Turning Idolater (12 page)

“I liked you. Other men, you know my first few, were
rough. You were gentle and funny and made me laugh. I knew . .
.”

“You knew I was a soft touch and that I have an
apartment.” Sprakie tapped Philip’s head. “Smart thinking. I like
that.”

“Well, when the rain stops, I can go.”

“No, no. Get out of those wet things.” Philip
shucked his jacket and began to strip. Sprakie smiled. “For every
boy, there’s a toy. In the scheme of things, you can either hunt
one down, or lasso the herd — fast and disposable. And while they
pass through, dearie, you make them pay.”

“And me? Will I need to pay?”

Sprakie pouted. “Well nothing’s free. But I think
you’re a keeper.” He patted Philip’s bare ass. “You can stay here
until you find something better. And since you already know the way
to my bedroom, I’ll meet you there after I wash up the mud.”

“And you’re with him still,” Thomas said.

“I slept with him that night,” Philip said. “We
actually slept. We’re sisters. And I rent my little cubby from
him.”

Thomas hugged him. Rocked him.

“My brave little soldier. The world has been harsh
to you and still you show it your best face.”

Philip turned, the tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Not always,” he whimpered.

Thomas tried to dry the tears, but they would not be
assuaged. He hugged him again. He rocked him again, like a child in
want of something more than deep love in the dark — a lost child in
want of his mother.

The rising sunlight flooded the bedroom. Neither man
had slept, the journey taken keeping them far from the shores of
slumber. Still, the weariness nipped at the margins, an urge to nap
creeping on cat paws. Thomas disengaged. He lumbered to his feet
and stretched, his well-toned body rippling in the light that
tumbled through the vertical blinds.

“How does Belgian waffles sound?” he crowed. “With
strawberries and cream.”

Philip was snagged back from drowsiness. He
stretched, his feet as pointy as a prima ballerina’s.

“And some hot coffee,” Philip purred.

“I thought you never touched the stuff.”

Philip sat up. “I lied. I should write novels.”

Thomas gazed down at the silk-skinned angel that had
graced his bed. “You’re a little devil, you know.”

“I thought I was your angel.”

“Same thing.” Thomas left for the kitchen, not even
bothering to don his robe. “Same thing.”

Philip felt strange in this bed. He had been in
strangers’ beds before. Two years had notched his belt with a score
of nifty conquests. However, this didn’t feel like a
morning
after
. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep and the deep drift in
the conversation. He hadn’t visited these events for some time —
difficult to ponder and never spoken . . . until now. He wasn’t
sure if it was right to dump so heavy a cargo on the attentive Mr.
Dye, but it felt good to do it. In fact, Philip sensed a buoyancy
he never had known. This bed was strange, but it was the best port
in which his vessel weighed anchor. A safe haven. Or was it the man
who was his harbor. Philip sat up. The sun was good. He played with
the light streams, his long tapered fingers stirring the motes into
a bolero.

Philip stood, and then followed Thomas’ path through
the door. He honored the precedent and remained unclad. The morning
chill braced his skin and prickled his nipples. The rug kissed his
toes as he crossed into the living room with its airy charm and its
eclectic furnishings.
Chippendale.
He heard Thomas whistling
in the kitchen, clattering bowls and scraping plates. Philip spied
his backpack resting on a hassock and he immediately prodded around
inside, assuring that
the book
was still secure in its
harbor.

Books
. The shelves were high and deep and
packed tight with bindings. Philip brushed his fingers across them.
He recognized a few like
Tom Sawyer
and
Oliver Twist
.
Then he came to a copy of
the book
. It was much like his own
— the binding a crispy tan and embossed. He wrenched it from the
shelf, opening to the first page. Unlike his, this one had a slight
stain under the
1851
date that sailed low on the
margins.

“Careful with that,” Thomas said as he crossed from
the kitchen. He was whipping the batter in a silvery bowl. “That is
a first edition. Worth a mint.”

Philip turned, the surprise on his face apparent.
“How much?”

“Priceless, but at auction it would fetch between
twenty to fifty thousand.”

“Twenty to fifty thousand?” Philip slipped the book
back into its place, and then reached for his backpack. “I’m rich
then,” he said. He popped out his own copy of
the book
.

Thomas set the bowl down and wiped his hands on the
apron that covered his nakedness. “Where did you get that?”

“That man,” Philip said. “The old man.”

“Uncle Dean?” Thomas opened Philip’s copy. “It is
even finer than mine.”

“Where did you get yours?”

Thomas laughed. “That old coot. I wonder if he’s
cornered the market on these.”

“You got yours from him too?”

Thomas sat on the hassock and poured over the pages.
“Yes. Dean Cardoza is sitting on a gold mine of incunabula.”

“Ink-what?”

“Rare books. The fact that you have a first edition
also lessens the value of both copies, but not by much. You must
have been spectacular for him to give you such a gift.”

“All I did was smile and strip.”

“I bet.”

Philip sidled up to him. “Shouldn’t you keep such
books in a vault instead of on the shelf?”

“Or in a backpack?”

“I didn’t know. So I could sell this and
retire.”

“You could, but you would be the poorer by the loss
of it.” Thomas flipped through the pages. “Just listen to how much
richer you are.”

He read:

“
Upon waking the next morning about daylight, I
found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and
affectionate manner. You had almost thought I had been his wife.
Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this
Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular
Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must unite with him
in his; ergo, I must turn idolater.”

“What does that mean —
turn idolater
?”

“It means that Ishmael is willing to compromise his
beliefs for Queequeg’s company.” Thomas ran his hand through
Philip’s hair. “A worthwhile endeavor.”

“I don’t know whether you’re just a sweet man or a
sweet talker.”

“Probably a little bit of both. I like you a
lot.”

“Sex was good, eh?” Philip quipped.

“Sex was
magnifique,
but . . .” Thomas set
the first edition back in the pack. “It scared me a little.”

“Scared you? I know you’re not a virgin, especially
after what you told me, and . . .”

“Especially at my age,” Thomas said. “I know.”

“So, we’re back to that.”

“Well, despite my predilection to ignore the issue,
I cannot.” Thomas sighed and then returned to mixing the batter. “I
am much older than you. Yet, you make me feel young, and I was
never young even when I was young. When we got physical, I was
reminded of my morning aches, my shriveled balls and that I cannot
go a long time like . . .”

“Like who?” Philip touched Thomas’ hand staying the
batter. “Don’t believe all that you hear or read. You’ve watched
too many porn flicks. They show every dude with a big
shlong
, and they can all go for thirty minutes, and then
again and again. Guess what? I’m still looking for Mr. Thirty
minutes.”

“So, you are saying that I am okay?”

“I’m saying that you’re great. You have the passion
and experience.”

“I thought you were the one with all the
experience,” Thomas said.

“No, I’m the one who’s had the variety pack.”

“Well, I guess age makes us children once again.
That would make you older than me . . .”

“In dog years perhaps,” Philip said. Thomas stirred
again, but Philip forced him to pause. “Listen, I have no problem
with your age, Mr.
Not-Quite-Thirty-Minutes
. In fact, your
age makes you more . . .”

“Settled?”

“Easy on my soul, and on my bones and on my
lips.”

They kissed.

“I’m hungry,” Philip said. “Where’s the
pancakes.”

“Belgian Waffles.”

“Yeah, let’s get them working. And where do you keep
your
books? You know, the one’s you wrote?”

Thomas pointed through the hallway. “In my office.
There is a bookcase in there, a little vanity shelf just below my
awards.”

“Awards. I’m impressed. Remind me to give you a tip
when I sell that first edition.”

Thomas headed for the kitchen, his ass sticking out
between the apron ties.

The office was well used and messy — books and
papers spread on every available surface. The desk had four
in-boxes and a large out-box, all crammed with manuscript pages
spilling in a haphazard way. Philip was impressed by the industry.
There were two computers — a tower beneath the desk and a laptop
snapped open, but switched off. There were also newspaper
clippings, reference books dog-eared and clipped, and a trashcan
filled to the brim. By the window was a credenza and inside, behind
glass, were shelves with neat rows of books sporting colorful
spines.

Philip cocked his head and shaded his own reflection
from the glass, trying to read the titles. He didn’t recognize a
single title, but they sang to him:
Vagrant Hollow, Fire in the
Loins, Pivotal Attractions, Callous Cufflinks, The Lady Wore Black,
Suede Intrusions
,
Tapioca Times, The Yellow Bowling Shirt,
Triple Sec on the Rocks, Mr. Barberry’s Predilection,
and
The Beaverbrook Murders.
“Wow,” Philip said. That was only
the top shelf. There were three others below. Mr. Thomas Dye was
indeed prolific outside the bedroom.

Philip tried to pry the credenza door open, but it
was locked. He would need to ask Thomas for a copy of his best
work. He moved to the desk where the computer’s monitor flashed the
screensaver — the ubiquitous bouncing Microsoft logo. Then
something caught Philip’s eye. A newspaper clipping. A face. A
familiar face.

“Shit,” he said. “That’s Jemmy.”

He cocked his head again trying to read the article.
It wasn’t front-page stuff, but described the bashing of a young
man behind a local Village gay bar. A manila folder covered part of
the article. He reached down to move it.

“I have only one rule,” Thomas said, suddenly at the
door.

Philip jumped. “Shit, you scared me.”

“It is a simple rule. I do not let anyone read my
current work until it is finished.”

“Oh,” Philip said. “I wasn’t snooping. I just
recognized the face in the newspaper. He worked with me.”

“Did he now?” Thomas came around the desk. He
gathered the folder up, and then the clipping, slipping it inside
the folder. “I would be happy to discuss my interest in the event,
but again, it would violate my rule about disclosing a work in
progress.”

Philip shrugged. “Sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong. I should have warned you
before you came in here.”

“Is it a tradition or a superstition?”

Thomas smiled and filed the folder under the desk
blotter. “Something like that. Now, come. The waffles are served.”
He smiled, his eyes sweeping the full breadth of Philip’s torso.
“You had better put on pants. I would hate for you to spill
something on that perfect body.”

Philip giggled. “I’ve done food sex, you know. With
enough syrup we could have a good old sweet time.”

“You
are
a little devil.”

Philip wiggled past him. “These waffles better be
good, but I warn you. I need to eat and run.”

Thomas pouted. “Why?”

“I can’t stay here forever.”

“Why not?”

Philip gave Thomas a kiss. “Forever’s a long time.
What would Sprakie say?”

“Fuck Sprakie.”

“I have, and that’s the first time I’ve heard you
cuss.”

Thomas followed Philip into the living room. “I mean
it. You can stay here. This is a better place to be sure.”

“To be sure,” Philip said. “But Tee, I’m not who you
think I am. I’m not a houseboy.”

“And I am not a Sugar Daddy, especially to someone
who totes a first edition
Moby Dick
. I am sure you do not
have a line of credit, but you can have one here. And although I
would feel honored to have you inhabit my bed, you can have one of
the guestrooms. A life of your own.”

Philip clapped his arms around Thomas’ shoulders. “I
know you think that doesn’t make me a kept woman, but no matter how
much you paint a skunk’s stripe black, it still stinks white.”

Thomas laughed. “Are you sure you do not write?”

“I’m not some stupid twink.”

“I know.”

“I’m just uneasy that you would think I would take
advantage of you, and when I roved, which you know I will, you’d
come to hate me.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Philip kissed him. “And I could still show my ass on
the Internet and you’d be happy with that?”

“It doesn’t bother me, but you could do other
things.”

Philip broke away. “Clean your apartment and sit
here looking pretty until you came home from the office.”

Thomas laughed. “You’ve been in my office. No, I
have a few ideas to connect you up with some of my friends. I have
many connections in the publishing industry. You would do something
with books.”

Philip laughed. “Write?”

“Write, read, stick them between your legs.” Thomas
turned sour. “I mean . . . Do what you want.”

Philip immediately recanted. He grasped Thomas’ arm.
“No, I appreciate it. I really do. Don’t be angry or
disappointed.”