and wanting to make it clear that he was coming along too. Gordon cussed and slammed the door shut. At the top of the stairs, Gordon tried to kick D. out of the way again; a fateful move. D. grabbed his foot making all three of them tumble down the stairs. The kid began to laugh hysterically. He was okay but Gordon and D. were hurt.

Disapproving neighbours peeked out of their doors. Symphony, the transgendered manager came over with a sour face and helped them to the lobby to wait for the taxi. Gordon had D. firmly locked under one arm, and the squeegee kid under the other, he was fuming. Directions to St. Paul’s were tersely given, once they had all jammed into the back seat of the Yellow Cab. In the short ride, D. lost his poise and, as he struggled with Gordon, he got caught in the turban of the East Indian driver. The car swerved dangerously a couple of times, there was cussing and a screech; chaos reigned for a minute. Gordon quickly helped the driver disentangle the cloth from his eyes so he could see the road, and he shook D. hard, and slapped the squeegee even harder but this didn’t stop him from laughing hysterically. On they went, racing down the street. At the E.R. entrance, Gordon had to tip an extra fifteen dollars to the livid cab driver for a five dollar ride.

They huddled in a dilapidated banquette at the hectic waiting room under the stern gaze of a Nurse Ratched and a burly security guard whose blue uniform was almost bursting at the seams. Aha! D. recognized him. It was one of the Germanics. By then, the impaled kid was moaning and contorting so loudly that the burly guard came, grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him down hard on the seat to shut him up. The squeegee had another orgasm—“My stars! They are horned-up all the time,” Deluxe mused. “Why not spade them?—It’s the sensible thing to do.”

When they finally made it through the triage station, the squeegee kid with the implanted hard-on got diverted to be put under to have his pleasure removed. Gordon and D. were sent to Fast-Track where the nurses, much to D’s amazement, complained about his presence. It took an hour for the night shift doctor to show up. It was Javeed! Their interview was awkward, but D’s eyes widened. He reclined on the stretcher, next to Gordon, looking catatonic, upping the dramatic ante. In terse words, Javeed and Gordon discussed the injury, not a word about their previous acquaintance was exchanged—the famed gay code of silence, D. surmised—and then they discussed Deluxe’s future as if he weren’t in the room. D. was used to this. “I can take care of my pussy,” sneered Gordon. D. rolled up his eyes. “Really? Said Javeed calmly. Only if I look after your broken ankle.” D. blinked twice—their eyes met again and D. saw a flicker in those Egyptian eyes. Javeed left and D.’s heart sank but the doctor kept on coming back throughout the night. Still, no pain killers were ordered. It was a showdown. Two hours later. “Can you take it as hard as you give it?” asked Javeed point blank. “Try me,” was the master’s response. “No promises though—you know, nothing ventured . . .” At the break of dawn, a hard deal was struck inside, and a nurse came with a shot of Demoral.

For weeks, Deluxe stayed with Javeed and they were both visited by Gordon who reported his progress: no more late nights, squeegees, or Crystal. Gordon shook most of his old habits, except the sling. Then, they shared D’s custody on the days that Javeed had to do his residency shifts at St. Paul’s. About six months later the three of them began to share a bed. Mr. Deluxe lived to be twenty, in a spacious apartment near the park. His coat was brushed so frequently that he almost got no hair balls. In his twilight years, he developed a slight addiction to Fancy Feast.

I will take my life into my hands and I will use it
I will win the worship in their eyes and I will lose it
I will have the things that I desire
And my passion flow like rivers through the sky.
And after all the loves of my life
After all the loves of my life
I'll be thinking of you
And wondering why.

 

©2003 Francisco Ibáñez-Carrasco - Contributor's Bio