Daddies, page 7
It was always a one-way street, and I easily convinced myself that was the way it should have been. You were, after all, the mature one, the famous one, the friend of William Burroughs, the Dad. You even took me places—the Thalia for some boring French movie, a reading at the New School featuring a friend of yours whose pretentious poetry put me quickly to sleep, prompting a poke in the ribs. It was only later that I realized you might have viewed me, when taking me out in public, not as a protégé but as an ornament, a conquest.
But mostly what we did was have sex, and whenever we had sex, it was all about you. It got so I didn’t care. If I lost my hard-on, if I didn’t even have the urge to jack off when I got home, well, that’s the way it went. There must have been something about the whole arrangement that kept me coming back to you.
After a couple of months, my co-op job was over and it was time for me to head back to college. The last time I saw you, you might have chosen to leave me with some words of wisdom, a mantra, an existentialist bon mot. But the last thing you said to me was, “Don’t tell anybody about this, okay?” Odd, since we’d been seen together in public. Maybe you didn’t want anyone on the college circuit to know that you were being blown by students. Or maybe you wanted to be the only one who had scored a trophy.
You did give me a copy of your newest book, though. Personally inscribed.
Back at college, I did in fact tell Steiner—and a few other guys—about what had passed between you and me. I didn’t broadcast it widely, though. No offense, but let’s face it: you and your load had nowhere near the cachet of Ginsberg and his.
You never did reappear at Antioch, and after a while of occasionally jacking off to memories of me sucking your selfish dick, you were mostly forgotten in my ongoing saga of new adventures, new drugs, new books, new sex.
Our paths didn’t cross again till I’d dropped out of college and moved to San Francisco. I was living in a commune in the Western Addition, and it turned out you were the leader of another commune, a big-deal one in the Haight.
I went over one sunny October afternoon, and you were holding court in your bedroom, visibly a little older, with a full beard instead of a goatee, seated cross-legged on an elevated platform bed surrounded by piles of books, garish Hindu posters hanging on the walls. The Dream Machine stood in a corner, draped in beads. My beatnik Daddy had, it seemed, become a hippie. “Times change,” the I Ching says, “and with them their demands.”
We talked for a while, catching up, but I found myself, rather surprisingly, getting really hungry for Dad’s dick. I stood by the edge of the bed and reached over to your crotch. Through the flimsy tie-dyed fabric of your baggy pants, I felt the rising heat of your stiffening dick. Father, I thought. Father. I didn’t dare say it, though.
You spoke, instead. “Let me suck you off,” you said. Surprised but not displeased, I climbed the little ladder beside the bed and lay back on the Indian-print bedspread. Your familiar, funky smell mixed with the ghost of incense. You deftly undid the fly of my bell-bottoms and fished out my dick. “My,” you said, “so big.” You licked the swollen head. “So big.” And you wrapped your old man’s lips around my young cock.
You were a great cocksucker, Arvin. Technically excellent, but also, well…spiritually devoted. I can still remember it, how you sucked me as though my penis was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that mattered in the whole wide universe. It was, at the risk of sounding ridiculous, a beautiful thing.
You pulled my patched jeans down to midleg, began licking my thighs, working your way up, kissing and sucking my balls, then between my legs to my asshole—“O delicious portal of decay” you’d phrased it in a poem—and when I was thoroughly squirming with delight, you moved back to my cock and, with businesslike precision, sucked out every drop of my sperm.
Oh, Daddy.
But when you looked up at me, licking your lips, a dribble of my cum in your beard, there were tears in your eyes. I was seriously taken aback. Fuck, was this one of those times when a son was supposed to comfort his father?
“What’s wrong?” I finally asked, pulling my pants up.
“I’m dying,” you said. “Cancer.”
I must have said something stupid and inadequate, like “I’m sorry.” I really don’t remember the rest of that visit.
When I got back home, though, I told my commune-mate Danny—the one who’d told me about you, where you were, how you were kind of, well, full of yourself—what you’d said.
“Oh god,” he said. “The death thing again. A few months ago it was diabetes, then heart disease, now cancer. For someone who’s supposedly so Zen, Arvin sure does spend a lot of his time being a hypochondriac.”
That made me feel better, relieved.
But only a couple of months later, you were dead. Cancer.
I went to the memorial service in Golden Gate Park, along with hundreds of other folks. Hippies, some of them on acid, some of them in drag. Other men, the Beat ones, mostly older, in secondhand suits or black turtlenecks. Ginsberg showed up, reading a poem in which he referred to you as “the holy father of us all.” I know, I thought. I know. I didn’t go up to Ginsberg, introduce myself, though I kind of wondered if he remembered sucking Steiner’s dick.
As I left your memorial, I found myself wishing I’d sucked your cock one more time. That hard, selfish, enlightened little dick. Daddy dick.
Hari Om Namah Shivaya and all that.
They’re almost all gone now, the Beat Generation. Kerouac and Ginsberg, of course. Burroughs, Whalen, Spicer, gone. A lot of those early hippies dead, as well…especially the queer ones.
My father died years ago. Cancer, too. But I, like Ishmael, have survived. So far; I’m getting up there in years myself.
I hadn’t even thought of you recently, but today I was in City Lights and spotted a copy of your last book, the one published posthumously, Cosmicock. Yes, Arvin, I already owned it, but, on impulse, I bought a second copy.
And I brought it home to my little house way out in the Avenues, where I spend most nights sitting and listening to the sound of foghorns and waves, working on my fourth novel. I still throw hexagrams, read the I Ching. I no longer believe, but I still do it.
And in the corner of my room sits the Dream Machine that you left me, unexpectedly, in your will. Sometimes, even still, I turn it on. I did just tonight, watching the universe swirling behind my eyes. Then I masturbated, thinking of you, of your insistent, arrogant, almost-famous dick.
Daddy-O.
Daddy.
Dad.
MOVING PAST PERFECT
Elazarus Wills
Marc put out the word discreetly at first. Emails and brief letters to friends in the business. Quiet conversations over the phone late at night. He thought that he was ready, but he discovered himself still tentative. Finding the right person would be difficult. Sitting on the south-facing deck with his laptop, looking out over a grove of shimmering spring aspens, he wrote and rewrote a posting for the websites where the right person might see it.
Upscale resort ranch/conference center in the scenic mountains of Colorado seeks manager. Exclusively gay/lesbian clientele. Live-in position requires knowledge of quality food service, restaurant and/or hotel management, and great people skills. Energetic, upbeat person a must.
Energetic, upbeat person… Marc wondered if he wasn’t just describing Douglas. Happy-all-the-time Douglas. Douglas, whose unwavering light had always kept his own darkness in perspective. A hawk sailed by a few hundred feet away just above the treetops, its wings nearly rigid, body tipping slightly from side to side as it adjusted to the shifting mountain breezes. A light fog nestled in the valley floor below, obscuring the ranch’s hay meadows. Marc’s attention drifted. Shit. He closed the laptop, and taking his coffee cup in hand, went to the deck’s rustic railing.
Douglas had died three years before, at about this same time of the year, his little Cessna disintegrating against the face of a mountain peak on a flight south to Durango. Daring Douglas who always flew too low, following rivers and threading canyons. Taking one chance too many on the treacherous mountain downdrafts. Beautiful Douglas who thought he was a fucking bird, who had once claimed in a drunken moment standing naked, balanced on this very railing, to have been one in a former incarnation. Marc watched the hawk recede into the distance. Maybe his lover of twenty-five years was avian once more. He raised his cup in salute.
After Douglas’s death much of the daily joy had gone out of running Hunter Mountain Conference Center. Sometimes it took an effort of will just to get out of bed in the morning. Something had to change. He could sell this place, the two hundred fifty acres of aspen groves, spruce, horse trails, hayfields, and the lodge and cabins that he and Douglas had built together, and move on. Or he could hire someone to run it while he achieved some distance and time for thought.
The emails and phone calls began within days of the ad being posted. Some of the applicants immediately withdrew after being told of the forty miles between Hunter Mountain and the nearest small town. Others, when told that they would need to commit to staying over the winter when the lodge was accessible only by snowmobile, snowshoes, or skis. “Sorry, that sounds way too much like The Shining for me,” one California B&B manager said. “I still like my weekends. All work and no play--you know.”
“I know,” Marc said.
Then there were the dreamers, the unqualified, and the qualified but something off about them people. The straight people who “got along fine with gay folks.” Right… There was a wonderful lesbian from Albuquerque who had even lived in the area and had once visited Hunter Mountain. Marc arranged to meet her in Boulder to talk contract, but the night before she called to say she was taking over an artist’s retreat near Taos.
“Sudden thing. Closer to home. Sorry. You know how it is,” she apologized.
“I know,” Marc said. Sudden thing.
Logan Farmer had mailed Marc a neat if thin resume, which sat for weeks in the possibles stack. He glanced at it every other day. Too young, he thought, only twenty-four years old. Three years out of college and restaurant-hotel management school (a good one) and had held three jobs during those three years. Responsible positions, glowing references from all, but still, a kid finding his footing. And there was the picture paper-clipped to the resume. Logan was much too beautiful, with thick black hair, full lips, and a strong nose. He looked like an ad for a European modeling agency—or a wet dream. Marc had gotten hard just from looking at the picture, and he was tempted to do something stupid. Like call him. The resume was rotated once more to the bottom of the rapidly dwindling stack.
Shaving in the mornings, he focused more closely on his aging self: slim, fit, but with chestnut hair graying along the sides and at the temple. He looked like a college professor, serious and distinguished. Distinguished. He remembered himself and Douglas in their twenties, laughing at what they had perceived as the terminal unhipness of older men. And now he had become one of those men.
On the August morning that Logan showed up unannounced, the fog sat thickly on the mountain. From the main deck of the lodge, with visibility limited to less than fifty feet, nearby spruce and aspen had a ghostlike aspect. Marc had just cleaned up from breakfast. It had just been himself and Frank, the handyman and horse wrangler, and Frank’s wife Martha, the housekeeper and cook. Marc had just returned to the deck from the kitchen when he saw a figure at the railing, someone who must have come up the twisting flight of rustic steps from the parking lot. The man turned and it was Logan Farmer.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Logan said, approaching with hand extended. “Well, not really, but I thought it would be worth the trip to see the place in person. And meet you—in person.”
“Young Mr. Farmer,” Marc managed to say. “Meet me?” If Logan had been beautiful in the photo, he was a force of nature in person. Slightly taller than Marc with a body to match the face, exuding absolute confidence.
“I read the book you and Douglas wrote about your lives here.” Logan’s eyes were big and warm. Eyes that invited the sharing of confidences.
“Ahh, the book,” Marc said and sat into a padded wicker chair. “Not many people did. Who wants to read about two fags taking to the woods?”
“Other fags. I read it when I was seventeen, and I immediately knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to work at the Hunter Mountain Center,” Logan said. He sat across from Marc and looked around the deck. “My god, this is a dream!” He suddenly looked even younger, and Marc thought about what he yearned to do the most: hug Logan or fuck him.
“Well,” Marc said. “You are here.”
“Yes, I am,” Logan replied, leaning forward, hands under his chin and elbows on the table. A calculated pose, Marc thought. “So hire me.” Logan’s grin got a little wider.
“Why should I?” Marc asked. He turned his face away from Logan, eyes gazing out into the fog. Presenting a profile. He knew he had a good profile. Captain Ahab, his jaw set against the storm.
“Because I’ll have the passion, the fire. Like you and Douglas used to have.” Logan’s eyes grew fierce and his smile metamorphosed into a beautiful challenge. “I won’t just manage Hunter Mountain for you, I’ll take it forward, create, promote, expand… This place was a sanctuary and an inspiration.”
“Was?” Marc spoke tonelessly to the ghosts of the trees.
“Was. With Douglas gone, things are slacking off. Everyone is saying that. I’m here to wake you up.” It was a statement, nothing that invited discussion.
“You assume that I want to wake up. Maybe I just need sleep without dreams.”
Then Logan was on his feet and moving around the table, leaning down and pressing his lips to Marc’s. It was a fierce, insistent kiss. An irresistible kiss, or perhaps, Marc thought, he simply lacked the energy or will to resist. He allowed Logan to draw him to his feet. His tongue met Logan’s, one hand sliding through the younger man’s hair. Logan’s right hand fingertips pressed Marc’s sternum, not really a sexual contact but one that seemed intensely intimate to Marc, so much that he pulled away.
“You are—too young,” he said, his breath shaking as he inhaled.
“Bullshit. You’re just afraid.”
“I do want you—very much.”
“I know you do.” Logan pressed a hip against Marc’s erection. “I want you, too. Hire me. Fuck me, too. Probably not right now though.” He moved away and sat back down. “Think about it. Both things. Can I have some coffee?” Marc stared at him for a long moment and began to laugh. Then he went and got coffee.
They talked into the afternoon, kept talking as Logan fixed everyone an impressive dinner from foodstuffs at hand complemented with apricots and cherries grown near where he was currently working, an environmental conference center at Snow-mass. Martha, who was usually critical of men in the kitchen, even Marc, stood aside for Logan’s charm and helped when she saw a need. While he worked, Logan kept up an easy banter that included everyone, even crusty old Frank. By bedtime Marc was entirely convinced that Logan would make a perfect manager for Hunter Mountain despite his age and the complications posed by his own inappropriate sexual attraction to the young man. Inappropriate? Why was it inappropriate? “Life makes its offer,” Douglas would have said. “Refusing is an option, but it’s bad manners toward the gods.”
It was confirmed that Logan would stay the night and they would talk further about the job in the morning. Marc showed him to a room, noting that he had brought a well-equipped overnight bag.
Marc woke a little after midnight by the bedside clock. He was wide awake with a craving for something sweet. He tugged on a pair of loose sweatpants, stepped into the hallway, quietly shut his door behind him, and padded barefoot down the hall toward the kitchen. Rounding the corner by the meditation chapel, he slammed into a solid, naked body: Logan. They ended up in a tangle on the tile floor.
“That was certainly a surprise,” Marc said.
“Surprise,” Logan echoed.
“You’re not wearing any clothing.”
“No, I’m not. I was planning on soaking in the hot tub out on the deck,” Logan said. A boyish giggle. “I was carrying a towel.”
“Maybe I’ll join you.” The greenish-blue light from a nearly full moon was coming through a window of the great room. One of the dogs was barking.
“Please,” Logan said. He stood and pulled Marc to his feet.
Outside on the deck, the August air had a bite, reminding Marc that it was less than a month before the first light snows would fall. Logan helped set the insulated hot tub cover aside, and the two men slid into the water, Marc removing his sweatpants first, aware that Logan knew he had an erection. Logan’s cock was also hard, bouncing against his stomach as he sat down, as perfect as the rest of him, uncut, not too anything, and beautiful. Marc’s own was above average and nearly as thick as the “diameter of a golf ball.” Douglas’s description. An uncivilized cock, large with lumps and bulging veins.
“I can’t take that. It’s as big around as fucking golf ball,” Douglas had said their first time, letting it lay across the palm of his hand. But then he had taken it, loved and worshipped it, and its owner—for more than twenty years.
“Come—here.” Logan splashed the flat of one hand on top of the water beside him.
“If I’m going to hire you, should we be doing this?” But Marc joined Logan.
“No, it’s a pretty damned bad idea,” Logan said, planting a palm in the fork of Marc’s crotch, cupping his balls, a fingertip pressed against the smoothly shaved opening of his ass. “As young as I am, even I know that.”
“Touché,” Marc said through gritted teeth.
They sat for a while, lazily caressing one another, kissing, nuzzling the hollows of necks, inserting fingers and withdrawing them under the warm water. A mist of water vapor rose about their heads. Once, Logan submerged his head completely and took all of the circumference and a full half of Marc’s length into his mouth. He managed ten strokes before coming up. Marc counted, and by the end of the tenth was on the verge of coming, that teetering point when balance, control, and rational thought are lost. Logan must have sensed this. He emerged, even more stunning with his head sleek and wet. He shook his head, his raven hair long enough to propel moonlit droplets in all directions.
