Come Back (22 page)

We decided to go to Mario's Deli, which at the time had a pool table. This was where the trouble really started. We all sat down at the bar next to the pool table and I ordered a round of drinks. At the time I did not think I was making an extraordinary amount of noise. On the other hand, it's possible I was. Peter had been telling some story — one that was kind of misogynistic — about the disgusting fluid in the pouch of a kangaroo. He had put his hand into one once. It was
so
fucking funny — even though the whole thing was really about a horror of vaginas. I knew that, but listen, I didn't give a fuck. Hell, I like a good dirty laugh as much as the next guy. I never expected Peter to put his hand in my vagina, but God he was funny. And I was laughing — too loudly, I guess — and there were lewd gestures. I'm sure there were. We wound up moving around and doing all sorts of shit. I guess we were dancing.

There was some guy there with his wife and they were playing pool. It was obviously a big deal for him and the little lady to be out on the town. I bet he even used that expression,
out on the town
. And she was being very ladylike, flirting and giggling in a way that made me want to kill her. I fucking hate coyness, especially in women. And I hate it when women pretend to be idiots. Of course, she may actually have been an idiot. But she was also pretending to be one, which can be doubly annoying.

Anyway, when we got to the point where we were spilling our drinks, swearing and gesticulating wildly and obscenely about kangaroos, I happened to knock the arm of the guy from Kalamazoo with the wife. He must have been from a place like Kalamazoo. Well, it screwed up one of his shots. Big deal. I mean, who cares? You're in a bar. You're not Minnesota Fats. This is not a professional pool tournament. You're just playing with your dumb girlfriend. So give me a break. But no — he had to take umbrage. He stopped playing and said, “Excuse
me
!” in a very loud voice. And he would not stop saying it until we ceased and desisted with our kangaroo story and listened to him. So finally we did. And we were all standing around looking at him and his dumb girlfriend. And he said, glancing at her, “An apology might be appreciated.”

I just looked at him and said,“I'm not going to fucking apologize to you — you're from Kalamazoo!” This set Peter into hysterics beyond measure. So much so that his brother tried to help him. And Mark kind of moved in front of him, afraid this dufus was going to punch Peter in the face.

But instead, the dufus from Kalmazoo turned to me and said, “Oh, I see. I guess you don't apologize to anyone — because you're the famous
blah-dy fucking blah-blah!”
He used my star name with all the contempt he could muster. And this enraged me. I was unreasonably high by that time, so I just picked up a billiard ball and lobbed it at him. I didn't hurl it at him in a rage (as the management later claimed). I just tossed it, easy, like when you're playing catch. You know, you just lob one to first base? In fact, I thought he might catch it. But the ball just hit the wall, and it didn't even do any damage. He didn't take this very well. He rushed at me. And I thought,
Wow, this guy has no problem with beating up a lady, does he?
But then I remembered that I probably didn't appear to be one. His wife or girlyfriend was embarrassed or frightened. . . . Jesus, she pissed me off.

And then Mark, in his effort to show he was just as nuts as I was, pushed me out of the way and started to wrestle with the guy. This again just set Peter and me off laughing. Then the bartender came around and yelled, “I don't care who the hell you are, get out!” Peter and his brother and I just rolled out the back door. This left Mark, as usual, to deal with the consequences of my actions. I didn't find out what happened until the next morning. The bar staff didn't see us go out the door and had no idea where we were. But someone had called the police and escorted Mark out of the bar and charged him with assault. As if it was him who threw the fucking billiard ball at the guy from Kalamazoo.

When the rest of us opened that back door, it was like we were in heaven. It was one of those rumpled little tin roofs over a couple of garbage cans. And there was a tree out there. It was late fall, and a gentle rain was dropping persistently, causing a racket on the tin roof. It was like something out of
Lady and the Tramp
— you know, when they eat spaghetti on a plate outside the door of the pizza place? And the three of us staggered around, trying to get our bearings. And then we realized we were getting a little wet. So Peter and his brother leaned against the walls beside the garbage cans.

Peter was looking straight up at the tin roof, and his brother was kind of curled against the wall beside him holding his head, as if he had a headache. I knew what God meant for me to do. Far be it from me to question
him.
It was time to give one, or both of them, a blow job. I really didn't care if neither of them wanted a blow job, or if they both did. My first choice was Peter. I just wanted to get some of that talent inside me. Not that I needed it. But it would be nice to see what talent like that tasted like.

I went down on my knees. I remember the pavement was hard and dusty and it hurt. I started to undo his pants, but without even looking at me he pushed me away. I'll never forget the way he did it. He was gentle and apologetic, even though he was staring up at the tin roof, not down at me. It was as if he wanted me to know that he was sorry that he was not, well, up to it — and he was expressing that with this mild, almost ineffectual movement of his hands. I realized I instinctually knew all this would happen. I thought,
This one is a bona fide homosexual, that's for sure!
I thought this, because, well, generally speaking, straight men don't, in my experience,
ever
refuse blow jobs. So, as easy as pie, I just moved on over to the next brother — Jesus, I feel so bad that I can't remember his name! — and started to undo his pants.

There was no resistance
there
. In fact, there seemed instead to be a gentle acquiescence. But what I pulled out of his pants — there was nothing gentle about that! It was a honker. I started giving him the kind of blow job I'm usually extra capable of when I'm completely zonked out of my mind. But what I liked the most was the way he acted — so very helpless. He didn't caress my hair like I was his pet chihuahua like some men do. He didn't pull on my ears like I was a trained monkey. He kind of wriggled his momentous dick in my mouth, as much as he was able. It was like I had him by the dick and was torturing him. But I wasn't.

I don't want you to get the idea he was writhing around or anything. In fact, it was much more like he was just giving himself up to it, weakly, even forgetfully. In fact, it was like giving a blow job to a Buddhist monk. Just surrender. . . . It wasn't long before he came — busloads. And I was very happy to have done what I was doing. I looked up at him when it was over. He was breathing hard and his head was against the wall. He and his brother were both looking up.

I think Peter must have known his brother was done, because I saw his hand move up to his brother's shoulder and touch him. This made me think he must have been happy his brother shot such a big load. It was all kind of touching. I yanked myself off the pavement — which had been hard on my knees, and brushed myself off. I took Peter's hand and we wandered out of the alley. His brother followed along.

I never saw the brother again. I feel kind of sorry about that because I will never forget his passive acceptance. There was something gorgeous about it. And awe-inspiring. After that incident I didn't want to have any more of Mark climbing on top of me, grunting and groaning and trying to show me his unmagnificent prowess. It was that experience with Peter Allen's brother, whatever his name was, that set me to looking for Mickey. I wanted a passive angel who would just lie there and submit to my obedient ministrations. Because that's what sex with Mickey was like.

And yes, Dash's story about his lover and the puddle of cum plucked a chord in me — zing went the strings — because that's what my very last lover, Mickey, was like. And you always remember your last lover. And Mickey was a young man who accepted my worship as if it was his due, without conceit or pity — and almost apologetically, without inhibition. Mickey used to lie flat on his back on the bed of our little apartment in London and let me blow him. It was heaven.

So why am I telling you all this? Is it just another one of my monumental infamous digressions? No, it's because last night Peter Allen's brother was on my mind. As was — you guessed it — the Doll Boy. Something about what you said irked me deeply. More like a prod than an irk. A cattle prod that zaps me with insecurity every time I think about it. There was something intimidating in what you left me with. Maybe there was even some regret? Of course, I can't point to anything specific — it's all a part of a hunch. But ever since, I've been possessed with a nostalgic hysteria to see you and confirm that you are alive — you must be! — and look you in the eye. This, I swear, was part of what drove me out of the house to the Doll Boy.

I called Allworth, who is always willing to drop everything to serve my every need. Sometimes I think he would like to give this old dry husk a blow job — but I'm afraid there isn't much left down there to blow. You don't really want to know — no one does. Anyway, I told him, “I have to go to the Tranquility Spa now.” He naturally said, “What if the Cantilevered Lady is there?” I told him I would simply have to deal with her if she was. I didn't tell him why I was going, but I think he knew. It's nice having Allworth. He is like an unthreatening conscience. I'm sure he knows everything that goes on in my head, but he doesn't judge. He just tries to anticipate my every whim.

He was at my apartment in no time flat and he hustled me out the door. We had the taxi driver who always agrees to wait for Allworth come and get me. It takes me hours. I gave Allworth lots of money to give him a humungous tip. Well, the guy must have felt my urgency, because it seemed we were going at 2,500 miles an hour.

At the Tranquility Spa it looked like there was nobody around. The Cantilevered Lady was definitely not there. Allworth tactfully sat at the bar. I know I'm bad — and isn't this strange? — I am now wishing that you would tell me I'm bad. I yearn for your disapproval. What's this about?

Your disapproval is what you withheld from me in your recent cool arguments, your words devoid of passionate admonishment. But I have to tell you, I must sacrifice myself at the altar of telling all. I am prostrate before you.

So know it all: I didn't even sit on the stool, I just stood, or was bent over, as is my wont, beside the bar. Allworth bought me a drink. And I made a beeline for — you guessed it — the bathroom. What did the nippleless bartender think? Perhaps he thought I was incontinent. This is one of the advantages of being the sex-crazed mega-senior who cruises washrooms in a frenzy.

I knew that
he
would be there. And he was. In the same place, his pants in a puddle on the floor, leaning against the wall. He didn't look at me. He was turned away. Or rather, his head was to the side — his perfect head — as he leaned against the wall. His palms were not pressed against it, but placed there listlessly. He reminded me so much of Peter Allen's brother. And then of Mickey. I knew that he knew I was there. Or, paradoxically, he didn't, and that it didn't matter.

I walked over to him, or struggled over, and gazed at his penis, so perfectly encased in whatever that streamlined substance was that had been used to surround it. I was not so much attracted as deeply involved in his penis. I just stared at it for a minute. He did not look at me. Then, with some effort, I raised my hand to touch it. There was something hard about the skin — or rather, there was a leather-like quality. The skin was heavier, not at all what I expected. But it was not a feeling that brought me any closer to figuring out what that substance was that surrounded it. Then, miraculously — but it was not miraculous at all because whatever this young creature's infirmity, he was certainly
young
— the penis began to erect itself. I use this language because it did seem strangely unattached to his body.

The Doll Boy did not look at me. So I touched it again, as if it were a curio in a museum that one was allowed to play with in order to execute a scientific experiment. The penis continued its upward arc, and I kept touching it. Not caressing it, mind you, just touching. The Doll Boy remained looking off to the side. It was an amazing sight and made me wonder — as an erection always does — about the amazing engineering of the human body.

When he was fully erect, which didn't take many touches, I asked the Doll Boy a question. It was one I wasn't sure he would answer. “What happened to you?” I was referring to the encasing on his body — not to the feat of aerodynamics that quivered so close to my face. But he seemed to know what I meant. He turned his head slowly to me as he spoke. His voice was clear and high. Was it the voice of a boy or a girl? It was difficult to tell. “I just tried to be what they wanted!” he said.

It all made sense. I knew exactly what he meant. All the memories of
MGM
came flooding back. Not just of the diets, or my own bodily transformations. I thought of the work, the endless slaving. It was never enough — of course it could never be enough! And however homespun I'm sounding now, I will not utilize the phrase “my mother never loved me” — if only for the reason that she loved me much too much in her own hateful way. No, it was just that, for some reason, I was not only singing for my supper
and
doing what I was told — I was, ultimately, the good little girl.

That's why America loved me, because of the girl I portrayed in
The Wizard of Oz
. Even though the bad witch hated me and was out to get me, I was and would always be good. Wishing for what was over the rainbow was, after all, the ultimate goodness — yearning, hoping, dreaming. This might explain why it became so important for me to be perverse in my middle years — what the public saw as my death. Yes, it was too heavy a cross to bear. God knows why I would have wanted, or needed, to please all the people all the time — to be the very best at everything I did. And it's not a vice; it is definitely a very American virtue. But it's the kind of thing that can kill you. And the Doll Boy and his perfect body was a perfect metaphor for this dilemma.