Besides, he didn’t watch porn for the dialogue—or the music.
He stripped off his jeans and T-shirt and threw them in the laundry basket. As he plopped down on top of his bed, he grabbed a bottle of lube and a small towel out of the nightstand. As tired as he was, he wouldn’t be able to sleep without executing his nocturnal ritual. He squirted a small dose of the lube in his right hand and leaned into the pillow, raising his head high enough to see the hot guys having sex. After years of practice, operating the remote had become one of his ambidextrous skills. He massaged himself slowly. His hand was cold at first but after a few strokes, it felt good and warm.
The scene began where he’d left off the night before. It was a six-man orgy in the back room of an auto mechanic’s shop, an image existing only in gay porn and in the imaginations of gay men. The video was one of two or three dozen Don owned and it was his favorite because two of the porn “stars” were Marines he’d known. Years earlier, they’d enjoyed a series of three-ways but he’d lost touch with them after they got out of the Marines and moved to L.A. to pursue their careers. Another reason he liked these videos was that they’d been filmed in the early eighties and the guys didn’t use condoms. Although Don never had sex without a condom now, he saw nothing wrong with jacking off to pre-AIDS bareback group sex.
Every guy was stoned. One knelt on all fours and fell over laughing several times before another guy, one of the Marines Don knew, stayed hard long enough to penetrate him. Usually Don laughed with the duo as they tried to fulfill their commitment to the director, but not tonight.
He closed his eyes and smiled as his focus shifted away from the worn-out tape to the stunning man he’d met just a few hours earlier. Patrick had said, “I hoped that was you.” Instantly, Don’s dick sprang to life and became hard as metal. “Patrick.” Don squirted some more lube. He relived the scene when their eyes first met—the unguarded unforgettable moment when he’d caught “the look.” He smelled Patrick’s aftershave and he imagined how delicious Patrick’s crotch smelled and tasted after a day of flying his helicopter. Nearing orgasm, he imagined Patrick on top of him, his penis sliding into Patrick’s tight hole. Don stroked himself harder and harder and—“Oh Patrick!” he shouted at the ceiling as cum landed on his face.
“Wow.” He lay still for a moment, enjoying one of those special orgasms, the kind that takes its time subsiding. He sat up in the bed and cleaned his torso as the porno played on, showing the two Marines sixty-nining each other on the floor. He laughed, remembering when the pair had made these low-budget flicks. He tried to recall how much cash they’d made. He’d been surprised at how little it was. Still, it wasn’t bad for easy and fun work.
An image from earlier that day flashed across his mind. “Karl’s extra cash.” Don visualized his friend counting the huge stack of twenties in his wallet. “Oh no.” Don sighed as reality set in. He’d seen the pattern many times. Every day the military sent young, good-looking and hard-bodied guys to Southern California, where the alluring Golden State became a jungle of temptations. Many of these underpaid, hormonally driven and adventuresome guys from America’s heartland fell prey to the triple threats of drugs, prostitution and pornography. Some of the guys were gay, but most identified themselves as straight. They were restless and needed money and the predators around the bases had perfected the art of catching them in their webs. At least that’s how Don thought of porn producers. The unsuspecting young men—many just barely out of boyhood—were no match for men who’d practiced their seductive craft for years.
Eddie had disagreed. In his opinion, the producers provided a service that many men enjoyed. The video “stars” were adults exercising free will, and if they messed up their lives, they had only themselves to blame. He’d called Don a hypocrite for enjoying the porn while condemning the producers and looking down on the actors. Don and Eddie had argued this point many times in the past, and no doubt, their debate would continue in the years ahead.
Don turned off the television and he crawled under his sheets. He recalled Lance’s comment that Karl hadn’t left WC’s with any guys in a long time and that he’d noticed the same thing. Another memory suddenly surfacing was that Karl had disappeared for whole weekends recently without explanation. Don hadn’t thought anything of it at the time—Karl was a grown man with the right to do his own thing. Taking all of these factors together, though, Karl’s behavior had changed. Most worrisome of all was Karl’s statement tonight.
I want to but there are some things I can’t tell even you.
“Not you too, little buddy.” Don lapsed into a night of fitful sleep.
Eddie’s first observation after entering the room was that his sunglasses were on the floor. Then he spotted his address book askew and opened, leading him to conclude that the stranger he’d invited into his home had been snooping. Eddie’s initial reaction was to throw Stephen out of the house and advise his friends to avoid the good-looking new guy from Baltimore—or who claimed he was from Baltimore. But Stephen’s knowledge that Rocky was a dachshund alerted Eddie that the man’s motive for being in his house was far more sinister than simple nosiness.
He was furious that he’d been so gullible. Outwardly, though, he directed his rage at the lying scumbag sitting on his sofa. The sofa was an antique family heirloom Ray’s parents had given them when Ray became a partner at his law firm. In his mind, he raced through his night’s conversation with Stephen just to be sure. No, he’d never said that Rocky was a dachshund. Eddie’s introverted and reclusive nature prevented him from giving away unnecessary details about his life, and his dog’s breed fit that category. Eddie had to solve this mystery now. His and his friends’ careers and livelihoods were at stake.
That’s when he remembered the gun in the drawer.
As part of his pro bono practice, Ray had represented lesbians and gay men in some high-profile employment and housing discrimination cases. After receiving a number of death threats, he’d purchased the pistol and Don taught him and Eddie how to shoot it. When Ray died, Eddie left the house exactly as it had been. Ray’s clothes hung in the closet, his law books were on the shelves and his loaded gun remained in the desk.
Eddie wondered how he could’ve fallen for Stephen’s “I’m just looking for friends” line. Eddie wasn’t some twenty-year-old just off the bus from Baton Rouge—he knew better or he should’ve known better. Stephen had spied on him—he’d probably watched Eddie’s house for a long time. Maybe it wasn’t too late. If Eddie put the fear of God in the man, Stephen might leave them alone.
“So—Stephen. I’m asking you again. How did you know that my dog, which you haven’t seen—is a dachshund? And why are my sunglasses—which were on top of my address book—on the floor?”
Eddie didn’t plan to pull the gun out. He didn’t think the situation through at all. Going into an anger-induced hypnosis, he leaned against the desk and slid his arm down to the drawer with the gun. He was furious at the world for being so homophobic and bitterly despondent because Ray had died so young. He was enraged at this stranger for spying on him, for being in his house, for snooping in his address book and for sitting on a sofa that had been so special to Ray. Stephen didn’t answer his questions but stared blankly ahead.
Eddie’s eyesight had steadily worsened over the last year and Stephen was slightly out of focus. When Eddie saw him reach into his jacket, Eddie feared he had a gun of his own, a fear that sent Eddie over the edge. Stephen said something but Eddie wasn’t paying attention. In half a second, he opened the desk drawer and grabbed the pistol.
Before Eddie could raise the gun into position, Stephen lunged at him from the sofa, a reaction Eddie hadn’t expected. He jerked away from his attacker, and as he stepped back, his left foot crushed his sunglasses. When the metal frames slid easily across the polished floor, Eddie’s left leg flew out from under his body and he lost his balance. As he fell backward, he pointed the gun directly at Stephen. Before he could pull the trigger, though, Stephen grabbed Eddie’s gun arm, forcing it up toward Eddie’s head.
As Eddie’s forearm hit his chest, he heard the gunshot. He felt nothing as the bullet entered his throat on an upward arc. He never knew that