His Eyes Were Dark, He Licked His Lips

By Jaosn Fury

In His Eyes Were Dark, He Licked His Lips, a gay murder on Fifth Avenue helps topple President Richard Nixon from the White House.

What is the mystery of Kurt James? Wherever he goes, scandal and tragedy follows him. Set against the lush ambiance of the Deep South and the glittering backdrop of Fifth Avenue, Kurt flees North Carolina in 1958 after witnessing the vicious murder of his boyfriend by lawmen. In Manhattan, he nearly drowns in a drug and booze drenched lifestyle as the city's most dazzling callboy. Desperate for stability, he lands a job as tutor/secretary in New York City's most fabulous mansion: Darling Place. He falls in love with both father and son, the ravishing David Darling, powerful Wall Street and confidante to President Richard Nixon, and the swarthy, betroubled Claude. Kurt also battles the psychopathic Mrs. Darling, a would-be feminist whose jealousy borders on insanity. Her violent attempts to physically abuse her adorable little son, Tuffy, are thwarted when Kurt becomes his protector. David is forced to stay in Washington to comfort the President who is embroiled in the Watergate Scandal. Suddenly, the nation is shocked by a grotesque murder in Darling Place and the sensational trial and scandal that follows. It is this astounding scandalof perverted love gone awrywhich helps topple President Nixon from the White Houseand brings tragedy to those left in Darling Place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 24, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469705385

Jaosn Fury

Jason Fury is the pen name of cult author Jery Tillotson whose powerful tales of gay love, murder and revenge have gained him countless readers across the world. "My new book took me years of research and writing. I believe my fans will enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed writing it."

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All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Jery Tillotson

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ISBN: 0-595-12168-3

ISBN: 978-1-4697-0538-5 (ebook)

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Contents

ABOUT THE BOOK

FOREWORD

DEDICATION

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

PART THREE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

PART FOUR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

PART FIVE

DECEMBER, 2000

Author’s Note

ABOUT THE BOOK  

What is the mystery of Kurt James?

Wherever he goes, scandal and tragedy follows. Set against the lush ambiance of the deep South and the glittering backdrop of Fifth Avenue, Kurt flees North Carolina in l958 after witnessing the vicious murder of his boyfriend by sheriff deputies. In Manhattan, he nearly drowns in a drug and booze drenched lifestyle as the city’s most dazzling callboy. Desperate for stability, he lands a job as tutor/secretary in New York City’s most fabulous mansion: Darling Place. He falls in love with both father and son, the ravishing David Darling, a powerful Wall Street tiger and confidante of President Richard Nixon, and the swarthy, betroubled Claude. Kurt also battles the psychopathic Mrs. Darling, whose jealousy borders on insanity. Her violent attempts to physically abuse her adorable little son, Tuffy, are thwarted when Kurt becomes his protector. David is forced to stay in Washington to comfort his close friend, President Nixon, who is embroiled in the Watergate Scandal. Suddenly, the whole nation is shocked by a bizarre murder in Darling Place and by the sensational trial and scandals, which follow. It is this astonishing scandal, which helps topple President Nixon from the White House—and changes the lives of everyone left in Darling Place.

FOREWORD  

This novel is set against one of the most tumultuous years in American history: 1973. As the Watergate Scandal reached its climax, President Richard Nixon edged closer to the abyss of imprisonment /impeachment. From a violent past of being murdered, maimed, locked-up, discriminated against, men and women burst out of their sexual closets. Gay Power, simmering for decades, finally exploded into public view. Feminists thrust themselves into the spotlight. Today, the feverish emotionalism has faded in both movements but they’ve left a permanent mark on the American historical landscape. A few vibrant personalities of both groups figure into this novel. Their roles here are purely fictional. Several of the more dramatic vignettes in this book are based on my own life.

Jery Tillotson

Manhattan

December 25, 2000

DEDICATION  

For Edward Cowan of Asheville, North Carolina, circa l962

The Secret Club

April 28, 1958—7:58 p.m.

Is it safe? asked Ricky.

His companion had already climbd out of the car. Torrid heat made sweat glisten on his handsome figure. Tilting the bottle of Johnny Walker to his lips, he drained a few gulps before dancing around and clicking his fingers.

Come on honey-buns, he whined to his reluctant boyfriend. They’re all just waiting for us to show them our cute little buns and big peckers.

When Ricky reluctantly pushed open the car door, he was embraced by air so hot and sultry that it tasted like the freshly cut honeysuckle and grass. It was night now, but the moon made everything glow in a silver halo: the row of cars lined up in the shadows of the pine trees at the end of the parking lot…the river flowing below where you could wash away all your sins after hours of degenerate fun.

Sam, I asked you is it safe? Ricky repeated. They could raid us tonight!

Ain’t nobody gonna bother us out here, gibbered Sam, pulling his golden-haired companion close to his moist chest. Somebody pay’s big money to the law stay away. I know for a fact I saw a trooper out here last week on his knees sucking away like crazy.

Yeah, and the governor comes around for a quick fuck, too drawled Ricky. Sweeping his hair back from his face, he moaned: God, this heat! Sam, let’s go on back to the motel. We’ll get a bucket of ice and get soused and watch Ed Sullivan.

But Sam grabbed his hand and pulled him along toward the wood. There, they would suddenly merge into a world that none of their fellow teachers or students at Carson City High could conceive. Certainly not Sam’s wife and three kids, watching television tonight, thinking he was attending a coach’s workshop in Charlotte. And Ricky had no doubt his mother and people at school were suspicious of his weekend partying in Charlotte with an imaginary girlfriend named Angela.

They stepped over the curb, across the wet grass, past the trees—and there they were. Right in the heart of the Secret Club.

His weak eyes saw nothing at first but Ricky sensed the presence of many men. More than that, he smelt their bodies—flesh, sweat, cigarettes, beer, booze, Old Spice Aftershave, the exhilarating scent of sex.

Hands began skimming over his flesh, under his blue jersey, especially over his butt and privates while he heard Sam grunt with delight as a mouth covered his nipple. As his eyes became more used to the shadows, Ricky watched someone helping Sam out of his trunks. Ricky grabbed them and tucked them under his arm. It would hardly do for one of the most popular coaches in North Carolina to be seen returning to his motel room stark naked.

More hands were trying to strip Ricky of his light summer attire but he resisted. He knew by now that half the anonymous men here were completely nude, a condition which seemed mandatory to belong to The Secret Club. But no matter how many drinks he had, he still feared being caught.

This place will never be touched! Sam had assured him. I know that one of the most powerful senators in the state comes by for a little fun. He’s passed the word: leave that place alone.

But Ricky remembered vividly just a year before the screaming headlines in even the ever-dull Thomasville newspaper:

Twenty-One Perverts Arrested!

Acting on a mysterious complaint, police in Raleigh had raided a private residence and hauled off twenty-one men. Why? Because they were found dancing together, some sitting in the laps of others, but worst of all, several wore female make-up and attire. The clincher, though, were couples caught performing lewd acts.

Mug shots had decorated the horrific article which not only named names but gave their addresses and occupations. Most of the men were married but were shipped off to prison for sodomy. Those found innocent were still ruined. They moved with their bewildered families to other towns under different names.

Ricky heard how his mother, Fannie Aversham, had stood up in church and held aloft that article and cried in joy. At last, she shouted, God had definitely been watching those sinners and now they were being punished.

She had even sent him a copy of the article just before he graduated from college, with the red scrawl: This is what’s happening to all the homo’s around here. Good riddance!

He had been tempted to shoot it back to her with his comment: Now, they need to start getting rid of all the child molesters and wife beaters! He had only to touch the white scar on his arm to remember the night when he was twelve and she had beaten him bloody with a board and then kicked him down the stairs, sending him to the hospital.

She had discovered his secret hoard of magazine pictures. They were filthy, horrible pictures of men wearing bathing suits. Bathing suits! They were doing nothing more grotesque but spreading on Coppertone suntan lotion. But she knew, had known all along, and that finally gave her reason for finally letting her hatred of him explode.

Was God watching them at that moment, Ricky wondered? While Sam kicked up his heels, groveling in lust as men fought over his sensuous body, Ricky began recognizing others members of this Secret Club. For three months, he and Sam had come here, unable to resist its temptations.

It was unlike the furtive, silent episodes he had experienced in college days where he did it with other boys in dorm rooms, parked cars, behind the bushes. The boys were all-Americans, innocent, inexperienced and as soon as they shot, that was it.

And then after it happened, he waited for his dorm room to blow open and the police or the Dean barging in to arrest him. This was what happened when you were a pansy…a fruit…faggot…cocksucker…queer.

But here, it was like he had discovered a sex jungle, which knew nothing of social niceties. Other men thought just like he did, wanting to get it on with another male body, with no small talk, game playing, glancing fearfully over your shoulder for the law.

Here, it was basic, ruthless and glorious. Your mouth and hands did all the communicating. Curiously, most of the lechers were the older, mature types, and quite probably married.

Over there was the Naked Man laying on his blanket with his butt sticking up in the air, eager for anyone to come and fill’er up. Close up, he resembled a professor or a minister with silver hair and a soft body. Few ever fulfilled his desire. He was too swish and only if he waved a ten-dollar bill in the air would one of the hustlers move away from posing against a tree to come over and oblige.

Squirming on the leaves were The Grub Worms. That’s what they looked like to Ricky—two plump, white men who rolled over and wriggled embraced tight and nobody could figure out what they were doing.

Other men lit up cigarettes so the others could see what kind of faces they had. This meant they wanted to get done by one of the mouths around there. Sam had crawled over to one of the rough looking trucker types and was now paying him oral homage.

Soft lips kissed Ricky’s neck and he shivered and the man was so skillful that he kept using his mouth like genitals over Ricky’s shapely torso. But just when things were reaching a climax, a very nude and sweaty Sam staggered over and growled: Honey, we needs us a picnic table. Show this bunch of sex perverts what real humping is. Come on now. Don’t waste your energy on this guy.

As if you haven’t been doing just that yourself.

Sam grabbed his ravishing companion close to him and kissed him deep, growling and rubbing his body against him. Then he pulled away and began dragging Ricky along with him, acting like a fool, jutting his head forward and swaying: Whar’s us a picnic table? Huh? Huh? Gotta show these clods what some real perverts can do.

But this was what was so thrilling about Sam Malone. He was just an unusually good-looking instructor at school during the day, with not only his female students but Ricky suspected some of the boys, too, fantasizing about his tanned body. When Sam was here, though, his black curls tousled, half-smashed; his lean physique gleaming with moisture he was irresistible.

God, I could just swallow you whole, Ricky whispered and slid his hand below the flat stomach to grasp the source of Sam’s intense virility.

Let’s us get us a picnic table, growled Sam, and you can do all the swallowing you want to, you cute little angel from Mars!

Our Secret Club, thought Ricky, as he smiled at how familiar it had become: the air so humid it was like sugared tea, the crushed grass and honeysuckle under their feet, the slurping of beer and booze and mouths making contact with moist flesh, the shuffling of feet and grunts and the lighting of cigarettes, like tiny flashlights seeking to see what the hell was going on out here in this shadowy universe. And always beckoning not far below was that gleaming body of water.

Sam paused to let a shadow kiss him passionately on the mouth while another figure stooped down before him to love his machismo but Ricky pulled him away.

Gotta find us a picnic table, remember? purred Ricky. But also to hurry up and do their thing and then get the hell back to their motel.

When Ricky first heard about this place from Sam, he couldn’t believe it was anything more than just a few horny truckers hanging around to get relief. But when he stepped into it the first time, it was amazing. And later, as he thought about it, such a place was inevitable.

For following the l955 homosexual witchhunt in Boise, Idaho, in which hundreds of men were railroaded into prison or run out of town, Ricky noticed the stories appearing in local newspapers. They detailed similar arrests of perverts, closure of tiny bars and even movie theaters in the bigger cities, raids on public parks, because they were known hangouts for degenerates.

It wasn’t unusual in smaller towns for single working men to be booted out of apartments and turned down for jobs—simply because they were still bachelors. Any male not married simply had to be a fag.

Single men swiftly began dating up a storm, or talked a lot about being engaged to some gal in another city or suddenly became active in the church. It helped if you babbled about being girl-crazy, ah jus’ gotta find me a slut somewhere to help me out! Ah jus’ climb the walls I get so horny.

Vice squads were beefed up entirely for the capture of sodomites. Beefy officers in tight pants and unbuttoned shirts cruised bars and bathrooms in bus stations and parks to entice other men, forcing the victim to touch them before clamping manacles on them.

Even when these victims swore these entrappers demanded full sexual satisfaction before capturing, everyone laughed them off. Homo’s couldn’t tell the truth if it killed them. And that’s what should be done with them, the officers and much of the public thought. Lynch’em, hang’em high, gang rape them and then shove their bodies into a lake or pond. Just as they had always done with uppity black men in the past.

Even small town sheriff departments with tiny budgets gleefully jumped into the act, with shapeless deputies flirting with single men, doing everything but raping them before arresting them.

And then sexually assaulting them after they were jailed. The suspect wouldn’t have had to do anything. The fact that he stared at the aggressor’s privates or had a weird look on his face was often enough to jail them before they were railroaded into state prison.

No one could conceive of the handsome, popular Sam Malone as living a double life. He and his wife and three children were known far and wide in the community as the All-American Family.

Not the same could be said for Ricky. He was still single, dated no one in Carson City. His attire was weird and prissy: beautiful sweater and slack outfits, jackets, silk ties, smelling of perfume, in that sea of sturdy wool and denim from Sears and Woolworth’s.

The fact that he lived with his mother, the former principal of Carson City High, prevented anyone, especially the sheriff’s department, from publicly accusing him of being a degenerate. Of all the residents of the town, surely ole Miz Aversham would never allow an actual homo to live in her house!

Now, Ricky listened to soft slurpings, whispers of entreaty or protest and smothered groans over cries of the crickets. There was a quality of desperation and hysteria out here in this dark little oasis. Tonight, they made the female sluts in nearby Spartanburg and Greensboro look like Betty Crocker. Yet, tomorrow, they all returned to being butch hypocrites and yakking too much about doing all-male things.

Sam dragged Ricky behind him, muttering, Whar’s me a picnic table.. gotta find that picnic table… He loved putting on a show, the nastier the better, before a crowd.

It gave him a kick to hear others groan about his big body, the way his hips swiveled up and down when doing it with his sweetheart. Sometimes it was all he could do to keep his clothes on while coaching the kids at school.

The jocks loved it when he stripped naked with them in the locker rooms and they all horsed around and it didn’t take much for him to get a boner. This created a chain reaction with all the other other sexed-up young bloods achieving erections.

They’d have cock fights there beneath the steaming rays of water, flapping their manhoods at each other like miniature swords. Several times he had come dangerously close to letting his admirers go beyond just some boyish gropes and tugs but even Sam Malone controlled himself at those times.

If even a whisper of such shenanigans leaked out in that whistle-stop, it would be a worse scandal than if people found out he was a rapist or a homicidal maniac.

Tugging at his moustache, he glared down at Ricky as if it were his fault there were no tables in sight so they could begin their performance.

Whar’s us a goddamned table, huh, honey-bunch? Huh, huh, haaa!

His good humor had quickly returned because he had the cutest trick anywhere around. When they went out in public in Charlotte or some other big town on the weekends, they drew plenty of attention. Ricky wore one of those dresses he enjoyed putting on away from home, with some people certain he was a deadringer for Marilyn Monroe.

In private, still wearing his Marilyn wig, Ricky mimicked the blonde movie queen singing Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend or Bye, Bye Baby.

And their favorite movie was Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, starring Monroe and Jane Russell. One night, Sam let Ricky apply make-up to him so that he could be the Jane Russell type.

Together they played the sound track from the movie and Ricky became hysterical as Sam tried his damndest to sashay around their motel room. As he fluttered his eyes and swung his hips, like a mustachioed Jane Russell, his boyfriend rolled on the bed, gasping for breath from laughing so damned hard.

***

During that whole school year, where Sam coached the Carson City Eagles and Ricky tried to teach English to slack-jawed dummies, the two considered themselves married to each other. It was a thrilling secret, dangerous, illicit, scandalous, for if word got out, they would definitely be fired and hounded out of town—or worse.

It would hardly be the first time a fruit was found floating in the nearby river or strung up in a wood with a noose around his neck and his privates stuffed into his mouth.

Didn’t matter if they were normal or dated now and then. The fact that they swished a little, walked funny, looked at other men funny, was enough reason to murder them. The law never bothered to check it out if the victim was suspected of being a fuckin’ cocksucker.

It was at the Get-Acquainted Banquet for Teachers at Carson City where the lovers first met.

The cafeteria of the lunchroom was decorated with crepe paper curlicues, balloons and the tables set with plastic plates and paper cups, filled with nuts and dried cereal mix.

Ricky had no choice but to accompany his mother but he let her know in no uncertain terms that he hated every moment of it.

Four months before, he had received his B.A. Degree in English from Duke University and planned to teach that fall at the exclusive LeTour Military Academy in Charleston.

This was a feather in any teacher’s cap. It was acceptable for members of the all-male teaching staff to have affairs with the older eighteen-year-old students. You just had to be very discreet. No worries there about being arrested and tortured by uniformed sadists.

But just before his graduation, the school had called and regretted to inform him that because of budget cuts, his position had been cancelled. Even stranger than this news, on that same night, the Reverend Highsmith, his mother’s preacher, had phoned to inform him that his only parent had nearly died of a heart attack. She could go into the great beyond at any moment so perhaps he should consider coming home.

Let her die, drawled Ricky so casually he could hear the gasp of the minister. I could care less.

Ricky, Ricky! wailed the Reverend Highsmith. You cannot talk that way about your own mother! If it’s only for a few minutes, you should see her!

Although their hatred for each other was mutual, he made the dismal trip to Carson City to find her propped up in the town clinic. You can get a job teaching at our school here, she murmured weakly to him. It’d be good experience. You can always go to that military academy next year.

Did you have something to do with LeTour canceling my job? he asked bluntly.

The sparkle of triumph glinted in her eye but she muttered her familiar: You haven’t changed, have you? Still hate your old widowed mother, don’t you?

You? A mother? he scoffed. Don’t give yourself any illusions. Okay, I’ll come back. But one thing’s for damned sure. I’ll not live with you. But the cozy apartment he found on the outskirts of town suddenly became suspiciously unavailable.

My niece is moving down from Georgia and she hasn’t any place to stay, stammered the woman.

My, my, drawled Ricky, how strange she should suddenly decide to move into the thriving metropolis of Carson City.

Every other apartment or house were suddenly unavailable. Surely, she doesn’t have that much power here, thought Ricky.

And as soon as the school year began, his mother made a miraculous recovery, almost as if you were never sick in the first place, Ricky accused her.

Shut up and stop bitching, she retorted, standing tall and stiff by the kitchen counter while pouring a glass of iced tea. Be glad you’ve got a job teaching here. We’ve always had an Aversham in the school system here.

Is that why you wanted me back? Just to carry on your lousy name?

She slapped him hard across the face but was startled when he shoved her hard to the floor. He moved closer, standing over her. Let’s not have any of that, Mommie, he said quietly. I’m bigger now and you can’t knock me around with your cane or shove me down the stairs or beat me senseless with the broom so bad I’ll have to go to the clinic. That wouldn’t help your reputation too much.

I’ve—I’ve never touched you in my life! she gasped, her eyes not meeting his for it was common knowledge that ole Miz Aversham could be violent and vicious to anyone who displeased her.

But before he was forced to move back into his old room, he laid down ground rules: she was not to enter it. He would pay her for room and board and he expected her to respect his privacy. His life was his own for he was now an adult, not a punching bag for her to try and mold into the man she thought he should be.

She had reacted to his stand with her usual reply. Snorting and curling up her lips in disgust, she spat: You’re such a lousy freak. You oughta be glad you can even find a job here in Carson City. No other school in their right mind would want to hire a queer like you.

Before, he had usually left her quickly, wanting to avoid a confrontation but four years of freedom and self-discovery had changed him. Staring at her, he moved closer: It takes a freak to know one, you miserable old bitch. It’s a big world out there outside of Carson City. You’re the one who wouldn’t last. You’re a bully here. Out there, you wouldn’t last a day before somebody didn’t knock the hell out of you.

She swung her cane at him but he grabbed it, threw it against the wall and slammed her into her rocking chair. You try hitting me again and I’ll report you to the sheriff’s department. Oh, you wouldn’t like that, would you? Not old Miz Aversham! Don’t kid yourself. People in this town know how you used to beat me up and put my hands in scalding water and kicked me down the stairs. I showed people in college this scar from one of your beatings.

He rolled up his sweater sleeve and displayed the white streak along his arm. Remember that night you used a board with nails to beat me, Mama, and I had to go to the emergency room to be stitched up and you told them it was a bunch of town bullies? The nurses knew the truth.

You lying sonofabitch! she screeched. Why, I’ve never touched you in my life. I just wanted to be a loving mother and—

Oh, God, save it for the preacher.

As he left her, he gave his hips an extra wriggle, causing her to mutter and seethe about what a freak of nature he was.

At that first banquet, Ricky had noticed instantly the presence of a handsome, swarthy giant, a man so good looking and sexy that it was shocking to see him among these drab, small town clods in their suits, dresses and shirts from Woolworth’s.

This Apollo was attired in a white suit, a floral shirt with a hideous tie, but you forgot his taste in clothes by his animal beauty. A dark moustache made his bronzed skin gleam with luscious moisture and when Ricky met him, he noticed how hot he was. Sweat sparkled on his rugged face and the chest exposed from the half buttoned shirt.

I’m Mr. Sam Malone, boomed the Adonis, and don’t tell me! I’ll bet you’re Miz Aversham’s little boy, Ricky.

Why how did you ever guess? drawled Ricky and shivered slightly at the bolt of electricity which flashed between them. During the banquet, they sat across from each other and Ricky felt the warm pressure of Sam’s thighs against his.

Afterwards, Sam asked if he’d like to take a little ride out into the country over to Baker’s Branch, a favorite place near the river to watch for UFO’s for there had been a spate of flying saucer sightings during the past few months.

They were the only ones there and in the car, Sam was even more like a delightful, warm bear, taking up much of the front seat. Complaining about the heat, he stripped off his jacket, then his shirt so that he was bare chested.

He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and they passed it back and forth, and somehow, Sam slipped out of his slacks, then his white BVDs and Ricky was out of his.

Sam proved to be a thrilling partner, taking complete command and treating Ricky like a woman. They had spread a blanket on the soft grass and beneath the star-spattered sky, Ricky felt like this was the man he had always fantasized about.

He had lost count of his sex partners in college. All the guys wanted were to ball with him and most had been fun. But that’s all they were. Fun. They knew nothing about really loving up their partner. All they wanted was to get their rocks off.

But Sam tongued all the nooks and crannies of Ricky’s body, until he wanted to scream for release. And Sam was one of those real rarities: a man who really could achieve a stream of orgasms, never tiring, always ready to get it on again.

And over the following months, he thought of nothing but the hours when he could be alone with his passionate lover. In Sam Malone, Ricky found the father he had never known, the brother, the buddy, and the sex athlete he dreamed about.

For Sam, it was like he had suddenly discovered there was indeed a heaven on earth in the form of this fascinating young man. In college and in the Marines, his encounters with other men had been furtive and fast and he hated that. He loved everything about being with other men, the way they drooled over him, did things women would never dream of doing.

He’d thought nothing of getting married and having kids. That was what he was supposed to do and he could do it because he liked being King of the Hill in a hick town where everybody liked him.

Since Sam often had to travel out-of-town for sporting events, this gave him a perfect excuse to lock his conventional life away for the weekend and let his real personae emerge. Ricky created Angela who lived in Charlotte and he dropped the name of these fun-loving women enough around school for everyone to think they were engaged.

And so in Room 400 of the Sweetheart Inn, Ricky tried to forget his miserable life at home and revealed a side to his boyfriend which even more cemented their love. One afternoon in bed together, they had paused in their love-making to watch television.

God, how I’d love to get into the White House and get rid of that brainless wonder, Ricky bitched when the baldheaded image of President Eisenhower flashed on the TV screen. And Sam Malone howled at the idea of his little yallar haired darling ever getting into the White House.

But just a month before, Sam told Ricky something curious: in the ugly furniture town of Thomasville, not far from Carson City, there was a strange guy living there who was causing controversy. He was an out-andout homo. He didn’t try to hide nothing. But even more curious, he could be a twin brother of Ricky.

That’s what some of my jocks told me, Sam continued. They’ve seen this guy. But he’s got so much money, nobody had better dare even try bothering him. He’s got an uncle on the police department.

You’re crazy! protested Ricky. "They’d kill him if they thought he was a pansy, no matter if he had billions. Especially in Thomasville.

But he had insisted they drive over, in hopes of seeing this astonishing creature who taught in the high school but lived a mysterious, private life.

His name is Clark DuBois, Sam said in excitement, enjoying this adventure. But the only reason nobody’s killed him, is that he’s never done anything—or so they think. But the kids like him. And again, he’s got plenty of dough. Inherited it from his folks who owned half of the furniture factories there.

Sam parked up the street, on the opposite side of a row of old, Victorian houses, the only attractive ones Ricky had ever seen in this city.

We don’t want to sit here too long, muttered Sam. Somebody might recognize us. But this Clark DuBois works in his yard a lot on the weekends. And he always wears a black beret.

I feel weird spying like this, Sam, complained Ricky but he, too, was determined to see who this brave and original character might be. The street was well-cared for and Sam kept remembering tidbits about this personage he’d heard from the other men: his mother had died and left him this house, although he reportedly hated her. He was so brilliant he finished college when he was only twenty.

The only reason he’d agreed to teach was to get his certificate. He’d made it clear to everybody that he was moving on to bigger things.

Hey, it’s him, Ricky! gasped Sam. It’s gotta be him. He’s wearing a beret.

They both watched a slender figure suddenly appear down the street. He was dressed all in black, from a beret to a cloak and dark glasses, and carried a grocery bag.

He walks just like a woman! whispered Ricky. Can you believe it? I’m surprised they haven’t killed him. And he looks so—so foreign for these parts. Like he were somebody from Europe or New York.

Clark Dubois was still too far away for them to see him clearly but then he started to turn into the walkway of one of the bigger houses. He took off his beret and his glasses. He glanced briefly at the car.

Ricky! gasped Sam. Are you seeing what I’m seeing? It—it looks just like you!

Oh, my God! whispered Ricky. It does!

The striking figure of Clark DuBois glided up the walk to the front porch, then vanished inside.

As they drove back to their motel, all they could talk about was the uncanny resemblance between Ricky and his doppelganger.

Now, on their foray into the rest area, Sam suddenly whooped. Honey, I think I see us a table! he gasped and dragged his blonde haired beauty over to an empty one near the thick woods, which led down to the river.

He picked Ricky up in his arms, kissed him and placed him on the edge of the picnic table, which by day was often the site for average families snacking on sandwiches and sipping cold Pepsi’s and Royal Crown Colas.

Sam, honey, Ricky said again, if we’re gonna do it, let’s make it quick. If the sheriff’s department—

But Sam took several big swallows of booze. He felt the alcohol flushing his face and flooding his head. Everything was spinning so he’d better move fast or he couldn’t get it up. Where the hell was his clothes? Shit, he’d feel like hell tomorrow but tonight he didn’t care.

Other men crowded around them now, some shining flashlights on them, for this couple was easily the most handsome out here. Hands of the strangers slid over Sam’s muscular back, his thighs, caressed his cute boy’s butt, while others reached under to squeeze his big pecs and the nipples. Sam panted and complained.

Why did Ricky have to always wear his shorts? The kid never lost his inhibitions enough to strip completely bare butt in public, always afraid of being caught.

We made it, honey, Sam whispered and kissed Ricky’s face. We got us a picnic table and man, are we gonna put on a show.

Then hurry, hurry, moaned Ricky. You’ve drunk too much, Sammy! You’re not hard!

Damn, you’re right, bet-better do it now before I pass out, muttered the coach. He became so dizzy, he fell to the ground, banging his head against the leg of the table, but the men helped him to his feet, giggling, for he was acting like a fool.

Sammy, you gashed your head! hissed Ricky. Blood’s streaming down.

Clumsily, the coach wiped the wetness away with the back of his hand.

You and these damned shorts.

He was trying to pull them lower, off Ricky’s ankles but his partner pushed the hands away.

Know something, Ricky? he muttered, I really loves you. I wish we could get married and go off someplace. Wow, honey, you knows what I like!

WHAM!

Powerful spotlights ripped the darkness.

Stay where you are! boomed a voice over a megaphone. Do not move! Repeat, do not move! We are the Sheriff’s Department and you are all under arrest.

Sam’s head jerked back and Ricky was to never forget the sight of those eyes, bulging in terror. Yanking up his shorts, Ricky jumped from the table and grabbed Sam’s arm.

Sam, come on! Move it!

A mob of snarling dogs streaked out of the shadows, followed by a gang of uniformed men, swinging billy clubs and big flashlights. Around Ricky, men screamed, gasped, cried out as they whirled around frantically to escape, but more uniformed men oozed out of the darkness.

Run! shouted Sam. Go on! I’ll follow! He had already shoved Ricky toward the river but alcohol slowed and confused him. He tripped over bushes and struggled to his feet as Ricky reached some pine trees and paused for him.

To his horror, three deputies had grabbed Sam, with one pulling his head back by his hair while another one held his billy club like a baseball bat and smashed it against Sam’s skull.

Even from where he stood, Ricky heard the crack of bone. From the huge spotlights now blinding white, Ricky recognized two of the men as deputies from Carson City. Even as blood spurted from Sam’s head, the thugs kicked him, slapped him and the biggest one continued to slam his club into the bloody skull.

You fucking pricks! screamed Ricky, and picking up a sharp rock, aimed it with uncanny precision, striking the biggest deputy square in the face. They dropped Sam to the ground, whirling to look at Ricky.

Let’s get that little cocksucker! howled one of the hunters.

***

Before him glided the river, like a glistening serpentine monster. A footpath wound along the bank. On the horizon glowed the warm lights of the Sweetheart Motel. Dear God, just let me get there and I’ll drive back for Sam.

A voice boomed through the dark: Don’t any of you faggots try running away, you fucking cocksuckers! There’s snakes all over the place. Copperheads, rattlers. Just give yourselves up and we’ll take care of you! Whoops, you better believe we will!

Ricky could see hardly anything because of his weak vision. He was forced to move slowly along the path but behind him, officers swarmed closer, thrashing through the bushes.

Suddenly, a figure rose up before him, from behind a bush. Ricky fell to his knees and searched the ground’s surface for a rock or a sharp stick. His fist closed over a jagged stone but the man’s voice was reassuring.

Hey, buddy, don’t be scairt! I’m not one of them! I’m running, too, from those fucking bastards. Come on, I know a shortcut out to the road. My car’s up there.

Who—I can’t see!

Come on! the man rasped. They’re getting closer. You coming or not? Dammit, give me your hand and I’ll guide you!

Again, Ricky hesitated. Dogs and humans crashed closer and the man did look slightly familiar, like one of the voyeurs who had gathered around the picnic table. Ricky’s hand slid over the stranger’s sweaty arm, chest and he felt safer.

But then the man grabbed him roughly and bellowed: Hey, guys, I got one of them fags! Hurry up! She’s real purty, too!

Yeah, and you’re pretty hot yourself! spat Ricky, smashing the rock into the man’s face and with a violent push, shoved him into the black water.

***

Now, why should we study long-dead poets like Wordsworth and Byron? Can you tell me, Judy?

Ricky spoke automatically, not even trying to make sense, watching a shadow pause before the frosted door of his classroom.

No, Judy? How about you, eh, Leon Donny Snyder?

The faces of the class were empty and bored. He wondered what they would think if they had seen him just eight hours before, racing for his life along the snake-infested banks of the Black River.

Make-up disguised the scraps on his face and hands. A glass of straight vodka calmed him. But he had this uncontrollable impulse to scream at the top of his lungs and to smash all those dead, dull faces staring at him.

And what happened to Sam? After rushing to the motel, changing clothes and packing up their belongings, Ricky jumped into his car and raced back to the rest area but it was too late.

It was saturated with revolving blue and red lights, television vans, flash bulbs popping, state troopers waving him and other motorists away from the spot. It was as if a gang of blood thirsty killers had been captured and the public must be protected from them.

He returned again but the scene had not changed. This time, though, he was shocked to see groups of uniformed men, standing around their vehicles, smoking cigarettes, sipping coffee, howling and laughing and flipping their wrists at one another. To them, the creatures they had captured were so beneath contempt, they were lower than a bunch of psychopathic butchers.

He drove by Sam’s house. Plain, red-bricked, ranch type, with bikes and toys in the front lawn. Venetian blinds closed, a rubber swimming pool lying flat and empty. His car was still gone, still parked at the motel. Oh, God, what was happening to him?

***

The door to the classroom cracked open and one of the new teachers, Maggie, gestured for him to join her. They had become close during that year and enjoyed laughing. She wasn’t at all surprised when he suggested he spent his weekend with a boyfriend. Her reply was: Can you dig one up for me?

But now, her face was drawn, as she grasped his arm:

My God! she whispered. Ricky, there was a raid last night at a rest area! I heard about it on the radio! Sam Malone’s not here today. Even his wife called up the principal because she didn’t know where he is? Do you—?

Honey, I can’t talk now! Meet me in the cafeteria at lunch—if I’m still here.

But barely had he shut the door than there was another knock. This time the school secretary, plump Betty Rawlings, wearing her usual cotton dress with pink roses and violets, beckoned for him to come out.

He was wanted in the principal’s office, she said quietly, not looking at him. Word was out. As he moved down the darkened hallway, he passed groups of students. All were whispering, some with tight, excited smiles animating their thin faces and now they turned to stare at him.

He was one of ‘em, I’ll bet! someone hissed.

Slouched in a chair was a sheriff’s deputy with sandy hair and a red face. A big bandage covered part of his forehead and his eyes were bloodshot. Big circles of wetness darkened the armpits of his shirt. Next to him was another deputy, with a bulging belly and a pink face gleaming with sweat.

They glared at him while Principal Herman Hughes stood up and handed Ricky a newspaper.

Ricky, this just came out in the High Point paper. It’s all over the radio and TV. Seems like our Sam Malone was caught last night and he—well, just read the headlines.

Trying to keep his

hands steady, Ricky

scanned the nightmarish

front page. For there

it allwas: Massive Sex

Sweep Captures 21 Perverts!

Several photographs decorated the story, among them a Doctor Ken Jerome and a Reverend Billy Hackett. But bigger than any of them was the grinning, impudent mug of Samuel Malone, well-known and popular coach of Carson City High School, a Boy Scout Den Father, a civic leader…

Twenty-one perverts…twenty-one…

"I—I can’t believe this! murmured Ricky, looking up at the staring faces. This can’t be possible. Not our Sam Malone! He’s married with children."

Buster? asked the bigger of the two deputies. This the fag who smashed in your nose and pushed you into the water?

Could be! muttered Buster, glaring at Ricky. Same height. Same kind of sissy voice. Just like that goddamned fruit I nearly stomped last night.

He paused, and his dark eyes glittered venomously: Good thing he ran away when he did. I would’ve stomped the shit out of his cocksucking ass! So bad he couldn’t come to school today. He’d be locked up in jail. Or left back out there at that fag hangout.

Their breathing had quickened, tickled to have one of the school’s most respected teachers in this position. At last, hallelujah, they finally had something on this homo. Buster even let his hand drop to his lap where he massaged his genitals. Batting his eyes, he pursed his lips together in a silent kiss.

But suddenly both officers tensed for this fruit was acting in a way none of them had ever beheld in a pansy before.

Instead of blushing or cringing or acting like he was having a breakdown, he rose up from his chair, squared his shoulders and moved closer to them, studying them with intense contempt.

Oh, you mean leaving me out at the rest area, laying in my own blood and guts after you’d smashed in my skull, snorted Ricky. I hear that’s how you slobs usually leave your pansy victims. Did you make any of them suck your tiny little cocks like you usually do? Huh? Fag got your tongue?

How—how’d you know about that? demanded Buster.

Kurt said nothing. His expression made even his accusers shift nervously in their chair. Listen to me, you rednecked pricks, don’t you for a second accuse me of something I’m innocent of or I swear, I ‘ll sue you for libel and defamation of character and have your asses run out of town! Is that clear?

The way he spoke and the way he did it was so powerful that for a moment, the men were too stunned to say anything. They’d heard this pretty little thing was a cocksucker and they knew from experience how easy these fags could be crushed—but this one! Lord God, he reminded them of his old Mama—and that bitch still had plenty of pull in this town.

Grabbing his billy club, Buster lunged from his chair toward Ricky but the principal jumped in between them.

Calm down, you men! Principle Hughes cut in. Ricky, nobody’s charged with anything. Let these men ask you some questions now.

Yeah, cool down, hot shot! grunted Buster, getting back some of his attitude. He’d never had anybody turn on him before, especially in a respectable office like this. His small mouth tightened: Where were you last night? Sweat gleamed on his flushed face and seeped through the gray material of his shirt. A bead of perspiration dripped from his nose onto his belly.

Ricky took his time returning to his chair by the desk, leaning back and crossing his legs. In Charlotte. A party. I have a girlfriend there, Angela.

Don’t you lie to us, dammit all! hollered Buster. We know’d you were staying there at that fag motel, the Sweet Heart Inn, you and your fagging boyfriend, Mr. Dip Shit—

If you insult me again, Ricky cut in, stressing each word slowly and ominously, or falsely accuse me of something I’ve not done, then I can promise you, I’ll be getting my attorney over here and filing charges against you so fast your head will swim. I’ve never heard of the Sweet Heart Inn. Sam Malone and I are friends and that’s it. Why—?

Suddenly, the phone rang and the principal grabbed the receiver.

Miss Rawlings, I done told you not to bother me when—he—he what? Oh, oh, my Lord in Heaven. No, don’t tell me that. He—he did? Good Lord in heaven. That’s—that’s terrible. Dear God, it’s terrible.

The face of the principal had become a sickly white. Now he stared at the deputies, then at Ricky before ducking his head. I heard something terrible. It’s about Sam Malone.

The deputies raised their brows and smirked while Ricky leaned forward. What—what about Sam Malone? he whispered.

The principal raised his hands and dropped them. He’s dead. Killed himself. He was at the hospital. They thought he was about dead. He somehow got hold of one of the deputy’s guns and blew his brains out.

I’ll be shit! whistled Buster. His two boys were on the ball team and Sam Malone had visited his house several times for barbecue. But after learning the coach was a faggot, Buster felt jubilant at the news of his death.

Turning to his cohort, he widened his eyes and sneered. Ha, can you beat that? Well, that’s one less homo we’ll have to worry about.

Sonofabitch, whistled his friend. He sure didn’t act like a queer to me. But he saved us a lot of work. One more cocksucker we don’t have to go out and look for. Guess we’d better get out there.

Sam Malone, muttered Ricky, staring at them. Dead. He’s dead and you two piles of stinking shit are alive and kicking! You bust in his head, throw him in jail and now you’ve killed him. You two, lousy, goddamned morons. You made him do this when he wasn’t hurting anybody. You two maggots are the ones who should have your brains blown all over creation. You no-good, white trash—

Jes’ one damned minute! hooted Buster, springing again from his chair and trying to grab Ricky. Once more, the principal got between them.

He’s upset! he shouted. Dammit all, go on over to Sam Malone’s home! This is horrible. Go on, please go on. Ricky’s in shock! We all are! Go on, please! This is a-a nightmare!

Glaring at Ricky, the two deputies waddled toward the door but Buster paused to jab a finger at him. We got some serious questions to ask you, Mr. Big Shot Nellie Girl! You’d better not try going anywhere until we get back here. You understand what I’m saying, Miss Hot Shot?

Why aren’t you hurrying to see the fag who blew his brains out? grinned Ricky in such a strange way it made