Pursuit, p.12
Drag Queen (Robert Rodi Essentials), page 12
Too late to do anything about it now.
She cast her eyes heavenward and thought, This is the last straw, you fucker. I’m serious! Almighty or not, you get the flying fuck off my back!
22
“Simon, I’m cold,” whined Mitchell.
“Be there any second.”
“I don’t know why I couldn’t have worn a shirt.”
“Shirts aren’t allowed.”
“I could’ve taken it off when we arrived.”
“I know you. You wouldn’t have.”
They continued for a few moments in a silence broken only by the clatter of their boot heels. Mitchell gathered his suitcoat around him and shivered; it was the only thing of his own he had on. Everything else belonged to Simon. “I thought leather was supposed to be warm,” he complained. “No one ever mentions it turns all clammy when the temperature drops.”
“Mitch, for Christ’s sake,” said Simon, spreading his bare arms wide and letting the brisk midnight wind embrace his near-naked, leather-strafed chest. “It can’t be a fucking degree lower than sixty.”
“Like I said: cold.” He looked around him at the massing of broken-windowed warehouses. “How much farther, anyway?”
“Almost there.” More clattering bootsteps.
“Why couldn’t we have parked closer?”
“Illegal. Look, shut up, will you?” He pulled ahead of Mitchell and gave him a stern look. “Making me regret this already. Like taking along a five-year-old.”
“Glad to hear that’s not a normal practice.”
“In here,” he snarled, and he led Mitchell down a flight of stairs and through a darkened doorway.
“Oh, God,” said Mitchell, following him into a dim corridor that smelled sharply of mildew. “What am I doing here? This is my absolute worst nightmare.”
Simon laughed derisively. “I lived with you, remember? I know your worst nightmare.” He turned a corner—barely visible in the dimness. “The one about waking up in your mother’s body, isn’t it?”
Mitchell stopped short. “You said you’d never mention that again! I told you in a moment of weakness!”
Simon laughed again and kept walking. Mitchell decided he’d better follow, or God knew whether he’d be seen alive again.
“How long are these corridors?” he asked a little further on, as he felt his way along a wall. “I can’t even see my hand in front of my face.”
“Nearly there. Be a mensch.”
Not two minutes later, he followed Simon’s footsteps around another corner and was faced with yet another flight of stairs. Simon’s left boot was just disappearing beyond the first landing. He dashed after it, and when he arrived at the top, he found himself in a cavernous warehouse, its ceiling thirty feet above him and its walls crowded with wooden cradles—presumably for boats. Outside, he could hear the lapping and rush of the river.
Through the hazy, mote-laden light, he spotted Simon just a few feet ahead, and raced to join him. They were immediately approached by a tall, stocky black man in a revealing leather ensemble that made him look like a cross between Cupid and Batman. “Simonnn,” he said, as though this were the satisfying answer to a particularly thorny question. Then he kissed Simon passionately, nearly impaling his throat on his tongue. After ending this clinch, he said, “Hell are you doing popping up this end of the club?”
Simon grinned. “Brought a new recruit who’s got a little too much attitude. Took him the long way around to scare some respect into him.”
The black man laughed, then extended his arm. “Welcome, handsome. Pernell’s the name.”
Mitchell, seething at Simon’s duplicity, forced himself to smile and shake Pernell’s hand. “Pleasure,” he said through clenched teeth.
Pernell fingered the sleeve of Mitchell’s suitcoat. “Have to check that, I’m afraid.”
Mitchell crossed his arms and tightened it around him.
“Oh, come on,” said Pernell, “we’re all brothers here. Let me help you.” He scooted behind Mitchell just long enough to firmly—but gently—slip the jacket from his shoulders. Mitchell, who wore nothing underneath but jeans, leather chaps, and a leather choker, felt naked and ridiculous, and shot another withering glare at Simon, who appeared to be enjoying the spectacle out of all proportion.
Pernell folded the jacket over his arm and said, “There, now, not so bad, is it?” And without a word of warning, he reached out and tweaked Mitchell’s right nipple so hard that Mitchell actually screamed.
Pernell and Simon both laughed uproariously. Then Pernell said, “Just take this for you, shall I? You two have fun, now!” He winked at Mitchell and sauntered away.
Mitchell, who still hadn’t gotten over the passion of Pernell’s greeting, asked Simon, “So, is that this week’s boyfriend?”
“Who, Pernell? Hell, no. He only wants frottage.” He chuckled. “Remind me of you.”
Mitchell turned to hurl a mouthful of invective at him, but before he could do so he made out whitish, lumpy forms, up and down the length of the warehouse. There was something familiar about the way they moved; something rhythmic, yet abandoned—something desperately erotic. Then he heard the moaning.
“Oh, my God,” he said, suddenly hoarse. “My God, Simon. This is an orgy. You’ve brought me to an orgy.”
“ ‘Course it’s an orgy,” said Simon with amused derision. “What did you think we did here? Analyzed geopolitical trends? Swapped recipes?”
Mitchell re-crossed his arms over his naked chest. “I have to leave immediately. I can’t have anything to do with this.”
Simon shook his head and sighed. “I wish you could see what a female attitude that is. We’re men, Mitch. We have carnal desires; why not satisfy them here where everything’s stripped down to just that? What makes you think every fuck has to be the chaser to dinner and a movie?”
“I—want—to—leave—now.”
Simon pursed his lips. “Fine. Go find Pernell. He’ll give you back your jacket and show you out. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. So to speak.” And he stamped off.
Mitchell made his way tentatively across the warehouse, to the murky blob into which he thought he’d seen Pernell disappear. As he moved through it, entering another corridor, he could just see, all around him, men, naked but for straps and belts and harnesses, thrusting and plowing and grinding and bucking. And the noise! A low-level cacophony of pleas and pants, of breathy cries of encouragement, of begging sobs to desist—a kind of anarchic symphony of desire.
“Pernell?” he half whispered. “Is Pernell here? Pernell?”
Occasionally someone stroked his leg or grabbed his ass, which caused him to jump like a cicada. He passed through an antechamber where a couple of guys were letting it all hang out on some otherwise innocent looking swings; Mitchell quickened his pace when they softly called out to him, “Hey! Hey you.”
Soon he found himself in a room where two bathtubs had been set up in the middle of the floor; in one of these he saw a leather-cinched man standing and urinating on a leather-hatted man beneath him. As shocked as he was, Mitchell’s immediate thought was of the exorbitant cleaning bill.
He’d had enough. He turned abruptly to go back to the main drag of the warehouse, and plowed right into someone’s furry, rock-hard chest. “Sorry,” he said, and tried to slip to the side.
But the man grabbed him, yanked him by the hair (nearly giving him whiplash), and started kissing him in a way Mitchell had never been kissed before—as though this guy was starving and Mitchell’s face was a great big artichoke leaf.
Mitchell tried to wriggle away, but the man was too strong. It was more than a minute before he released his grip on Mitchell’s hair.
“There—mustbe—somemistake,” Mitchell gasped, pushing himself away from his assailant’s chest. He could then, in what little light was available, ascertain that the guy had long, blond hair and was rather beautiful—like a broken-nosed Christopher Lambert.
This revelation caused Mitchell’s resistance to weaken for the merest moment; but as soon as it did, the man sneered in recognition of it. Taking Mitchell’s entire head in his two great hands, he forced him to his knees, and directed Mitchell’s mouth to an area where Mitchell had never previously allowed it to stray on anyone to whom he hadn’t at least been properly introduced.
“Oh, my Gahhugnk,” he said, as he was made to get to work.
At first he panicked, and his arms flailed, but the man would not release his head, nor allow it independent movement. Mitchell began to think of this encounter in terms of rape, and to balance in his mind the need to see justice done against the humiliation of having to recount this scenario in a court of law.
But then something unexpected happened. Mitchell warmed to his task.
There was something exciting about it, wasn’t there? Something dirty and forbidden and therefore subversively ecstatic. And when his assailant said, “Yeah—yeah, baby—you’re magic—you’re magic,” Mitchell knew. He knew for sure. This was what masculinity was all about. Meeting on the field of mutual desire—unashamed and without artifice.
And Mitchell gave himself up to the act.
And to the next one.
And the next. Each more inventive than the previous.
Until at last he climaxed, and it was like every hydrogen bomb test ever conducted on the Nevada plain all rolled into with, with a furious harpsichord score by Scarlatti.
And then he was lying in his partner’s arms, panting. They were, amazingly enough, in one of the bathtubs. Mitchell couldn’t remember having got there. He felt a momentary lurch of revulsion, then fought it back and relaxed—let himself be enveloped by the ooze, the honest, unpretentious, masculine film that covered him like an anointing oil.
I love this man, he said to himself, gazing at his cowboy, his commander, his captain. I wonder what his name is?
“What’s your name?” he asked, and he immediately regretted it. He had no idea what was considered proper behavior in situations like this, but it felt a little off.
The man turned his head and kissed one of Mitchell’s eyelids. “Kip,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Mitchell.” He smiled, but inside he was shaken. Kip? What kind of name was that for an adventurer, a man’s man, a fearless soldier of Eros?…Well, not his fault; blame the parents, if anyone. He was pretty sure it hadn’t ever been covered by Emily Post.
Kip nuzzled his neck. “You’re something, you know that?”
“You’re incredible,” Mitchell replied, meaning it.
Kip bit his ear. “Wanna shower and come back to my place?”
Mitchell knit his brow. “You mean—go to where you…live? Like…your home?”
“Uh-huh. It’s not far. Fix you breakfast in the morning. What do you say?”
Mitchell was dumbstruck. This was not at all what he expected from the man who had taken him and shaken him and shown him the love of lions. Would that kind of man really offer to fix him breakfast?
“Gee, I don’t know,” he said, readjusting himself so that he was just a hair father away.
“Oh, come on,” Kip said. “Be worth your while.” He snapped his fingers. “I know how I can tempt you! Just came in the mail today. Friend on the east coast sent it. An actual videotape of the Broadway musical where Katharine Hepburn played Coco Chanel. Circa eighty-two. A real rarity. You can’t pass that up.”
Mitchell looked at him in genuine horror. A musical? With Katharine Hepburn? As Coco Chanel?
They’d even reached him here, hadn’t they?—the insidious tentacles of the feminine. No matter where he went, how far he fled, it had him in its coils. Bring him to the most ultra-masculine enclave he’d ever entered, subject him to a night of brute carnality, without artifice or embellishment, and still they claimed him.
Katharine Hepburn as Coco Chanel.
Dear God in heaven.
What had he done?
He was sitting in urine.
Without another word, he got out of the tub, edged his way through the darkened corridors until he found an exit, then walked the entire way home—more than an hour, it took him—because he was too ashamed of his smeared appearance and rank odor to hail a cab.
And besides, he’d left his wallet in his jacket.
23
Mitchell now felt that his masculinity had been compromised in far too many ways: first by Kitten’s teasing and contempt, then by Simon infantilizing him, then by his molestation at the hands of that Kip person. Enough of them; enough of everyone. He knew now that the key to reasserting his manly authority, his mastery over his own destiny, lay not in recognizing his feminine side, nor in giving himself up to sexual slavery. It lay in seizing that which he could control in his world, and…well, controlling it.
Very well, then. His vow to change Donald. A fine place to start.
What was it Paula had said? Do you think we should have Mother kidnapped and deprogrammed?
Not. Not mother.
It was early; seven-thirty. He was in the office, seated at his desk, facing the window as he watched the sun rise through a thicket of downy clouds, looking like an oil stain on a white rug. His fingers formed a little pyramid before his face; his legs were tautly crossed. His eyes burned like braziers. When Bereneesha looked in at eight to say good morning, she must have detected something different about him, because instead of her usual recitation of the many abuses and indignities she’d suffered on the subway, she retreated in silence and shut the door behind her.
Eight-twenty. He decided to give the call a try.
His Filofax was already open to the number. And had been for more than an hour.
One ring. Two.
“Davida Sharpe.” A husky woman’s voice.
“Davida? Mitchell Sayer.”
A brief silence. She must be paging through her memory for him. “Sayer? Holy cow. How long’s it been?”
“Graduation, I believe.”
“Incredible. How are you? How’s Simon?”
He winced. “Fine. We’re both fine. And you?”
“Great! In private practice. Three years now. Family law.”
“I know. I read about you a while back in the Defender.”
She laughed. “My fifteen minutes.”
He swiveled in his chair and faced away from the window. “Davida, I’m sorry to be abrupt; thing is, I’m have a little family trouble of my own, and I need a favor.”
“Yeah, well, I figured you weren’t looking for a fourth for bridge. What’s up?”
He slowly, methodically began pressing the crease in his trousers between his thumb and forefinger. “Brother of mine’s in a bit of a fix. Got his head in a pretty screwy space. Can’t get him out of it because there’s this whole sick culture that’s taken him in.”
“Ah.”
“That piece in the Defender…didn’t it mention you’d once used a deprogrammer?”
He could hear her throat click in hesitation. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “Once.”
“I’d like his phone number, please.”
“Sayer, listen. This is a TV-movie solution to your problem. I don’t recommend hiring a deprogrammer until every other agency has been given a full shot at—”
“I’m not a client, Davida. I just want a phone number.”
“I don’t give out phone numbers without advice, and if I give advice, you are a client.” She audibly expelled a puff of frustration. “Don’t worry, Sayer, I’m not gonna bill you.”
He clenched his fist and told himself, Just be patient; wait through her song and dance and she’ll give you what you want. “All right,” he said.
“My other piece of advice is, make damn sure you’re judging this thing correctly. Deprogramming is a pretty rum business, practiced by rough characters, and it’s only really appropriate for deep-dish cases. If this brother of yours has just done something a loop or two off the mainstream, like joined a Satanic rock band or become a Hare Krishna or started going door-to-door for Pat Robertson, it’s not gonna work—and it could get you in major shit.”
Pretend she’s not insulting your intelligence, he ordered himself. “I can’t really talk about Donald’s problem,” he said. “I can tell you it’s not any of those things. It is something, however, that’s given him a completely new identity. New name, everything.”
“Does he still accept you as his brother?”
“Last time I spoke to him…no. Told me he wished I’d never been in his life.”
She sighed. “Doesn’t sound good. But I can’t make a judgment over the phone.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking for a phone number.”
Silence. Mitchell could only imagine the clash of imperatives being waged in her head.
Finally, she said, “Hold on, I’ll check my Rolodex.” And the next thing he heard was a Muzak version of “Little Red Corvette.”
He smiled.
Victory.
24
Kitten had had quite a dilemma over what to wear to her mother’s funeral. On one hand, her mother was dead, and could no longer disapprove of her youngest son attending in full drag. On the other, her mother was indeed dead, and didn’t that call for a degree of respect in saying goodbye? Yet if Kitten’s mother had now joined the choir celestial, she was above such petty concerns as gender roles and dress. Yet again, if Kitten went to the funeral as Kitten, would the suburban teens in her old hometown single her out for a mauling on sight?
The moment was decided by an examination of her closet; there were choices aplenty for a Kitten Kaboodle funeral appearance, but not a single dark suit for Donald. He’d have to wear black jeans, a navy blue blazer, and a bolo tie left behind by one of Kitten’s old suitors. Which might not be very far from what Donald’s brothers might show up in, but Donald—even as Donald—had higher standards.
So Kitten donned a vintage black number with shoulders so broad she hand to angle them out the door, and that wrapped so tightly around her knees she found herself having to take microsteps in order to move at all. Atop her head she wore a flat hat with an extraordinarily wide brim that dropped an extravagant length of black lace in front of her face; she could have farmed bees in that hat.
