Mojo - 24. Chapter 22: Facing Facts

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Part Seven – (Not So) Sequestered in San Diego

Chapter 22: Facing Facts

I preceded my boy into our motel room, immediately going to pull the curtains on the San Diego afternoon sun. Gordon followed me in and set our bags on the little fold-out luggage stand near the entrance. I watched him going around and turning on the various lamps before I went to the door and locked it.

In the quiet, alone at last, we faced one another. I opened my arms, and my boy walked into my embrace.

I stroked his curls, inhaling the sacred scent I had missed for so long, and raised his chin. Words failed me, so I simply wiped his tears away with my cheeks, turning his one by one, and placing reassuringly delicate kisses on his lips as I went.

Finding resolve, I gently pushed him back slightly and held onto his shoulders so I could step out of my shoes.

I kneeled before Gordon, and let his hand use my upper body for support as I removed his sneakers and socks. Then, hand in hand, I led him to our bed.

I propped up the pillows and lay down first so my boy could cuddle-up in my arms, his head resting over my heart.

“Please, no more tears,” I said, sliding my fingers down his arm.

He sniffled a bit. Still looking away, he told me, “I’ve missed them, you know.”

“Missed…?”

“Your eyes. I missed looking into your beautiful green depths.”

“That’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That I’m such a jealous fuck, and have Billy Shakespeare’s sure-flame mark of it upon me.”

“Oh, Kohl—”

“I will try, Gordon, to do better. To not be so jealous all the time. Is that why…?”

“Why?”

“Why you left me.”

He pulled out of my arms and sat up on his own.

We’d not had a chance to be alone – to talk – until now. After our flight from the gym in San Jose, we ducked into an alley and called for an Uber. Then it was on to the Amtrak station and an overnight train to San Diego, because Burtron and his new boyfriend, Geoff, were hanging out here, and with what I knew, my ex had no reason to venture this far south. We’d mainly slept on the fairly-crowded train, with me barely letting my boy out of my arms. I’d asked no questions, harbored no hard feelings, certainly not in public, because having Gordon within reach was enough.

Now we just wanted peace after our trip, and to be sequestered in a nice, quiet room like this to work things out.

“I’ll try and tone down my jealousy, I really will. But why, honey? Why…?” It was time to face facts.

He was silent, looking down morosely into his lap.

I pressed on. “Did I deserve this? To be disgraced by the boy I love taking up with a scoundrel? A fly-by-night lover?”

“Kohl—”

“My heart is wounded, babe, but no scab covers it yet. No hard skin is growing there—”

He stifled me by letting tears come and reciting my own words back to me.

“Unfair –

How many times

Have broken hearts said that,

Been forced to lay themselves open,

When they just want to hide.

How many times?

Unfair.”

After a pause, needed to swipe my own tear, I asked, “You read my tweets?”

“Every single one, Kohl. How could I ignore your lovesick messages? You know how wonderful a poet I think you are.”

“And you memorized it?”

He nodded. “And I forgive you, Kohl.”

“Um—”

“No one can judge us or our love, so I’m ready to let bygones be gone, as long as you’re truly sorry.”

“What did I do, again, honey…?”

“Come on, Kohl, be honest. Did I leave you, or was it you who forced my hand? I mean, you were acting nuts, waving a gun around – I was scared you’d do something insane. And what then, huh? You shoot Assauer, and I have to watch you get the electric chair, your ashes deported to Germany as further punishment. No, in such dire circumstances, the smart thing to do is go along with the stronger of the two, and that’s what I did.”

‘Oh,’ I thought. ‘I never considered it…that way…?’

I blurted out, as if it were the main topic, “I got rid of the gun.”

“Well, hurray for that." Irony bellowed from the blast of his tone. Then he turned serious. “You did scare me half to death with that damn pistol.”

“I, ah—”

“No, let me finish.”

I shut my mouth.

“I didn’t tell you before, that day at the Rose Bowl Flea when you asked for details, but – but my dad…. You see, when I was around twelve, there was an attempted break-in at the nursery. He got me out of bed to go with him in the middle of the night. In his office, he unlocked—”

“His desk drawer.”

“Yeah, his desk drawer and took out a revolver. We snuck around the darkened greenhouses, heading to the front registers. Anyway, there was a confrontation, lots of shouts, then the thief wrestled the gun away and it went off, nearly shooting my dad.”

“You can’t stand the sight of guns because it puts you back to that dark place.”

“Yes. To a moment where I almost lost a loved one because of a fucking gun. And my mom was furious; I mean, angrier than I’ve ever seen her. She came running and found me so close to danger.”

“Yeah. Your mom is quite a…a smart biscuit.”

He chuckled. “She told me about your little chat on the side of the road.”

“So, you’ve been in contact with her the whole time? Since we ran from Aptos?”

“Yep.”

“And you never thought she’d reveal our location to the police, or worse yet, to your dad?”

“Nope. She and I – we understand one another. My mom is a very special person. I felt awful running from her, but now you know I didn’t really; I’ve been sending her updates and letting her know I’m happy and safe with you.”

“Then I’m glad I went to Aptos.”

“You are?”

“Yes. Your father beating me, saying he’d shoot me next time, felt like divine justice, or karma maybe.”

He crawled in next to me.

“But Gordon….” I cooed.

“Yes?”

“Just so you know, that day in L.A., when I…when I drove you away, the gun wasn’t loaded.”

“It doesn’t matter. You tried to scare me either way.”

“Yes, you are right, honey. I was a shit for doing that.”

I lifted his eyes to mine.

“Um – I’m sorry, Gordon. I am sorry, baby. Forgive me?”

He pursed lips like he was considering my sincerity, but a moment later, he let one more tear fall and cuddled down in the pillow of my arm again. My heart glowed.

My boy grew talkative, and I stroked his hair while I listened. “Besides, being back with you will be a welcomed change. Assauer’s dick grows by the day, and so does his appetite for fucking.”

I paused, overcome with sadness. “I’m sorry my Schwanz has stopped working, baby. Are you content to stay with me anyway?”

He gripped onto my arm with his right hand. A sly smile rose to me. “I know you’re a top, but if you love me, you can think of other ways to let your boy have his pleasure.”

A bit of flash on his finger caught my attention. I rotated the gold band. “That’s….”

“Assauer’s ring – the one you gave him.”

“I’m confused.’

“He presented it to me, in fact, insisted I take it. So I took off the cheap one you gave me and slipped this one on, the whole time imagining it came direct from you. You don’t mind, do you?”

“I’m glad you have it. It’s where it belongs.”

An adorable ‘I know, right’ smirk arose, just before he lifted my hand and kissed it.

I pulled him close and filled him in on the latest. “While I was looking for you two, I also kept running from the Priapus folks, looking for other cults who might have a cure.”

“That’s not using your brains, Kohl.”

“It’s not? What do you mean?”

“The smarter approach is for us to run to the donkey dick people. As they put the hex on your cock, maybe we can track down a ‘good one’ to take it off again.”

I heard myself say with a total lack of irony, “I didn’t think of that.” I also never really considered how much smarter Gordon is than me; maybe I was growing up a little bit in the relationship. Who knows?

He caressed my chest and recited another of my lovesick Skyscraper poems:

“How could you?

How could you leave me so,

Leave me with hapless lovers crying:

‘I thought I knew you, but it turns out I was wrong.’

I never imagined I’d be one

Left to stagger and cry:

‘How could you.’”

“I still can’t believe you saw them.”

“I read each and every one in secret, once I knew Assauer was not watching. Anyway, when my mom told me that you’d been there saying you were sorry, and my dad beat you up, I sent you the text about San Jose.”

“Well, more like roughed up, but I’m so glad I went now. Something was telling me to stand there and face the music. When I saw you in the gym, I’ve never been so grateful.”

Gordon teased me, guiding my hand to the hard bulge in his jeans. “How grateful?”

“Very.” I latched on gently, lovingly. “From now on, it’s just you and me. Remember that old saying…? Can’t pay the mortgage…they say your hair’s too short…but you’re wearing my ring, and your hand’s in mine, so who cares…I got you, baby; and you’ve got me.”

“Ah, Kohl—”

I pulled him up and stopped up his beautiful mouth with my own.

As his sweet breath mingled with mine, I reinforced my vow to do better – to be better.

I knelt on the bed and undid his shirt and jeans. In another moment, I was on my back, guiding his member to my lips.

He moaned, looked to the ceiling and flung his arms out for balance.

I sucked him, drawing his shaft as far as it could go, making him become a bit weak in the knees. His hands landed on the bedspread on either side of my head. His legs locked – jeans and shorts pooled by his ankles – and he began taking a commanding control in face-fucking me.

I latched onto his upper thighs and realized things were different. I’d sucked him a few times, savoring his fragrant aroma and taste, but now I thrilled deep inside to know his hardness – the amber sweetness of his precum slicking my tonsils – was for me, caused, raised and maintained by my pleasuring this boy. I was going to make him cum, and I’d take his precious gift with the true gratitude I’d just vowed to him.

I loved my boy, my Gordon, and I would do better by him and not doubt his love. Why should I? I can in a very literal sense taste it.

His breaths grew jagged, and I used my hands to push up on his hips – just to pleasure the tip of his flaring cock with my lips and tongue.

“Kohl…Kohl….”

I sucked harder and stroked the back of the shaft with my tongue.

My boy paused. His moan erupted a split second before my mouth filled with his love seed. I let him finish pumping me full, realizing I did have some hope for our future; the future we’d have once this curse was removed.

And then I swallowed greedily, never, never any happier than at that moment. I had my beloved back.

˚˚˚˚˚

For three blissful days, the Do Not Disturb sign swayed outside our motel room door.

Whereas Venice Beach for me had been a three-day purgatory of pickle juice and purges, for me and my boy in San Diego, it was an indulgence of gluttony and excess, but all aimed at one goal – celebration. Our reunion was meant to last, so we’d have sex, order food, shower, have more cuddles, watch TV or surf the web, nap, have sex, order more food – you get the idea. I was beginning to think of myself as Gordon’s boy, but what did that matter? We were together and happy, although at this point I should make clear our actual activities were limited as far as ‘sex’ – just me bringing him off with hand and blowjobs – but the endless making out, the closeness, the reestablishing of our bond, that’s SEX in all-caps! Gordon pleaded to rail me, but my virgin entry was sealed and off limits even to him, and he knew it.

However, because of all this, the cure pressed itself more urgently on my mind. I longed for the return of a ‘normal’ time between us, but we’d never find the trail of the Priapus cult locked away. So, on the third day, I texted Burtron Hamerik, and he told us to head over to an artists’ commune; that Geoff had a friend for us to meet. The Hammer and his new boyfriend had been doing their own San Diego sequestering – think love-doves in a cozy cot someplace – but Burtron had not forgotten my mission and got us all an ‘in’ to some event the Beauty Cult was hosting tonight. In the meantime, we’d head out and meet Geoff’s buddy.

So, that’s what we did. Grudgingly getting dressed, and discovering our atrophied walking muscles were a little sore, we made our way to the downtown address.

“Is this some kind of mistake?” Gordon asked, for in front of us was a freeway. Well, it rumbled and polluted the air several stories over our heads, but at sidewalk level was a gate, which was open now. We could see a compound behind the fence, where neat shacks arrayed themselves around an open-but-shady plaza below the overpass.

“Nope, this is it. See the sign? Art4arts-sake.com."

We went in.

I sent a text to the guy we were supposed to meet. “Dude, we’re here. Where are you?”

A minute later, I read the reply to Gordon. “I’m by the soapbox, in a yellow hoodie.”

“What’s does that mean?” he asked.

Noise interrupted us. Folks were gathered by one side of the plaza and suddenly started hooting and clapping their approval.

“Ah,” my boy said. “I think I know. Come on.”

He led the way, and soon we were angling ourselves to the nucleus of the hipster confab. In the center stood a wooden crate, and just as we got there, the speaker receiving all of the applause stepped down.

“Hey.” Gordon gestured. “That must be him.” A middle-aged man with a dark face stubble and a ponytail loitered amongst the front-row crowd. He had on a mustard-colored sweatshirt, so we went to him.

“American-4-all?” I asked, using the social media handle Geoff Bath had given me for our contact.

He barely looked my way. “You Geoff’s buddies?”

“Yes,” Gordon said.

“Cool. Name’s Sadeeq Amergin, and poet-agitator is my profession.” He suddenly pressed burning eyes on yours truly. “Ever heard of me?”

“Um—”

Just as I was preparing to lie and say “of course,” the poet’s phone cheeped an eagle’s cry; it was his message alert ringtone.

“One sec,” he said, pulling it out. A moment later, he frowned. “Listen to this: ‘Your shit is so shitty and Anti-Merica I needed a pooper scooper just to make it three words into your newest so-called poem.’”

Me and Gordon swallowed; what could we say?

When Sadeeq glanced up from the screen, he had a big grin. “I’ll yell at this take-it-raw-from-Russia-redneck later, but I love feedback. No such thing as…bad….”

His tone trailed off as he first realized how lovely Gordon was.

“Why, hello.” He shook my boy’s hand, lingeringly.

“I’m Kohl, and that’s Gordon, my boyfriend.”

Fortunately – or not so, depending on your POV – the next speaker approached the pulpit and distracted Amergin.

“Oh, fuck,” he said. “This guy’s a real douche garbage-bag. Art4arts-sake.com lets any old numbnuts climb the soapbox and spew – well, you’ll see.”

The assembled quieted, and the thirty-something-year-old white dude with a bandana headscarf started rapping, or ‘tossing down’ a beat and rhymes.

“Yo, yo, listen up, ya’all

Home of the free,

The Don’s the man for me.

All those fake-newsters,

Givin’ the peeps the bluesters,

Outta be heading to jails

And tossed on rusty nails,

Without bails

So our president – word – never fails.

That’s the real news, ya’all.”

He wrapped up with an edgy flourish: a fuck-finger kissed and patted over his heart. After that, the lingering smirk challenged anyone to ‘unlike’ him or his message.

The crowded plaza erupted with wild cheers of support.

Sadeeq cupped his hands and booed. “Un-American drivel!”

The people around us were not happy at the dissent, so I yanked on the poet’s arm. “Give us a tour. It’s our first time here.”

With another glance at Gordon, Sadeeq licked his chops, walking us out of the soapbox area. As he strolled, he told us, “Sorry about that. San Diego ain’t really a part of California anymore. They drank the Retrogressive koolaid decades ago and still like to make believe it’s 1985, when the world was a simpler place for simpletons like them.”

His phone chirped again, but this time he simply told us while reading: “More haters. Love it. A happy customer may tell one friend; an unhappy person, ten times as many! Gotta get my share of views up by any means possible.”

A couple minutes later we were heading to a tin-plated shack of a building; recycled metal from oil cans, signs and crushed beer cans made up the siding. A continuous row of widows along the tops of the walls gave away the fact this might be gallery space. Once inside, Amergin paused admiringly at an art instillation. His hand went to his chin.

Me and Gordon exchanged question-mark looks.

“Is that,” I asked, “um – tupperware?”

“Yes.”

The ‘mural’ before us consisted of various sizes and colors of the plastic food storage containers nailed to the wall.

“Makes you question things, don’t it?” Sadeeq said.

“Um – yeah.”

“Reminds me of a Cinquain of mine.”

Without me or Gordon being able to protest, Amergin launched into his verse.

“I know –

It’s Art you say,

Meant to have no meaning;

Can’t argue with the obvious,

They say.”

Now I knew for sure. This poet was mad, mad as a milliner.

Gordon chuckled. “Yeah, nice ‘art,’ but does it burp?”

The poet and I just stared at the teenager.

“You know,” my boy explained through a grin, “Tupperware, make it burp, like on the commercials.”

Just then, Gordon’s phone signaled he’d gotten a text. He went pale, reading it quickly and shoving his cell back in his letterman jacket.

“Oh, yes,” the social media phenom exclaimed, “burps, belching, passing gas, all of it. It’s perfect allegory of the state of Art these days. Shall we?”

He gestured, and we continued on our tour of the galleries.

“Yes, apt metaphor,” the poet droned, “because just like in modern politics, those without taste, but flush with funds, can buy down an artist’s worth like a commodity – like sow belly futures, or penny stocks. No more than that is Art these days.”

“What do you mean?” Gordon asked.

The poet swished his ponytail a few times for good measure. “I mean, my handsome lad, in the old days, artists only cared about the advancement of the state of the art. If Van Gogh were alive today, he’d make the cutting of his ear a big social media ‘happening,’ and auction off the severed chunk to the highest bidder online. He’d still say he was doing it for Art, but he’d really be doing it for cash and fame.”

I inquired, “And how does that play into buying down a person’s worth…?”

“Easy. In the 19th century, Van Gogh was a man of honor; today he’d be a money-slut like the rest of us, at the beck and call of those who would make a brand of him, a commodity to be bought and sold like junk equities on the Art Market: pay ten grand on a painting today and hope it fetches six mill in a few years.”

We were suddenly standing in front of another installation.

“Is that…piss?” my boy asked unpleasantly of the mad poet.

“Yes, urine from beauty queens and celebrity talk show hosts.”

“Oh, my….” I was looking at racks of test tubes filled with yellowing liquids, sitting on a table made of wooden tongue depressors.

Gordon’s phone vibrated again, and Sadeeq instantly reached for his own.

“Sorry,” my boy said after he pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Give me a few.” He walked several paces away.

“Say…” Sadeeq elbowed me and stepped close. “You fellas have an open relationship…?” He moistened his mouth, leering at Gordon.

“No,” I told him firmly. “It’s tightly shut, as a matter of fact.”

He nodded and continued to ogle my boy like he’d barely heard me.

Gordon returned to us, and the lecherous poet led the way deeper into the gallery. “You know,” he said pedantically, “the Gop Party is devaluated just like Art Inc. today because they let Big Tabaco, Big Gun and Big War Machine, Big Wallstreet and Big For-Profit Healthcare become their corporate owners. They did it just so they could fearmonger and devalue the public’s trust enough to let voter scam-artists creep into jobs they have no qualifications for. Just look at that Repub laughingstock they call ‘Congress’ today. It’s just like Art Inc. and reminds me of a little poem.”

‘Oh, boy,’ I thought. ‘This guy can bend it like Beckett.’

He recited:

“Old Petronius once said it best:

‘The rich feast off the misery of the poor,’

And though ancient, none better could attest

To the most modern truth we all ignore.”

He halted us in front of another art piece.

“Is that—” Gordon started….

“—A reindeer’s ass?” Sadeeq finished. “Yes!”

We were looking at a blank plaster wall. The rear-end derriere – get it, deer-ree-air – was sticking straight out, like it was frozen in mid-leap.

Our guide took us to around to the other side of the partition, and there was the front half of the plaster Christmas icon, antlers and all.

“Oh, wow,” I couldn’t help saying. “Is this art…?”

My musing was interrupted; Gordon’s phone went off again! “One second, Sadeeq.”

I pulled my boyfriend aside while American-4-all checked his latest hate-praise.

I tried not to hiss, fearing for the worst. “What is up with all the texts?”

He looked guilty and confessed. “It’s Assauer saying he’s going to find us, and a…and….”

“Take you back?”

“Yeah.”

“I won’t let that happen.” I put a protective arm around my boy’s shoulder. I was not going to let Gordon out of my sight again, and I had vowed most solemnly to myself that my ex would never get the chance to steal him away again.

Sadeeq strolled up to us. “Come on. That was the soapbox messenger; I’m up next.”

A couple of minutes later we were back on the plaza watching the mad poet climb the public podium.

The crowd looked none too receptive, and several crunched the gravel beneath their feet like riled bulls.

“Friends!” Sadeeq called out. “Don’t lend me your ears, but your rationales. Let my verse sway your clouded minds back to clarity.”

He cleared his throat.

“Hector twiddles, while falls Troy,

Nero strums, and feels joy

While fires his Rome destroy.

 

But what of us today?

Will not one stand and say

Our empire cracks while we look away?”

The assembly started to boo; Sadeeq only raised his voice:

“Awake, fellow citizens!

Fiddle not while politizians—”

The rabble grew openly hostile, reaching down and picking up stones; Sadeeq repeated himself:

“Fiddle not while politizians

Make you of your nation mortizians—”

They hissed loudly and pelted the poet. He came down from the box from the front and stumbled towards us.

I panicked and grabbed Gordon’s hand to make a run for it, lest the rabble mistake us for poets too!

In a few jogged paces, Sadeeq Amergin caught up with us as we neared the compound gate. He laughed and said, “Well, what can you expect – this is Koolaidville after all!”

_