Turning Idolater Page 3

  “I hope I didn’t dishturb anyzing elze you had plant vor today, huh?”

  “Sorry I’m late, Kurt. It won’t happen again.”

  Kurt grinned. “No pay today, you know zis. Just for the tipz you verk tonight.”

  Philip trembled. “Please. No. I need the cash. I’ve rent due and I haven’t eaten in three days.” That was a stretch and Kurt knew it, but Philip’s pleading was a one-way ticket to grovel heaven. “Kurt, have a heart. Have a heart.”

  Kurt growled, feigning displeasure, but in fact, Philip knew that by playing the slave, Kurt’s better nature would be revealed, if it could be called better.

  “Enough of zis veeping. I hate vhen you kinder go do de veeping.” He was really enjoying it. “You are der lucky vone zat I don’t kick your ass out and get me somezing elze. Der straße hast mit kinder gefüllen.”

  Philip pouted, the tears genuinely pumped now. He owed Sprakie this month’s rent and given Sprakie’s current mood (the shirt and all), he didn’t think he’d be able to make it. He’d have to hit the streets. That index card in his pocket suddenly sung out a song of subsidy.

  “Drop your pantz,” Kurt blustered. “Remind me vhy I hired you in der furst plaze.”

  Philip didn’t hesitate. He unbuckled his jeans and let them slide, a funny picture since he still had his backpack on. Kurt’s eyes were alight on the bright white holster that the jock strap afforded.

  “Turn around. Let me zee zat bubble butz.”

  Philip turned. He felt Kurt’s eyes on his bare ass. They were like razorblades gobbling the hemispheres together into one scrumptious panorama. Philip shrugged as he watched Sprakie shake his head. Max Gold had come into the corridor now, naked also, but with his clothes draped over his arm, and his supper in a brown paper bag. He did a double take upon seeing Philip standing at half-mast before the Porn Nazi. A glance toward Sprakie told him the whole story, a story that perhaps Max had experienced first hand.

  “Fine,” Kurt said. “Pull zem up. You are shtill vorth it. Half pay tonight, und zie tipz.”

  Philip turned about and pulled his jeans up in a graceful pirouette. “Thank you, Kurt.” Any concession was better than nothing. “I promise to be on time from now on.” He started back to Sprakie, when the Porn Nazi banged his fist on the desk.

  “Vorget zomezing, did you?”

  Philip halted, closed his eyes and cringed. He sauntered back to the desk, coming around it. If he had had lunch, this would be a good time to heave it. He bent down through the haze of rotten cigar smoke and kissed Kurt on the lips.

  “Thank you, Kurt,” he said.

  Kurt smiled, and then grabbed Philip’s head and planted a wet, bologna and onion on rye kiss smack on Philip’s maw. Philip pulled away, but not so fraught as to undo the good deed. Still, he choked as his mouth tried to expel the terrible taste of Kurt. He would have rather swallowed the cigar whole than to get it thus filtered.

  “You zee, I kan be nize. Und . . . you can have your whole pay tonight. I von’t even take my tip cut. Howz dat? Und you can shtart on zie hour now. Zo take your zweet time about it, ja.”

  Philip swallowed, and then gave Kurt another kiss, this one on the cheek, followed by a fond pat on the elbow and a grateful smile. He came out of this ahead, if Kurt was forgoing his thirty percent cut of the tips. Philip thought it best to get out of the office before Kurt went for broke and made him a business partner. Nothing could tempt him along those lines. He headed back down the corridor to face Sprakie, who stood with his hand on his hips — a magnificent salad cruet.

  6

  “So, while I’m here working my ass off, you’re poking around in my privates.”

  Philip locked his arms around Sprakie’s waist and groped downward. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Don’t think you can have your way with me and get forgiveness.” Sprakie unlatched and twirled round. “I’m not Sister Mary Diesel, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Philip said, as pathetically as he could muster. He could have mustered a sheepish cajole, but since Sprakie had taught him that look, he knew it wouldn’t work here.

  “I’m serious.” Sprakie sat on the bench and tied his shoes, now that the rest of him was clad. “I don’t go snooping about your drawers.”

  “There’s nothing to snoop in.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Philip grinned. The point was that petite ladies pistol tucked beneath the satins.

  “What if you found my porn?”

  “I know where your porn is and could never understand why you’d bring work home.”

  Sprakie bounced to his feet like a crocus in May. “You can never have too many training videos, my dear.” He pinched Max’s ass as he bent for his sandwich. “I don’t know how you can eat after all those heathen men clicking away.”

  Max jumped. He winked at Philip, and then proceeded to consume his tuna fish sandwich. “I gotta eat, Robert. I’m hypoglycemic. It wouldn’t be good for business if I conked out over the keyboard.”

  “I suppose not,” Sprakie said. He sniffed. “But must you eat Tender Vittles?”

  Max yawed. Philip just stared at the sandwich. Cat food or Chicken of the Sea, it sang to him. Max calmed down. “You want my other half?” he said to Philip. “I only need a little to stop from passing out.”

  Philip smiled and reached, the second portion deposited into his hand. The smelled was delightful despite Sprakie’s eye roll and hand wave. This might be the last time Philip would see food until foraging through the half-fridge where there was nary an egg.

  “Thanks, Max.” Philip ate slowly, savoring the flaky, moist meat and the sweet rye bread. Mayonnaise, just a hint, and perfectly seasoned. It was heaven on the tongue.

  “Jesus Marie,” Sprakie said. “If that’s all you need to make you happy, I’d keep the cupboard stocked.”

  “Would you?”

  “Do you think I made of gold?”

  “I think you’re full of shit,” Max yawked, the tuna spread over his teeth and over the corners of his mouth.

  “Maybe, so, Kitten,” Sprakie snapped. “But I rule the boards here, and don’t you ever forget it.” He turned on Philip. “And aren’t you supposed to be on now?”

  “Kurt said on the hour.”

  Sprakie waggled his shoulders. “Kurt said on the hour.” He glanced toward Kurt, who was deep in the monitor. “On zee hour,” Sprakie mimicked causing Philip to choke on the Albacore.

  “My break’s up,” Max said, piling the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth.

  “Yeah, I’d pay to see that,” Sprakie said. “You look like a catfish.”

  “See you later, guys.”

  Once Max disappeared through his door, Sprakie rounded on Philip. “Where’s your cell phone?” Philip latched onto his Nokia from the side of his backpack. He pressed the ON button. Nothing. “Out of juice. Gimme that thing.” Sprakie whipped out his charger and felt around the bench for an outlet. “You’re supposed to keep it charged up all the time. So, why are you late?”

  “Delayed.”

  “Obviously. Who was he?”

  Philip finished the sandwich and looked around for something to drink. There wasn’t even a water fountain in the place, and if there were, who would plant their lips around it.

  “Dick,” he spluttered.

  “I would hope so.”

  “Moby Dick.”

  “Not that fucking fish story again. I don’t now what’s come over you. I didn’t bring up no scholar.”

  “No, I took a long bubble bath . . .”

  “Bubble bath?” Sprakie raised his hands up high in a glory hallelujah. “First my shirt and now my bath crystals. And not even for a man. For a book.”

  Sprakie grabbed Philip by the neck and drew him close. “Listen, Lady Chatterley. Back copies of Advocate Personals and other hard rock candy stuff are okay reading for you, but a big-ass book about a whale? The last time I picked up a book was the phone book, and that was to call a
florist so I could decorate the place for a doctor.”

  Philip broke loose. He smiled. His thirst was fierce now. The wonderful fish taste was now somewhat gamey in his throat. “Is there something to drink?”

  Sprakie rustled through Max’s paper bag. “How about a Diet Coke?”

  “Perfect,” Philip said. “Won’t he miss it?”

  “He a dumb-ass newbie.”

  Philip took a swig. Delightful. “What ever happened to that doctor and his dick of death?”

  “Please,” Sprakie said. “I still can’t sit down. It was Doctor Brian McMoldau of the Gustave McMoldaus, East Hampton’s finest. Well, I thought I told you this, sis. He was hung like a you-know-what, and rich as Margaret Truman, but he had one flaw — a small flaw. He was as ugly as a goddamn monkey’s ass; and although he made it worth my while, there definitely was no call for me to be the permanent houseboy. So, when the doctor was in, my eyes were shut so I wouldn’t start laughing. Giggles meant no supper. No little spending money at Saks.”

  Philip released his backpack and sat on the bench. “Did you meet him on-line?”

  Sprakie sat beside him after glancing at the watch. “Never date them,” he said. “Be polite, get them in the One on One, make fucking pen pals out of them and they’ll come back and spend hundreds. Take your commission and run.”

  “They’re not all that bad.”

  “I forgot. You’ve made the rounds there. That geezer. And what did he give you? The clap? No. A two-ton book with no centerfold. Have you found the sugar daddy of your dreams yet?”

  “No,” Philip said. “But some of them are interested in more than a one-nighter. And he was a nice man. He didn’t make me do anything but strip.”

  “That’s the problem, hon. Some of them are freaky with the love and romance. And . . .” Suddenly, Sprakie’s eyebrows raised. He sucked in his breath and got to his feet. “Oh, I know who you’re thinking about.”

  “Tdye.”

  “Tdye. What kinda screen nickname is that? I can live with Fuckmonger and Asspounder, but Tdye? What’s that, Tie Dye, like they did to pants before we were born?”

  “I believe it’s Thomas,” Philip said. “He’s a writer. He’s very gentle in One on One and generous.”

  “Jesus Marie, you’re pathetic.” Sprakie leaned in. “Listen to me. I love you like my best set of luggage. Don’t fall for that line. He’s probably an old Troll. Or he’s a 10-year-old kid using his daddy’s sign-on. Worse yet, he’s a straight serial killer.”

  “Are all serial killer’s straight?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Sprakie snapped. “Don’t change the subject.”

  “You’re just jealous because your tricks turn out to be losers.”

  “They’re all losers,” Sprakie announced. He gazed back at Kurt. “If you spend money for sex . . . c’mon hon. What d’ya think?”

  Philip stood. He swept his hands down his sleek body. “But look what they get!”

  “Remember, I’m Saks. You’re J C Penney’s.” He kissed Philip’s forehead like a mother overseeing her chick out the door to school. “The hour is upon you, oh Flaxen One.” He sighed. “I worry about your romantic notions. It’s okay to make the cash. I taught you well, but when you decide these dudes are worthy of more than that, take care. Remember what happened to Jemmy.”

  Jemmy was a tragedy and the memory of the pretty-faced, redheaded stripper sobered Philip. He suddenly saw the little five-and-half footer scurrying in and out of Room 3. Then, some bastard got him. Philip sighed.

  “Jemmy was into drugs, man. Out of control. He’d go with anything that walked.”

  “Or crawled,” Sprakie said. “He’d fuck a knot hole and worry about payment later.”

  “He didn’t deserve it.”

  “He didn’t take care.”

  Philip shook his head as if to cleanse away the thought.

  “It’s work time.”

  “Call me later, sweetie.” Sprakie pointed to the outlet. “Don’t let anyone walk away with my charger.”

  Philip’s mind drifted. He could still see Jemmy’s face. He blinked and tried to drift further. He imagined somewhere else, where the waves beat on the jetties and the sails unfurled in the morning breezes. He could almost hear the petrels heralding a storm. .

  “Are you listening?” Sprakie asked. “I don’t want to pick up a paper and see you sprawled across some goddamn fence in the middle of Wyoming. I love your sorry ass, and worry about these romantic notions. Call me later. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Sprakie straightened up and faced the door. He raised his hand á la Gloria Swanson. “Give my regards to all those boyz out there in the dark. I’m ready for my close up, Mr. Bill Gates.”

  He strutted away as only Robert Sprague (and Gloria Swanson) could.

  Philip chuckled, and then opened his own door. There were no jetties through there. No breezes — soft, winsome or gale force. Not even a petrel to pipe the way. Only the half-whitewashed walls, the loose wiring, the monitor, keyboard and web cam, and a switch to an invisible audience out there in the dark.

  Chapter Three

  Tdye

  1

  Philip was tired tonight — perhaps bored better described it. Many computer slaves sat before their monitors clicking through forms or taking orders or processing cash through a bookkeeping system. They were bored, so why couldn’t Philip Flaxen, who only had to smile and take off articles of clothing until he sat bare assed before an invisible world, be bored? Expectation was that he would answer queries on his current condition — state of health, his last trick, and then, he was supposed to flirt with the chat crowd. However, he was in no mood for that tonight. It would be the same old tired ass-busters on-line and here-and-there a lurker — nothing as interesting as bookkeeping or taking orders. The conversation rarely went beyond flesh or the designs of tattoos or the current state of the audience’s dress or undress. However, Philip knew that if he wanted to pay the rent, he would need to engage one of these bozos in a private, orgasmic show. He would need to raise their blood pressure, their libido and their credit card charges to the state of a gusher. They could even get him on a phone hook-up that conveniently voiced-over through the computer and, conveniently, increased the charge per minute for the show. One show should do it, Philip thought, and then he suppressed a yawn.

  Every so often, some one interesting would glide into to the chat queue. He smiled at the thought. Then he thought of a very special chat visitor, who revealed himself recently as something more than a horny voyeur in the dark. Or maybe not. Maybe Sprakie is right. Maybe they are all losers, because only a loser would resort to on-line porn. So what did that make Philip? Something marginally above a scavenger — an opportunist pandering to man’s oldest hunger? Still, Philip, in his more playful moments, regarded the chat visitors as masqueraders, each playing out a role they wouldn’t dare engage during a sunlit day. Therefore, a banker became a masochistic prodder when the vault was locked. A doctor could play with himself after the last patient had pulled up their pants during a physical examination. Even a bishop could traverse into a deeper confessional and proclaim lewd ecstasy behind a locked door and a different styled baptismal font. Could these men be called losers? Harlequins maybe, but the bifurcated souls of men sought Philip for release and heal. In that manner, he became a bank deposit slip, another sort of physical examination and even a silent Eucharist on a different and less exalted altar. Then there was . . . the writer.

  While Philip could imagine his clientele’s identity — whether Papuppy was a mailman or Asspounder, a cowboy, there was no doubt about Tdye. Two weeks ago, the monitor beeped with a new arrival, and Philip gave it scant notice. The moniker wasn’t striking, although some chat visitors chose blah names like Jay235 and Guy452, perhaps because they were in a rush to get to the chat and the creativity required in choosing a screen name was a computer age inconvenience. However, Tdye, after lurking for a half-hour, braved a co
mment that caught Philip off guard.

  Tdye says: “Uncle Dean sends his regards.”

  Uncle Dean was the elderly gentleman whom Philip agreed to meet for a lap dance. It was that old geezer that gave him the Book. At first, Philip thought that this Tdye was Uncle Dean using a different screen name. The geezer had used Stiffy16, so Philip responded:

  Flaxen One says: “Tdye, are you Stiffy16?”

  To which, Tdye replied:

  Tdye says: “Not lately. However if you liked Uncle Dean, you most certainly will like me.”

  However? Certainly? The man was chatting in English and in a complete sentence. Odd? Philip forgot the other visitors. Here was an interesting man; at least he hoped it was a man. He asked where this Tdye haled from and when he replied, Manhattan, Philip backed away. He didn’t mind chatting with some Texan or a braggart from Gary, Indiana, but when the mystery man lived around the corner or up the block, there was renewed exposure — and also many opportunities. Since Tdye came with a reference (Uncle Dean) and didn’t address Philip as The Flaxen One, which all but a few of the voyeurs did.

  The Flaxen One broke this chat off. However, the next night Tdye signed in again. This time he didn’t engage in any chat, so Philip, just before he slipped out of his jock strap, reached out and touched the man:

  Flaxen One says: “Tdye, are you shy?”

  Tdye says: “Not particularly, but I cannot ask you the same question as you are al fresco and about to unveil your modesty to the world.”

  Philip nearly fell off his chair. He had never seen such a phrase in a chatroom. He expected an answer like Not shy – sitting here with my dick hanging out or I’m shy of your BVDs, Flaxen or no response. However, this response revealed either some troll on the bridge or a rather polished individual who wasn’t wearing a mask. Philip wasn’t even sure what al fresco meant, but he assumed it had something to do with taking off a jock strap. He didn’t need to respond. The other visitors were all over Tdye like bullies on a sissy. Tdye remained silent until the wall of comments trailed off and then: