BAB-111 Dallas Pretty Boy
Dallas Pretty Boy
Bathhouse Books
BAB-111
Walter Fortune
$2.50
Dallas Pretty Boy
Bathhouse Books
BAB-111
Walter Fortune
$2.50
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Foreword
“As I opened the door, I thought the whole room was on fire. Flames were licking up the drapes and the carpet was smoldering. I heard some queens screaming that the whole upstairs was burning. I stood there, not believing it. Like it was a horrible nightmare. Then I thought of Peter, passed out in that locked room at the end of the hallway. Oh, Christ…”
John’s voice broke and he lowered his head.
Carl reached over, his weathered face showing the concern he felt. “So what happened?” His voice was barely audible above the raucous cacaphony of the bar.
John stared at his friend numbly. “That night was the end of it all,” he said. “After all, he tried to burn down my house.”
Carl nodded. “You know what they say about children and matches,” he remarked. “I guess that’s the risk you run with someone too young, too immature.” He took a deep swallow, draining his glass. “Especially someone like Peter: A faggot. Nothing more.” He smiled sadly. “I’m surprised, really. I thought you would have had more sense.”
John flushed. “Peter wasn’t a faggot,” he said sharply.
“From all I’ve heard about him, he was. A pretty boy who peddled his ass all over Dallas to get what he wanted. Sure, he lived with Palmer Greenfield for years, but that was only to get free room and board. They weren’t even lovers. Palmer had him around for show. You knew that, didn’t you?” John nodded. “I’m sure everyone was glad to see the last of him. Unscrupulous little faggot. By the way, did you ever find out what happened to him?”
John nodded again, and sighed. “In your books he’s a fag. Can you see someone like that getting his doctorate and ending up teaching school in Denver?”
“You’re kidding?” Carl’s face reflected his disbelief. “Well, maybe I’ve misjudged the boy.”
“Boy?” John laughed dryly. “When I knew him, he was nineteen. Which would make him fortyfour today. God, I can’t imagine Peter ever being forty-four.”
“Wait till you’re sixty-four. Forty sounds like a baby. Just like you sound when you start getting nostalgic.” Carl pushed back his chair. “Come on, this bar’s too much. Let’s go back to my place. We can talk there in peace. I don’t really care much for bars anymore. Especially today, with this ghastly racket on the jukebox and these freaky types.” He stared around the bar disgustedly. “I’m not sure whether all this Gay Lib stuff hasn’t hurt us all. Used to be when a bunch of guys would get together and really enjoy themselves without waving a flag in public.” His eyes rested momentarily on a thin-faced youth, hair down to his shoulders, large expressive eyes and wearing a pair of see-through pants. “No, thanks. I’m just a little too old-fashioned for today’s scene, I’m afraid.”
John smiled. “Come on, let’s go back to your closet,” he murmured tolerantly. “I hope you still have some scotch left.”
“Of course.” Carl slapped John on the shoulder and they walked out of the bar, pushing their way through the chattering mass of young men blocking the entrance. “Don’t mind an old fart like me. When you get to my age, you’ll find yourself getting a little critical of people, too.”
“I may get critical, but I hope I never become intolerant,” said John. “I don’t especially dig the music, or the clothing or the hairstyles, but underneath, people are still people. They’re all lonely, wanting love, even though they don’t always know how to go about getting it.”
They began walking slowly down the sidewalk, the bright neon casting multicolored hues across their features and turning Carl’s hair a psychedelic silver. John stared at his friend and smiled.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Too long. When are you going to move to California? I don’t see you being stuck in New York all your life. Dreadful place. All pollution and crime and…” He shook his head, trying to clear a mental image. “No, thanks. I had enough of that when I was a kid, living in the Bronx, only back then at least you could walk down the streets in safety.”
John laughed. “Don’t believe everything you read,” he said. “There are millions who live quite safely and happily there. I don’t think I’ll ever move out of my town.”
“Not even to Denver?” Carl glanced slyly at his friend and his face creased in an impish grin.
“No. Not even to Denver. Not even if Peter was waiting there with open arms and legs. You can’t pick up after so many years. We had a beautiful thing once. Something like that doesn’t happen again.” He sighed. “Besides, he’s forty-four, and I’m forty-seven. He’s probably got himself a lover, and I have my occasional numbers. Besides, I don’t think I could stand being with him and every day being reminded of the years we’ve missed.”
“Do you think of him much?”
“No. Tonight’s the first time in years, really.
I guess seeing you again brought it all back.”
Carl chuckled. “Dallas was pretty wild back then. I’ve heard it’s not the same today.”
“Nothing ever is. Except you, of course. You never change.”
“Get out of here.”
They both laughed and John reached down for the handle of the small red sports car parked at the curb.
“Tell you what,” said Carl as he turned the ignition. “Why don’t you come back for that scotch and tell me the whole story?”
“About Peter?”
“Everything, but especially the Fire Ball. I’ve never head the full details, you know.”
“All right. I’m in a reminiscing mood, anyway.”
As the car moved down Santa Monica Boulevard, John’s mind fled back to a certain summer so many years before when the Texas skies were cloudless and incredibly blue, and the sun was warm on the beach at Galveston and he found himself, for the first time in his life, so very much in love…
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