ANGEL IN A JOCKSTRAP

By George Hillarde (Stallion.Jan.1983) For many years — the last six, to be exact — I have spent Christmas Eve at home with friends, exchanging gifts, trimming the tree, and watching It's a Wonderful Life, Miracle on Thirty-fourth Street, or some such festively sentimental film on television. Even a cynic is entitled to be mawkish once a year. Right? Home is a small two room apartment in New York's Chelsea area. There is a wood burning fireplace and a view of the Empire State Building from the living room window, but otherwise the place is not particularly special. No, that's not true. For the last six years, home has been very special, alternately cramped and cozy, depending upon my mood — until last Thanksgiving, which was the occasion on which Jim chose to walk out — after six years, and without any warning, to just — walk out. Ordinarily, I do not split infinitives, but in this instance, the error is all too symbolically apt. Now, my little fourth floor walk-up seems like the most cavernous mausoleum on earth, and I rattle around in it like Miss Havisham or Maxim DeWinter. In fact, I've taken to calling it Manderlay. It's easier to be smart ass than to cry. Right? About last Thanksgiving . . . we were having friends over for dinner, and we'd both been up late the night before trying to make a goddamned mince pie. Neither of us was in the best of moods by the time our guests arrived, and although the explosion occurred less than a month ago, I cannot remember precisely what precipitated it. I do know this: in six years the most heated quarrel we'd ever had was whether to use butter or margarine in the hollandaise sauce. But on Thanksgiving Day, with all our nearest and dearest assembled, there we were suddenly in the middle of World War III. Before I knew what was happening, he had struck me in the face with a drumstick, I had emptied the cranberry sauce over his head, and he had walked out the door. That was twenty nine days ago, and I haven't seen him since. My friends often accuse me of being a cynic, and I do admit to a sharp tongue. When one has a marshmallow for a heart, one develops very brittle armor to protect it. This is simply a roundabout way of saying that I was devastated by my loss, although I did my best to hide the fact. I only cried at home. During the month between the two holidays, I spent an inordinate amount of time by the telephone, went right ahead and bought Jim a Christmas present as though nothing had happened, and fervently prayed for a seasonal miracle. By eleven thirty on Christmas Eve, no miracle had occurred. There had been no unexpected key in the lock, no tearful reunion in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. So. I shooed out all my solicitous friends just before midnight, and headed for the bars. Someone once said that a whore house on Christmas Eve is the loneliest place in the world, but I am not at all sure he was right. Obviously, he'd never been to a gay bar on that night of nights, not that such establishments are then empty or funereal. On the contrary, they are usually filled to overflowing and as desperately hyperkinetic as they tend to be on full moon nights. That does not, however, make them any the less lonely. The night was starless, cold, and windy, and as I walked along beneath the harsh streetlights, the city seemed unusually grimy. Just as well, I thought if it starts to snow and my world is suddenly transformed into old-fashioned Christmas card loveliness, I might well dissolve into a blubbering shambles. "Pete's" is the neighborhood bar, less than a ten minute walk from my apartment. Its demi-western decor of roughly hewn wood paneling and wagon lanterns had been momentarily buried behind tacky silver and red garlands, bright green tissue paper bells, and here and there a blinking plastic Santa Claus. A disco version of "Oh, Come All Ye Faithful" blared forth, and it seemed as though every other person I passed was attempting to make some clever play on words with regard to the pulsating hymn. I unwound my scarf, unzipped my jacket, and rather self-consciously ran one hand over my hair. My eyes uneasily darting here and there, I squeezed forward between sweating bodies to buy myself a drink. It had been a long time since I had been alone in a gay bar. While I waited for my drink, I stared into the mirror behind the bar. It had been sprayed around the edges with plastic snow, but I could easily see my own reflection before me. Quite carefully, I examined the face I was about to put back in the marketplace. I tried my best to convince myself that it did not look six years older than the last time I had tried to peddle it. The ploy did not work; I am not that self-deluding. Am I? The next thing I saw reflected in the mirror, over my left shoulder, was a singularly attractive blond. Although his reflection was somewhat blurred by the plastic snow, he stood out amid the swirling mass of bodies. Casually, I twisted around, positioned my elbows snug to my ribs on the bar, and elaborately surveyed the entire room before daring to look directly at him. He was standing beneath a pin spot of golden light that made him positively radiant, and in particular the glow that encircled his flaxen hair suggested a halo. His features were somewhat in shadow, and for a moment I thought it was Jim. Quickly, I looked away, and several minutes elapsed before I managed to steal another glance. As I did so, he stepped slightly forward, and his face glided into light. It was not Jim. No, the stranger's features were stronger, and at the same time, more delicate, as though they had been painted on by some anonymous Sixteenth Century monk who ordinarily spent his days illuminating manuscripts. I paid for my drink, sipped at it, managed to suck in an ice cube and pulverize it completely before again returning to the object of my momentary fascination. He was wearing snug forest green corduroys, a bulky white sweater, and under it a red flannel shirt. I snickered softly at his color coordination and immediately christened him the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come. I smiled at my own cleverness and allowed my eyes to continue upward until they met his. He was smiling, too. Before I knew what was happening, he was moving toward me. "My name's Paul," was the first thing he said to me, in a voice as rich as a cello. "Hi, Paul," I responded, "and I'm — " "Let me guess," he interrupted. "I'll give you a hint. I am blessed — or cursed, depending on how you look at it — with a very ordinary name." "John, Bill, or Bob," he replied at once. "Right, so far?" I nodded and grinned. "But which?" "Bob. No question about it." Again I nodded, only slightly suspicious. "Have we met before?" "I doubt it. I'm a stranger in town." "And what are you doing out on Christmas Eve?" "No place better to go." "Than here?" "I just meant I'm a long way from home. Of course, if I hadn't come here, I wouldn't have met you." Somehow, the way he said it, the line sounded spontaneous, without calculation, possibly even honest. And then, with a cherubic smile, he moved closer. "This really isn't the best place to spend Christmas Eve — now is it?" I managed an off-hand "Well, shall we get out of here?" "I'd like to." His fingertips found my chin; his touch felt lighter than feathers. "We can go to my place, if you'd like, but I'll bet you have a double bed, and I don't." "You're right, I do." "And a fireplace?" I squinted, as if to see him better. "Are you sure we don't know each other?" "Couldn't it just be an educated guess?" "I suppose." We parried, laughed, and touched tentatively from time to time as we finished our drinks. Fifteen minutes later, we began to make our way through the throng. Finally, we reached the exit, pushed open the wooden double doors, and stepped out into the night. Snow had begun to fall. "Just a sec," I said, stopping to close my jacket, and having some trouble doing so. "Need some help?" he asked. "The zipper's stuck." Effortlessly, he reached down, interlocked the two pieces of metal, and pulled the zipper slowly upward until his fingers reached my chin. They rested there no more than a moment before he bent down to kiss me. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw were snowflakes glittering like diamonds on his eyelashes. The second thing l saw was Jim, standing a few feet away. Our eyes locked for no more than a second before he turned abruptly and stormed into the bar. • • • I dropped a log onto the hearth, and in silence began to build a fire. "Outside the bar . . ." Paul began after a moment or two. "Was that your lover?" "Ex-lover," I replied tautly. "He has a positive gift for dramatic confrontations on holidays." I snorted. "Boy, I can't wait to see what he's got planned for Groundhog Day." "Oh, I'll bet you see him before then." "I'd rather not, thank you." He grinned and squatted beside me. "Mustn't think about Groundhog Day. You've still got New Year's Eve and Epiphany to face before then." "And frankly," I continued, sprawling back on the rug in front of the fireplace, "I'd rather talk about something else." "Maybe we shouldn't talk at all," he suggested and floated down beside me, one arm dropping weightlessly across my chest, one leg pressed between my thighs. His erection was instantly evident through the corduroys, and I found myself responding with an uncustomary alacrity. I pulled him closer and ran my fingers over the back of his neck. His skin felt like velvet. I closed my eyes, revelling in the sensations. I had not been this close to another human body in twenty nine days, and I was in no hurry to rush through the preliminaries. Apparently, neither was he, for we lay there stroking each other in silence for some time. Finally, I opened my eyes and peered over his shoulder at the blinking Christmas tree lights in the corner. "When did you turn on the tree lights?" I asked. "While you were building the fire. You mind?" "No, not at all. I just didn't see you do it." Before he could explain, the sound of what seemed like celestial voices floated up through the night air and into the room. "Beautiful, huh?" whispered Paul. "Where's it coming from?" I asked. He shrugged. "Christmas carollers down in the street?" "At two o'clock in the morning?" He smiled. "Why not?" I eased out from under him, loped to the window, and squinted down into the glistening street below. It was completely uninhabited, although the singing continued as though some heavenly choir had assembled on the roof above. "Isn't that the damnedest thing?" I said. "On the contrary," he countered, "it sounds divine." I turned back into the room. Slightly to one side of the fireplace, Paul was standing, totally naked except for a vibrant red jockstrap. The flickering flames bounced rippling shadows over his torso. "How did you get undressed so fast?" I demanded. "It's a skill I've developed over the years." He smiled innocently. "Anyone can do it. Why, I'll bet you could match my time or beat it, if you put your mind to it." I stared at the net sack of his jockstrap, and it began, very slowly to expand, a yeasty loaf in an oven of sexual heat. Mesmerized, I continued to watch as the pouch grew and grew, until at last his erection popped up out of the waistband. I started, and glanced down at my own body. I was completely naked. "You see." He smiled beatifically. "I knew you could do it." "I — I don't remember — Did I undress myself?" He grinned. "Did you undress me?" "Does it matter?" Flustered, I shuddered and suddenly became aware of my own erection quivering with anticipation. We moved forward, reached out, our fingers tingling as they brushed en route to each other's groin. I truly cannot recall the graphic carnal details of what followed. Frankly, I wish I could. It would, in years to come, have made a marvellous masturbatory fantasy. The truth — or my perception of it — is a soft-focus blur. I can tell you this: I found myself doing things I had never done before, never thought myself capable of doing, yielding and commanding in the same moment, gliding effortlessly from one act to another, from one orifice to another. At the risk of sounding like the gushing heroine of a Barbara Cartland romance, I can only describe the encounter as — well, transcendental. • • • When I awoke, I could see dawn beginning to break through the blizzard that was attacking the window. In the crook of my left arm, Paul was snuggled, exhaling lightly, his breath rippling across the hair on my chest. The tree lights were no longer blinking, and the vibrant red jockstrap was dangling from the mantle like some erotic Christmas stocking. I could not recall how it had gotten there. Lightly, I began to rub Paul's back. I felt as content as — I searched for a simile, and gradually realized that I had not felt so joyful since the first night I had made love with Jim — content, sated, drained, at peace with the world — or at least with my gonads — I could almost believe that I would have no need for sex again for days, weeks, maybe even a month. "What are you thinking about?" asked Paul without opening his eyes. "Oh! You startled me." "Answer me." I sighed. "Last night — it was wonderful." "Miraculous." He rubbed his nose against my chest. "I'm glad we found each other." "You're a wonder." He shrugged modestly. "I like to give." "You sure do," I snickered. "But you take, too." "That's what it's all about, isn't it?" Impulsively, I suddenly pulled out from under him and struggled to a sitting position. "What are you doing?" he inquired. I wasn't exactly certain of the answer to that one myself. I only knew I was pushing myself up to my feet and heading toward the Christmas tree. Bare-assed, I knelt and dug among the gifts I had already opened the night before, until I found a thin box, the size of a candy bar, still wrapped in silver paper, and topped with a snow-blossom of a bow. Surreptitiously, I slipped off the card and buried it. When I turned back, Paul was standing in front of the fireplace, and he was once again wearing the red jockstrap. "Well, it is Christmas morning," I said flippantly, trying without much success to cut through the sentiment of the moment. "Time to open presents. Right?" "As good a time as any." "Here." I thrust the gift forward. "For me? Why?" "Because — because you made my Christmas." "Are you sure you want me to have this?" "Absolutely." He was one of those individuals who carefully unwraps a present, as though each bit of wrapping must be used again, and it seemed an eternity before he had neatly untied the ribbon, peeled off the stickers, folded up the paper, and finally opened the lid of the velvet box. Inside, resting on a satin pillow, was the golden chain I had bought for Jim. He did not seem surprised. "It's very handsome. Are you sure — ?" "Here, I'll put it on you," I offered. After doing so, I was rewarded with a warm embrace. Then, gently, I pulled him down to the floor, and sprawled prone before him. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Just taking you in." He smiled un-self-consciously. "Good. That'll give me a chance to look at you, too, you know." We stared at each other for a brief eternity, until I leaned forward, slipped a finger under the chain, and pulled him effortlessly toward me. We did not make love that morning, nor did we speak, as I recall, until well over an hour later, when he at last broke the silence. "I've got to be going," he confessed. "Already?" I blurted out before I could hide my dismay. "I have to go to work." "On Christmas Day?" "It's one of my busiest days," he said vaguely, as he stood and began to sort through the pile of clothing. I resisted asking what he did for a living; I'm not sure why. Perhaps, I figured that if he wanted to tell me, he would. Perhaps, I figured that if I were to see him again (and again) I would eventually find out. And if I never saw him again, it wouldn't really matter. I looked up. He was standing motionless, one foot inside his pant leg, poised as if about to speak. "What . . . ?" I asked. "I was just thinking." He stepped out of the pant leg. "I'd like to give you a present, too." "Not necessary," I retorted quickly. "What happened last night was the best present I got this year." "Still . . ." he persisted, sliding his thumbs into the elastic waistband of the jockstrap. "It would please me if you'd take this. It's not new, it's not much, but — " He tossed it to me. "Put it on." He grinned. "Keep it warm for me." "Does that mean you'll be back?" I asked. "If you want me to, sure." "If I want you to?" I muttered, stepping into the jockstrap. "Here, let me give you my number." I moved to the desk, found pen and paper, and quickly, jotted down the necessary information. When I turned to hand it to him, he was fully dressed. "Boy, you sure do move fast." "Have to," he replied. "Look, I'm gonna be late. I've got to — say, you look terrific in that." I grinned and stuffed the slip of paper into his jacket pocket. "You will call?" "If you want me to." That was the last thing he said to me. He kissed me, opened the door, winked, and was gone. I listened, motionless, as his boots clacked down the stairs, until I heard the front door open. Instantly, I spun around and raced to the window to peer down into the street. The blanket of snow remained unsullied, except for a single pair of footsteps heading out of the building and down the street. But Paul was nowhere in sight. • • • I must have fallen asleep in the window seat, because the next thing I remember was the sound of a key in the lock. I straightened up with a start and opened my eyes. Jim was standing in the doorway. "Hi," he said, somewhat sheepishly. "Am I welcome?" My eyes blurred. "It's your home, too." He stamped snow onto the welcome mat, pulled off his boots, and came toward me. Awkwardly, he pulled a giftwrapped package out of his pocket. In panic, I glanced under the tree, riddled with guilt. "Last night was awful," he began. "I don't like seeing you with someone else. I guess . . . I guess we've got a lot of talking to do." I nodded. "Well . . ." He grinned, trying to cut through the moment, tossed the package to me, and headed for the Christmas tree. "What all did you get for Christmas?" Stymied, I gestured toward the neatly arranged presents. He knelt down, examined one and another of them and then suddenly emitted a delighted laugh. "What?" I asked. He held up a thin box, the size of a candy bar, wrapped in silver paper, and topped with a snow-blossom of a bow. He read the card, pulled it off, and started to open the gift. "You don't know how much I wanted to find something under this tree with my name on it." I shook my head in disbelief. Had I dreamed Paul? Had I wanted someone so badly for Christmas that I had created him? In the midst of tearing away the wrappings, Jim suddenly stopped and studied me, as though seeing me for the first time. "Hey, where did you get that?" he demanded. I looked down. I was still wearing the red jockstrap. "It was a Christmas present," I said lightly. "It makes me do miraculous things. Okay?"