Mojo - 15. Chapter 14: Chocolate Covered Coins

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Chapter 14: Chocolate Covered Coins

The evening progressed to the point where the happy buzz of the liquor had morphed into the loquacious testiness of a post-high stupor.

Worse yet, the cricket-covered tamale lay challenging me on my plate, making me wonder if this recreated Roman villa was accurate right down to the vomitorium.

I shoved it aside after hearing Tre's comments on his buddy's werewolf account, realizing I'd be starving if not for the general anxiety in my stomach; it'd been induced and maintained by the flashbacks of our passion in Pasadena.

Cynthia suddenly swooned, pointing her phone camera right at Nick's face. "Oh, I just love a good 'M/M Romance'!"

"Me too!" exclaimed Aurora. "Nothing beats them for – I don’t know – sheer sexiness."

"M/M?" questioned Assauer.

"Male/Male," our hostess explained.

"Really?" demanded Cynthia. "I thought it meant Man on Man!"

"Anyway, potayto-patahtoe, it's sexy as fuck."

Dana inquired of his wife meekly: "And what's so appealing about it, dear?"

"Oh, my!" Cynthia practically scooted out of her seat; she was hot and bothered. "It's a bunch of things. It's—"

"Double the cock," said Prospera, cutting through all the BS.

"It's about raunchy, sweaty studs, doing the nasty and not letting anybody know."

"That’s your idea of romantic?" I asked.

Assauer put on his best math-teacher tone and inquired, "So this category of 'M/M Romance’ is about guys who don't date, but only fuck on the side, and who don’t kiss unless it's part of the climax…? Is that the general picture?"

"And they don't hold hands, ever!" added Cynthia helpfully.

"Well, those things are true," mused Prospera with further deliberation. "But it's more how these men hold a secret that's dark, dangerous and tragic. The forbidden aspects, and – twice the dick."

The woman chortled themselves into a screechy trance, the live-streaming shots going wonky, temporarily

My ex waited for their nattering to end, for he wasn’t done with them yet. He said what the rest of us were thinking: "Ladies, no offense, but that is such an insult to Gay men. Maybe you don’t even know it, but it is."

"How so?" asked Cynthia.

"When you toss out a phrase like 'M/M' instead of same-sex love, you are totally sanitizing the experience of any meaning, and censoring Gay men out of their own histories."

Prospera echoed: "How so?"

"Easy. Most of these so-called 'M/M' pieces are written by straight women for straight women. So, they avoid the obvious: that LGBT people have to fight for every goddamned thing hets take for granted; like civil liberties, for example."

The women steamrollered the point and went right on clucking amongst themselves.

"You know, Cynthia," said Aurora, "I first got intrigued with 'M/M Romance' in an old chat room online: Lusty Dudes.com. We'd chew the fat for hours in there! It was so much fun."

"Oh, I know. I used to haunt Studly Men in Lust.org. We'd coffee-clutch for hours on end. One guy in there, who said he was straight and doing research"—Cynthia winked elaborately—"had this thesis he was working on. I remember it was all about the attraction we women feel for guys letting themselves get dicked stems from the fact that we are alike. 'Passivity,' he called it."

"Oh, God!" I cried out. "What a load of BS."

Now the women looked awake. Their phones pointed to me.

"Explain it to them," said Nick.

Assauer took over. "First of all, this guy doing research sounds like a real douche. If he thinks women are passive in anything, that means he's a misogynist. Period. His opinions of females as a subordinate underclass to men, is what he's saying, and in his personal homophobia – probably a closet-case himself – he sticks Gay guys in the category of 'less than' men, just like he thinks of women. It's pretty obnoxious, and his opinions should have no credibility for any thinkin' person, for a perjured view is never a fair one."

"Yeah," agreed Gordon. "It'd be like listening to some old constipated white guy lecturing on why African American literature speaks to other minority groups: his theory on 'Uppity Syndrome' would probably be the equivalent to your guy's 'passivity.'"

Assauer added, "It's insulting to both the creator of the content and those who want to read it."

"Well, maybe," Prospera admitted, "but still, what's wrong with stories about guys on the down low? The tragic, the illicit nature, and secrets, secrets, secrets? It all plays into the fun of a tawdry 'M/M Romance' for us."

Assauer told the ladies, "I don’t know, maybe there's someplace on the net where tall people go to read and gossip about 'the tragedy' of 'the shorts,' cuz that's what you're sayin' about straights reading about us reduced to nothing but figures worthy of pity, quite frankly."

Gordon picked up the ball. "Look, I know the het 'lifestyle choice' is boring as hell, but so are most of your so-called tragic same-sex couplings. We just get on with it, like everybody else."

"But still for us fangirls…. Well, I guess you'd just have to be a man-loving woman to get it." Cynthia chuckled.

At this point, I realized their safe, sanitized, soft-ball porn version labeled 'M/M' – devoid of any of the realities of the actual Gay Struggles – was just another form of escapism. "My ex's right about us having to fight for everything, even recognition. What Assauer said struck a chord in me; remember what happened in your Supreme Court when seven couples finally got the chance to prove the Constitution means us too? Ruth Bader Ginsburg said from the bench that separate and unequal marriage for Gay people is like skim milk. And now I get your 'M/M' stories are just like that – remarkably lite on any actual Gay content: 2% at most, guaranteed; don’t want to fill up on it, I guess."

Cynthia to my eyes looked very unsettled, like the crickets disagreed with her tummy all of a sudden. "You know, now that I think about it, on Man Humping Twink-Sluts.biz we did sometimes wonder why our chat rooms never had any real Gay guys in there. You think that's the reason?"

Assauer fielded that one. "Yep. Could be."

Now the ladies suddenly seemed to comprehend it.

"Like I was saying about Tennessee William characters"—Tre re-established his dominance over the conversation—"all this talk of secrets and tragic types makes me think of Suddenly Last Summer. Talk about GAY! Tennessee Williams: Gay; Gore Vidal, the screenwriter: Gay; Montgomery Clift, the star: Gay; Elizabeth Taylor: well, Gay by marriage and fag hag by inclination."

"Which movie is this now, Tre?" asked Gavin Coruptti.

"You know that one! Monty Clift is pushed off a mountainside in Spain for being queer, while Liz Taylor is forced to watch helplessly. Drove her insane in the flick, but in real life, she was every Hollywood Gay guy's shoulder to cry on. She knew all the dirt back in the day when a secret was a secret and could get you lobotomized, just like her movie character." He shook his head in slow disappointment. "What a waste."

"What is, darling?" his wife asked on her way to the restroom.

"Liz went to the grave with so much Gay History locked in her head." Tre took a drink. "If you ask me, there ought to be a law: no Hollywood fag hag can die without first writing a tell-all book so the truth does not march unwillingly to the grave with her."

"Amen," Coruptti muttered, perhaps from professional force of habit.

"Damn right," concluded our host, "selfish to pass on and not set the record straight – so to speak – for later generations. Should be a crime, in my opinion."

As several of us nodded gravely in agreement, loud voices, commanding footsteps, and laughter erupted from the statuary-garden-side of the room.

To my utter shock, a uniformed policeman strode in lolling on the shoulders of a fur-wearing woman.

I panicked and thought it was time to bolt, but Napoleon must have read my mind.

He put his hand on my wrist to steady me. "Relax. It's just a late-arriving guest."

I settled down again, and looked closer. The cop was a higher-up; his uniform was decorated in tons of showy brass.

"Ah!" shouted Tre-Princely, doing a fake-ass salute. "Lieutenant Nasser, nice of you and Sofia to join us."

The self-help guru leaned in and whispered in my ear: "This cop's on the down low too."

Napoleon looked sly, as if this man’s doubtless homophobia was the issue making me uncomfortable. I just grinned.

Drunk, Nasser grabbed a chair and sat himself at Tre's right-hand side; it's where our host wanted him, much to surly Ermanno's chagrin.

In the meantime, Sofia shrugged off her wrap and cheeped merrily with the other women about 'things.' She gave the impression of being just as well lubricated as her husband.

Nasser announced in a voice too loud: "I could use a drink, Tre."

"Of course; of course." Tre-Princely clapped pert hands, and a server showed up. To him he said, "Mix up a pitcher of Sex On The Beach for Nasser and his wife. Wait! Make a second for me too. In fact"—his attention turned to the rest of us well—"you order wine and booze as you like, people – let's pretend the sun made a full circuit and it's cocktail hour all over again!"

With that, more waiters came around and took orders, but I watched with curiosity as the dark-haired and fit Nasser glanced at my ex. There was real attraction there.

Sofia finally made it to the main table and air-kissed Tre. "Lovely as always to be at one your events."

Our host play-frowned and tapped the imaginary wristwatch he didn’t wear.

While his wife sat down at Prospera's empty position, the L.A. police officer said, "I'm sorry, Tre. You know we wouldn't be late except for Force business."

"Where were you?"

"At a wake. One of my black officers died over the weekend, and we had to make an official appearance."

"How was it?"

"Oh, you know," said Sofia, "homey."

"A front-room viewing – I think I might like that when it's my time."

"That won't be for a long while, Tre."

"Where's Prospera?" Sofia asked.

"In the crapper," Mrs. Schwartzbaum's husband said.

As if on cue, the 'crapper' herself appeared, with rattling cocktail carts right behind her.

"Sofia! OMG, you're here!"

The two hugged, and then eye-raisingly sat together, Texas-Ivy on the police lieutenant woman's lap. They immediately became intimate, with Prospera trailing a fingertip across the neckline of Sofia's pendant, down into the soft folds of her cleavage. They chatted quietly, privately, only pausing to do shots with the freshly mixed Sex On The Beach.

Tre-Princely Knight drained his own and then told the new-arrivers, "Chef Cory will sling you up some grub—"

'…Oh, God,' I thought, 'will there be grubs too…?'

"We ate, Tre," said Nasser. "It was one of those black wakes, so there was food on top of food on top of food."

"Soul food," corrected Sofia momentarily before returning full attention to Prospera.

"Yes, and what soul it had too." By the sour expression on the lieutenant's face, it was clear whatever it was did not suit his palate. He suddenly chuckled. "You should have seen Sofia! One taste of the chitlins made her wanna toss her tripe."

The two men's wives were now stroking each other's hair and starting to make out. I thought I perceived another wistful glance from Nasser towards my ex.

The rest of the women-loving guys were mesmerized by the lesbo affection on display. It went live-streaming too.

"A wake is all right I suppose," the cop said, once taking another swig. "But too much of this PC, interracial sensitivity crap is not good for unit cohesion, if you ask me."

Napoleon muttered under his breath for me: "Yeah, the LAPD is famous for its tenderness."

"I think too much and sensitivity are words that don’t belong together," Nicholas said rather bravely.

Nasser threw down the gauntlet. "Oh, really?"

But the guy with a werewolf boyfriend in high school didn't back down. "I'm not sayin' nothin' you don’t or shouldn't already know. You stand up for my rights, I'll stand up for yours. If you don't, then—"

"Who's talking rights?!" the cop demanded to know.

"You are, sir. You're talking about the rights of your dead officer to be honored by more than just 'his kind.'"

"Nicholas…" attempted our host.

"Well, you know it's true, Tre."

Now the officer glinting ceremonial brass relaxed, deciding it was all a joke anyway; the other was being unreasonable. "When you join a Police Academy, or get tossed in jail, let me know if you think too much fraternization is still a good idea."

"Well, I don’t know about all that," Nick said calmly, "but this talk reminds me how people do have to fight for change – political and otherwise – but often come up against an irrational fear. Like those bigoted burgomeisters who kept empty busses running in Selma, Alabama, after Rosa Parks was arrested, and kept running them through the boycott. The city dug in and bankrupted itself with 361 days of riderless service. They did, and chose to do it all like little kids refusing to eat their peas. They preferred pride over sanity, and sadly, we're not much better today with Trumpeteers running around, shouting all manner of fear-mongering and lies to get idiots to excuse criminal behavior. And why? Pride over sanity, which is the niche where the closet bigots keep their hearts."

I glanced around; most of the room was not even listening. Prospera and Sofia were in full make-out mode while hands roved freely over clothed breasts, shoulders and torsos.

Neil Campbell mused in metallic tones, "Puts me in mind of the LGBT fight of the future."

"Which one?" Napoleon asked.

"The struggle for Gay people to even be allowed to exist."

"What?!" I exclaimed.

"It's true. This whole anxiety-based politickin’ the Gops are playin’ Russian roulette with – pun intended – is extended right down to the fertility clinics and DNA collection. We've all see the commercials: ‘Send in your DNA today for free analysis.’ And what do they do with this most personal of personal information – your genome? Well, if you're an out person with a social media profile they can check lickety-split, then your 'gay-tainted' genes are sold off to the highest bidder."

"Why?" Assauer asked.

"They go to secret labs, to not-so secretly find the 'cure' for the h-word. The company that makes the first queer gene screening test for reproductive labs to use will make a trillion dollars in a week."

"Ya think?" Nick said.

"Hell yeah, I think. Right now, in any abortion place, hospital, or test-tube baby-makin’ center, the No. 1 question asked is not will my darling baby be healthy, but will this 'it,' the fetus, be queer. Will it be a family disgrace. So, once they have the test, whole trays of eggs will be disregarded, and abortions will be selective based on the findings. But my point is, it will be the uninformed people of today mailin’ off their DNA to private companies, signin’ away their rights to use the most personal of personal information, that will mean untold repression and suffering for the next generations of rare and isolated same-sex loving men and women. Mark my words."

Again, few in the room acknowledged Neil's lesson because they were too busy agape at Prospera and Sofia's tongue kissing.

Deep reverberations sounded from the hall. Hard to say what it was at first, but in came a long line of the handsome foot massagers from the start of the evening. Following them was a man blowing in a didgeridoo, and a second one pinging a mouth harp.

"Ah!" cried our delighted host. "Dear guests, time for foot rubs! Enjoy."

In a matter of moments, a smiling lad was under the table in front of me, massaging my toes with eucalyptus oil and making me relax involuntarily.

The music seemed to take on a soothing tempo as well, or at least slowed a bit. I glanced to my ex, and now he was openly returning the lieutenant's flirting. Assauer, never being one to turn down the advances of a mark, particularly a rich one like this cop, appeared to be having a good time at it.

I felt a bit of coolness surrounding my left ankle, and when I looked, my sexy foot-boy had slipped a silver anklet on me, one with Tre's monogram.

Just as I wondered if this night would ever end, our host pulled up his personal masseur and called out: "Bring chairs! I want the servers to be served wine and cocktails too. And if any refuse, pour it down his collar! Now is the time to live."

Commotion ensued as a dozen stacking chairs were wheeled in and the waiters and foot-boys squeezed in at the tables; my own handsome one practically sat in my lap, much to Gordon's dismay.

The dusty outback music continued.

The previously observed little bout of Tre's sobriety was completely gone now, and he slurred words freely. "My God, wife, don’t get a room. Go out there and do a dance for us with your girlfriend so we can all see."

Intrigued by the notion, the two exchanged coy smiles and fingertips pressed to lips.

"Dance, Rabbit's Foot, dance!" Tre-Princely repeated.

Prospera stood, took Sofia's hand and led her to the central stage area, which moments later turned into a dance floor for two.

Focusing on one another, they dipped knees and rubbed each other's flanks with sweaty palms. Sofia turned backwards, and Prospera gripped onto her fleshy ass.

Their dirty-dancing of kissing and suggestive thrusts made the unfulfilled men of the room loll out tongues, but began to lead to a queasy feeling in me.

There was something about it which made me fear for Gordon….

After the drag queen blew him, my boyfriend's unguarded, unwise laughter over Assauer's ecstasies drew the attention of Parthia.

Without a word, she tried to zipper his lips with a series of stinging kisses. Her hand slid down his front, towards his crotch, which made Gordon arch his back away from her and push with his hands.

"Hey!" I reminded the madwoman. "He's not being punished, remember?"

The priestess latched onto Gordon's shoulders so he could not get away, then turned a greasy leer on me. "Oh, I know. You are!"

In the meantime, Auntie Pasto had stood and licked her chops while my ex and his ever-enlarging Schwanz lay drained and exhausted on the bed. He had those stupid cock doodles all over his face.

Psyche got an evil twinkle in her eye and went to whisper in her cult leader's ear; gestures and leers passed from the women onto my boy and Lolita.

"Ah, yes," announced Parthia, now holding Gordon by the scruff of the neck like a puppy dog. "Brilliant idea, one to surely please the god of lust."

"What is?" I asked.

"This night is as good as any for my darling pet to sacrifice her maidenhood to the Great Blue-Green One. And for you to watch."

She shoved my teenage boy to the center of the cabin.

I stood and went to him. "No, no,” I told the woman. “Gordon is a good and decent queer boy. He's not suited for that kind of kinkiness."

But he licked his lips towards the gum-popping tart.

Parthia laughed and explained, "It's your third trial. Weather it, and you can go."

Gordon suddenly said "I'm game," horrifying me, but a peek at his face held out hope he had a plan so we could all get out of this garden center from hell.

An hour later, we were dressed and back in the main area before the curtained pillar-statue of Priapus.

A mockery of a 'wedding' procession was led by Auntie Pasto, who had tossed a saffron bed sheet over her shoulders and marched along in the vanguard with two lit tiki torches. These she held in a way so the points came together below her navel, and the tall flames flickered high above each shoulder.

Gordon and Lolita – each with a ring of flowers on their heads; the girl's on top of a flame-colored veil – followed the drag performer. And then me and Assauer walked slowly behind them, with the rest of these motley nut-jobs trailing us.

Parthia stood before the phallic column again and oozed more olive oil over its stony trash, chanting some junk in Latin.

The two men, Eros and Devil-Chin Guy, made my boy and Lolita stand facing one another.

Parthia turned and spoke to them. "Do you each undertake to fulfill the god's ardent desire and spread your bounty upon the earth?"

They nodded.

"Do you, Lolita, give your ventris to fruitfulness?"

"I do."

"Do you, Gordon, lay your seed where it may multiply?"

“I…do? I mean, I do.”

Well, for one, yours truly was thoroughly disgusted. ‘How dare they disgrace the sanctity of non-traditional marriage like this! There ought to me a law!’

“Then”—Parthia cracked a wicked leer—“by the power of lust invested in me by the acceptor amoris, I pronounce you ready for bliss.”

While Lolita assaulted my boy's mouth with gum-popping kisses, Auntie Pasto shouted something Greek to me and extinguished her flamboes. Simultaneously, she ushered the rest of us towards the sliding glass doors to the potted plants outside, and Parthia took the teens by the hand to lead them to the cot, which had been moved and set up under the open-air atrium and stars.

My heart was sick; if Gordon had a plan, it better not involve knocking up some random cult bimbo! Gott bewahre….

Parthia, an apparent adept at lecherous peeping, joined us outside and made everyone crouch down to watch through the glass. She had turned off most of the light inside, so we could just barely see the teens in action. Agog, she turned an ape's eye to the spectacle and wantonly robbed me of kisses from time to time.

First Lolita sat on the bed and drew the standing Gordon into her embrace.

"God, woman," I told the cult leader, getting angry. "This is madness."

"Is it?" she snickered. "It's hell on you, right?"

"You know it is…."

"Then watch."

It looked like the slutty teen girl was fumbling with my boy's zipper, when he suddenly gripped her hands and climbed on top. He started rubbing her clothed body, and the virgin slag writhed in moaning ecstasy. He scooched her up, sticking her head and shoulders off the far edge of the cot, and got behind her legs.

'Is he into this?!' I wondered, sick to my stomach.

He slowly lifted her by the underside of the knees, and the girl's back continued to slide on the cot. His feet landed on the ground, off the other end for better leverage, and the folding bed flipped, sending Lolita ass over tits. A dull thud sounded with metal, fabric and wood clanking after her descent.

"My pet!" Parthia screeched at full volume and raced in, followed by her panic-stricken cult goons. They removed the cot, fanned the unharmed girl and made a tearful fuss.

Me and Assauer stood off to the side in the near-dark, and Gordon slunk up, pointing to the garden center's main exit.

Assured the crazies were occupied, we booked it.

Out the sliding glass doors, we ran through the parking lot, heading for the street.

Just as we got there, I could hear the madwoman's cackle from far behind us. "Let 'em go. They'll not remember this night anyway…."

I snapped out of it with a jolt, accidentally knocking elbows with the Aboriginal pedicurist to my left.

The women were still doing a soft porn dance, the guys still salivating, but Tre noticed me and misinterpreted my actions.

"You know," he said between beats of music. "Some of you may not like the idea of servers being your table companions, but I know that old Roman, Senokot – or whatever his name was – said don’t think you're better than them: they sucked the same milk, pooped the same excrement, breathed the same air as you did as a baby, so it was only Bitch Fortune who later raised that person up on the backs of all the rest."

Thoroughly chided but misunderstood, I decided to remain silent.

"Oh, Tre," Prospera said from the lips of her lover, "loosen up."

"Oh, I'm loose, Lucky Charm. But maybe if I called Tyler in here, he'd show me a better time."

Tre-Princely's wife stopped dancing; statue-like, she stood on the dance floor, casting a stunned look on her man.

The music ground to a twangy halt.

Tre ignored her to tell the rest of us, "That boy, my protégée, knows all the ups and downs of Fortune, just like me, and he's ambitious too. A modeling and dance career, which I help along whenever I can, is tough for the young. But he's learning, and he's taking my advice about stockpiling his pennies and investing wisely."

By the time he'd finished, the 'F/F Romance' on display was over. Texas-Ivy had gone back to her seat, and Sofia pulled up a chair next to her cop spouse.

Tre laughed, drunken and vindictive. "My wife thinks I fuck 'im too, as if. Isn't that right, dear?"

The goaded woman remained silent.

"It's good to work hard at something, even if you don't like it. I did," said Tre, "and it made me rich and set for life, even though money seems a two-edged sword: it cuts both the self and the one it's used on."

More silence followed from his wife.

"See," he went on, acting unfazed, "I believe in Astrology and one gave me my exact date and time of my death. Wrote it on a piece of paper for me, and I keep it in my wallet so the coroner can find it—"

"Tre, please."

"Yes, Prospera? Something upset you?"

"Don’t go on about your death."

"Why not?" he told her pettishly. Tre added to the rest of us with more sentiment, "I've got more money than I can ever spend. I spread it out so my family can love me now as if I'm already dead."

None of us knew how to take that. If serious, it was sublime; if he was burlesquing, it was outrageously ironic and funny. None of us knew. I decided this was ultimately how anyone came to view Tre-Princely Knight.

Prospera poo-pooed the whole notion with a stiff belt. "That's just a prediction. Don’t live your life making it come true."

The mood had darkened.

Tre stood up, sloshing on his sea legs for a moment. "It's too goddamned morose in here. Time to move out – up, up, up – and get some air. Chef O'Shay has a treat for us." He gestured behind him to the garden.

We all stood, and Prospera's mood turned on a nickel. "Follow me!"

She led the way, out onto the colonnaded peristyle, and down a few steps, on either side of which were breathtakingly real statues of deer in bronze.

Prospera gathered her ladies to her, and they walked on slowly, alongside the massive central pool. Their jolly live-streaming devices tried to catch it all as they went.

The men who were Tre-Princely's good friends followed secondly, with the Big Bad Cop forming a nucleus for their chitchat.

After them traipsed Napoleon, drawing Gordon and my ex with him and asking some questions about the event so far.

That left me alone with Neil Campbell, and just as he got to my side, our host joined us.

"I hope you gentlemen are having a good time?"

"We are, Tre," I said. "You're a wonderful host." Just then my tummy grumbled from being empty….

"Provocative ev'nin' as always!" added suck-up Neil.

We walked on, and I'm not sure, but as I glanced around, this might have been the most sublimely lovely garden I'd ever seen. At the end of the pool where we'd started, a large flattop rock sat in the curved end of the shallow water feature. On top of it was a recumbent, full-sized stature of a bronze man. He held his index finger up to the stars, and I followed his pointing line straight to the big dipper.

Now as we crunched the gravel along manicured rows of low boxwood, arbors would spring up on our left with living rows of grape vines. Here and there along the long flanks of the pool, more bronze figures of young men sat on their own rocks and gazed at the heavens reflected in the water.

After a while, Neil said cryptically, "Now that the three of us are alone, I can properly intro you."

Me and Tre were puzzled.

The Aussie beamed. "Tre, may I present the supplier of your newest golden bauble, and Kohl, this is the connoisseur who bought your Poseidon statue."

Tre-Princely perked up. "Ah, your treasure is now mine, and I 'ask no questions' about where it came from, like any good Conservative of antiquities."

"Good," I said, half chuckling. "Because I tell no truths, like any decent Retrogressive officeholder."

We slowed our pace and stopped, because my comment made Tre laugh and laugh, and then cough and cough.

From up ahead, we heard "Wait here," and his wife came back to collect him; my gang trailed back to us too.

In a moment, Prospera was leading them away, but I snagged Assauer and Gordon to stay behind. We were right on the pool's edge when I told them through a hoarse whisper: "Let's get the hell out of here. I've got stuff to tell you. Plus, I'm starving!"

Right then I turned to lead us to the nearest exit, and ran smack into a security guard with a German Spitz on a leash. The dog yapped viciously at my ankles and stepped me back into the fountain.

"Where do you think you're going?" the uniformed dude asked.

"Back the way we came," said Assauer.

My comrades helped me out of the drink, while the guard informed us with bedpan seriousness, "No one exits the same way they enter."

We looked at one another, thanked him – and his furry hell muffin – and scurried along to join Tre and company.

When we caught up, our host had ensconced himself on a bench to the side of a life-size naked wrestler boy in bronze. Across the water, I could see his opponent in similar 'engagement' pose.

"Gavin, my good friend…" Tre was slurring his words again. "You get those changes?"

"For your monument, yes."

Our host explained: "Coruptti and Cousins Co. is making my mausoleum: all marble and gold-plated shit. Ain't that right, honey?"

"Yes, dear." Prospera patted his arm.

"Oh, Gavin's plans are beautiful. There are arches and places to sit by a reflecting pool, marble dog houses for my dear dead pooches, and oh, oh, Prospera will have her own en-suite for after she croaks too."

"Yes," Prospera murmured, upset all of a sudden. "I suppose Tyler will have a niche of his own – after all, he's another one of your bitches."

'Wow,' I thought. 'That was kind of acid.' It pissed me off, but our host restricted himself to a cold glare.

In another instant, he was back talking to Gavin. "Oh, oh, tell 'em – what's that class-eey Latin inscription thingy you suggested…?"

"The epitaph?"

"Yeah, the swanky one. Recite it."

Coruptti stood tall, placing his folded hands by his bellybutton, opera-singer fashion. "LECTOR, SI MONUMENTUM REQUIRIS, ASPICE Nightly with Tre-Princley.com."

"Yeah…." The future house of the dead occupant sighed. "But I think I'll stick with the plain old English one I've been tinkering with for years. You wouldn't want to…hear it, by any chance…?"

We all coughed that we'd like nothing better. I actually had something better to do, so used the chance to wring fountain water out of my gold Tre-Princely slippers.

Our host puffed up on his bench and recited his epitaph from memory:

"Here Lies Tre-Princely Knight

(née Schwartzbaum)

Former Porn Star, Businessman

Honorary Degrees from U.C.L.A. & Bryman College.

In Abstentia:

He Could Have Had Any Job in Washington, D.C.—

But Didn't.

Mover, Shaker, Kind Heart

He Started with a Nickel & Left Billions;

AND HE NEVER ONCE LISTENED TO A

PSYCHIATRIST!

Fare Thee Well, Tre-Princely

And you too, fellow traveler."[1]

It was getting very moody and dark, so thankfully, the cop and Sal helped Tre to his feet and we progressed on to the end of the space.

Here, the columns marking the narrow end of the enclosed garden were matched stone for stone by others – twenty or thirty feet away – on the other side of an open terrace.

The breeze was cool and salty, and I could hear the sea not too far off.

"This is where we'll have dessert," Tre announced, but there was nothing set up: no pastry-lined tables, no ice cream machines…. The only thing I saw out of place was a hook hanging from a rope on the ceiling.

Suddenly, Prospera Texas-Ivy froze. I followed her eyes and saw a handsome young man – sleek and sexy – dressed in slacks and a sports jacket come on to the terrace with us.

He went straight to Tre and kissed him, exhibiting nothing but smiles and clearly elated emotions.

All at once, I recognized him, although the attire threw me for a moment because the only other time I’d met him, he was naked. This was the body-paint skeleton, and he was even more attractive in flesh tones and clothes.

"Tyler, my boy! You were wonderful tonight. A real joy to behold."

The young man kissed our host again, but it was clearly more out of appreciation than red-hot rut.

Prospera lost it. "You. Piece. Of. Scum!" She was talking to Tre. "You dare flaunt this spectacle in front of me? And oh, I know who’s fucking who between the two of you."

'Wow,' I thought. 'Jealousy is so unbecoming in a person.'

Poor Tre blinked at his wife in shock, then did a little hip hop of anger. A moment later he ripped the toupee off his head and wagged it at Prospera in angry frustration, shouting: "Oh, yeah? If that’s what you think, then you're out of the mausoleum, baby!"

Instantly, his fury abated into an emotional breakdown; he pleaded to the rest of us for understanding. "You see that? Well, I'm used to it, not only from her, but from everybody. Oh, there's no respect for a pornstar who spent his career getting dicked for cash, even big money like my ass commanded. No one cares, but I try to make everyone respect me, but like the classic song goes, haters gonna hate, no matter what, but I don’t have to sink to their level." He placed his hand rather paternally on Tyler's shoulder. "I want to matter and so does this young man, who I see a lot of myself in. Now, he may be Gay and me straight, but that's no reason to think he's in my pants, or verse visa. We have mutual respect, Prospera, cuz he knows what it's like, and I know what it's like. We want to matter. I know how normal it all is, so unworthy of comment on, except against those manning the glory holes along the Interstates, and then going out and voting for repression and stuff for those who dare to be out. But, hypocrites shouldn't matter. Hypocrisy makes me sick…sick—"

"Tre…" his wife was sorry.

"No. Don’t tell me now – you know, folks, I owe it all to her. Do you, any of you, know how down and out I was when I met her? She saved me from myself, took what little I had left and made me 'a brand,' and a valuable one at that. We make the best team." He stumbled to the handrail and stopped, contemplating the out-of-place hairpiece in his clutches.

"Oh, Tre."

"You know,” he told all of us, “I lied earlier. It wasn't an astrologer who told me I'm gonna die. It was my doctor."

Prospera went to his side. "You don’t have to tell—"

"See, folks…” He faced each of us in turn. “I’ve got the bug. I won't be around for very much longer."

"Oh, Malcolm." She lovingly took his toupee and arranged it correctly on his head, cooing, "Don’t think about it; we'll get through it together."

To the rest of us, he said, "So now you know, every day I live reminds me I won’t be around for as long as I should."

"The doctor says you are fine and will outlive him, but still, I know, baby. It's in you, in your mind as well as in your blood. You can't help worrying about it."

He hugged her. "I'm sorry about this silly fight."

"It was my fault. I know you're trying to help Tyler. Truth is, you're a princely man, Mr. Schwartzbaum, and I love you."

"I love you too, honey, and guess what – you’re back in the mausoleum."

She laughed, whooping sardonically: "Hooray for that!"

I suddenly noticed color from the approaching dawn begin to streak over the hugging couple's shoulders. Our host repeated his quote from earlier.

"Unhappy we mortals,

Who on so fine a thread,

Find our lives but depend,

Know like this puppet man

We will all be soon dead;

Therefore, live ye merry,

And love others while you can."

His wife kissed him and directed his attention down the length of the terrace.

"Dessert! At last," Tre called out, and we turned to see quite a spectacle.

Four studly young men, wearing only skimpy briefs and papier-mâché donkey heads, led a giant Trump piñata between them coffin and usher fashion.

While the crowd gathered around, the underwear models lifted the clay and crêpe paper effigy onto the ceiling hook. Then they picked up baseball bats waiting by the columns.

As Tre signaled with a laugh, they beat the hell out of it, sending chocolate coins flying this way and that. They were without wrappers, and at the same time other guests yelped and delightedly hooted with each sexy-boy Democrat smack, I bent down to pick one up. It was heavy, really heavy.

Tre saw me, and told everyone, "Look closer, people, like Kohl. The dark chocolate covers $20 silver coins; the white chocolate ones are gold-centered Krugerrands."

We all dropped to our knees and scrambled like kids for candy.

Tre-Princely Knight laughed good-naturedly. "Groveling in the dirt before me – just the way Nature intended!"