A Room with a View (of the Brooklyn Navy Yard) - 7. vii. “I’m listening” – of Love and Punishment

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vii.

"I'm listening"

– of Love and Punishment

Within the ever-accurate horological mechanism of your mind, witness the clock hands advance, the sun set, the traffic lessen, the Wall-Street types retreat from lower Manhattan to their more comfortable Tri-State abodes, and Ted and Patrick spending hours removed from it all; removed from all but the other’s sheltering embrace.

Now exhausted, yet aglow in that special smolder only true lovers know, picture our star-cherished boys in their hotel bower. For, after several ‘who’s on first- what’s on second’ rounds of ball, our team of two take a 7th inning stretch at the pillow-propped head of the oversized king-size bed they’ve so thrillingly crumpled from head to toe.

“Why, Patricio!” Ted sighs. “It’s no wonder the rabble stampedes, tryin’ to chase you down! You’re every bit as good a lover as you make your characters.”

“Blush,” replies Patrick, showing an example of his own making.

Ted impishly teases, “What . . . ?”

“Confession time, I guess. But anyway, you already know I’ve never . . . had a boyfriend . . . before now, that is.”

Ted rocks his perfectly built body back to look Forsa full on. “Are you,” he starts playfully, “telling me a virgin wrote the hottest-selling Gay sexathon since the Bible?”

Grinning, the young author responses, “Yes. A virgin conception, only this time, on the reals.”

“Amazing.” Ted comes back in close, taking his partner’s hand.

Patrick chuckles. “I guess it’s like the old saying: fake it, till ya make it.”

“Literally, in your case.” Ted kisses Patrick’s wrist, thrilling Forsa beyond words, but then Rector turns sad. “Oh, Patrick – the way I hurt you.”

“Well—”

“Not that it really matters, but that night, after dinner – my hookup was a bust. I didn’t want to be with him, and he left after twenty minutes of non-activity, no doubt wondering what the fuck was up with me. Truth was, I had a lot on my mind. I was a mess, baby. Why do we do things we don’t want to do? Like me leaving you, when it was the last thing I really wanted to do?”

“We’re all human, Ted, which means we lash out in emotionally unhealthy ways from time to time.”

“Again, I’m sorry for being so scared. With you, it was basically love at first sight – your hot nerd vibes, Puma – oh, I melted. Straight to jelly. And I mean it, nothing’s sexier in the world than brains. Nothing.”

By the way his cross earring’s swaying, Patrick can tell the man’s sincere.

“It’s all right,” he says, massaging his lover’s digits. “I believe you. And I forgive you, because I know everybody hurts, and everybody’s afraid of more hurt – like you with Monroe. I get it. But people wind up burying their pain deeper and deeper in the superficialities they show the outside world.”

Wide-eyed in admiration again, Ted tells him, “You may be only twenty-one, kid, but you’ve got one hell of an old soul. You were born to be a writer, little Cougar. Born to help others ‘figure things out’ for themselves.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, you Tantalizing Tina Turner—”

Patrick laughs, free as a bird.

Ted goes on— “You Provocative Pointer Sisters; you Amorous Amadeus—”

“Again, I cry for your mercy. Mercy, my beautiful, oh, so beautiful, Ted.”

“It’s the rest of the world sighing for your mercy, babe. You’re hot as hell.”

More blushing ensues. “Yeah,” Patrick says ironically, “even straight men seemed turned on by me.”

Chuckling, still light-hearted, Ted inquires, “Anyone I should be worried about?”

His boyfriend stiffens, remaining uncharacteristically quiet.

Losing his buzz, Ted asks once more, more seriously, “Puma, did somebody try to hurt you?”

“Not like that, Ted. Not exactly.”

“Come on, now. We’re starting out on a new foot and all, so tell me what happened.”

“It was Bray J. Gerhard.”

“What’d that greasy little fucker do?” Ted’s protective instincts rise to the fore.

Patrick’s honest. “At the restaurant on Fire Island, he totally perved on me at the urinals. It’s like he 100% expected I would, you know, service him, just because I’m Gay.”

Ted grinds his teeth in reply. “They’re all like that, the demented buggers. Believe me, I know, they’re all the same – those fucking hets with dicks all think with them and nothing else. But I hate it. The way they project their dirty minds onto us, labeling us – and not themselves – with ‘sexual’ this, ‘sexual’ that. Their twisted definitions damning everyone but themselves for their own ‘proclivities’.”

“Well, he really did upset me – made me feel guilty.”

“That’s their game, baby. That’s how they sex-shame us 24/7. Just be glad I wasn’t there, little Cougar, cuz that slimy Bray would be in traction, you fired from RR&S – and me, probably in jail.”

Patrick, who’d felt his partner’s biceps tighten while saying this, grins. He uses a finger to trace up the man’s chest and throat to his chin so his knight in shining armor will hold his gaze. “I am glad, Ted. Really glad.”

After a kiss, Ted’s more calm, but still on point. “And have they started giving you a portion of your book sales yet? By now you should have enough Rascals money in the bank to buy a twenty room estate in Westport, or a half-bedroom tenants-in-common at 32nd and 10th Avenue.”

“Well – don’t get upset, Ted – but Gerhard told me my current contract says Random, Reed and Sales gets all royalties until ten million copies are sold—”

“The . . . pond scum!”

“And the pittance Kingston’s offered me for a follow-up book’s not much better than what I’m getting now. Says I have to ‘bear the burden’ of helping pay for RR&S’ promotion expenses.”

“That settles it,” Ted cries with light-bulb-moment clarity. “If you’re down for it, Puma, I bet we can kill two crows with one stone.”

“What do you mean, baby?”

“Knock Kingston and his Random, Reed and Sales BS – and that gross, conflicted homophobe Gerhard – back to the Socials stone age.”

“Go on.” Patrick’s all smiles. “I’m listening.”

“But first, we’ll order room service, all on the corporate card, then huddle and plan a suitable revenge.”

Giddy, Forsa rubs his palms together. “Lobster, champagne, and cold, hard vendetta. Count me in!”

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