what’s so great about them?” asked Scotty, his left foot still nestled in Ned’s hands.
“Cocks?” asked Ned.
“Rubbers.” grinned Scotty.
“Well …” Ned’s nut-brown brow furrowed. “They’re sorta like underwear.”
“Calvin Klein Condoms,” said Paul.
Everyone laughed.
“Why are they like underwear?” asked Scotty.
“Well … didn’t you ever ask a guy to put his Jockey shorts back on just because it looked hot?”
“Yeah, sure, but …”
“And all there was between you and that incredible cock was this thin little piece of white cotton. So … that’s kinda what rubbers are like. They get in the way, keep you from having everything at once. That can be the hottest thing of all.”
Scotty rolled his eyes. “They are balloons, Ned. Face it. They will always be balloons. They are ridiculous things, and they are meant for breeders.”
More laughter.
“I remember,” offered Douglas, “when the rubber machine always said ‘For Prevention of Disease Only.’ “
Paul looked at his lover. “They still do, dummy.”
“But they always scratched out the ‘Disease’ part and wrote in ‘Babies.’ Now straight people don’t even use them anymore.”
“Yes they do.”
“No they don’t. They use the pill, or they get vasectomies or something.”
While Douglas and Paul continued with this halfhearted quarrel, Michael signaled Ned, to indicate he was leaving. He slipped under the flap and made a beeline for his tent, avoiding even the slightest glance at the rise where Roger and Gary were encamped. He was almost there when a voice called out to him.
“Is that you, Michael?” It was Gary.
“Uh-huh.”
“Come on over,” said Roger.
He picked his way through the darkness until he found the path leading up to the rise. Only the moon lit the faces of the lovers, snuggled together under a zipped-open sleeping bag. “See”—grinned Roger—“we didn’t run off to fuck.”
“It must be the mushrooms,” said Gary. “We’ve been telling ghost stories. It’s really nice up here. Why don’t you get your sleeping bag and join us?”
He looked back at the dark dome of his two-man tent, sitting empty under the stars. “I think I’ll take you up on that,” he said.
They fell asleep, the three of them, after Gary had told the one about the man with the hook.
Michael dreamed he was once again on the ridge above the campsite, only this time it was Jon who knelt beside him. “Look,” Jon whispered, “look who’s down there.” Mona emerged from one of the tents, so tiny she was almost unrecognizable. Michael waved and waved, but she never saw him, never stopped once as she walked into the desert and disappeared.
Mona Revisited
S EATTLE HAD ONCE STRUCK MONA AS AN IDEAL RETIREMENT spot for old hippies. Its weather was moderate, if wet, its political climate was libertarian, and a surprisingly large number of its citizens still looked upon macrame with a kindly eye. In the time it had taken Jane Fonda to get around to exhibiting her body again, almost nothing had changed in Seattle.
Almost nothing. The lesbians who had baked nine-grain bread in the sixties and seventies now earned their livings at copy centers across the city. Mona was one of those lesbians, though she was every bit as puzzled as the next woman by this bizarre reshuffling of career goals. “Maybe,” she told a friend once, in a moment of rare playfulness, “it’s to prove we can reproduce without the intervention of a man.”
Mona lived on Queen Anne Hill in a seven-story brick apartment house the color of dried blood. She worked four blocks away at the Kwik-Kopy copy center, a high-technocracy in varying shades of gray. Neither place did very much for her soul, but when was the last time she had worried about that?
“Cheer up, Mo. It can’t be as bad as that.” It was Serra, her co-worker at the neighboring copier. Serra, the perky young punk.
“Oh, yeah?”
Serra looked down at the huge manuscript she was collating. “It
“Cocks?” asked Ned.
“Rubbers.” grinned Scotty.
“Well …” Ned’s nut-brown brow furrowed. “They’re sorta like underwear.”
“Calvin Klein Condoms,” said Paul.
Everyone laughed.
“Why are they like underwear?” asked Scotty.
“Well … didn’t you ever ask a guy to put his Jockey shorts back on just because it looked hot?”
“Yeah, sure, but …”
“And all there was between you and that incredible cock was this thin little piece of white cotton. So … that’s kinda what rubbers are like. They get in the way, keep you from having everything at once. That can be the hottest thing of all.”
Scotty rolled his eyes. “They are balloons, Ned. Face it. They will always be balloons. They are ridiculous things, and they are meant for breeders.”
More laughter.
“I remember,” offered Douglas, “when the rubber machine always said ‘For Prevention of Disease Only.’ “
Paul looked at his lover. “They still do, dummy.”
“But they always scratched out the ‘Disease’ part and wrote in ‘Babies.’ Now straight people don’t even use them anymore.”
“Yes they do.”
“No they don’t. They use the pill, or they get vasectomies or something.”
While Douglas and Paul continued with this halfhearted quarrel, Michael signaled Ned, to indicate he was leaving. He slipped under the flap and made a beeline for his tent, avoiding even the slightest glance at the rise where Roger and Gary were encamped. He was almost there when a voice called out to him.
“Is that you, Michael?” It was Gary.
“Uh-huh.”
“Come on over,” said Roger.
He picked his way through the darkness until he found the path leading up to the rise. Only the moon lit the faces of the lovers, snuggled together under a zipped-open sleeping bag. “See”—grinned Roger—“we didn’t run off to fuck.”
“It must be the mushrooms,” said Gary. “We’ve been telling ghost stories. It’s really nice up here. Why don’t you get your sleeping bag and join us?”
He looked back at the dark dome of his two-man tent, sitting empty under the stars. “I think I’ll take you up on that,” he said.
They fell asleep, the three of them, after Gary had told the one about the man with the hook.
Michael dreamed he was once again on the ridge above the campsite, only this time it was Jon who knelt beside him. “Look,” Jon whispered, “look who’s down there.” Mona emerged from one of the tents, so tiny she was almost unrecognizable. Michael waved and waved, but she never saw him, never stopped once as she walked into the desert and disappeared.
Mona Revisited
S EATTLE HAD ONCE STRUCK MONA AS AN IDEAL RETIREMENT spot for old hippies. Its weather was moderate, if wet, its political climate was libertarian, and a surprisingly large number of its citizens still looked upon macrame with a kindly eye. In the time it had taken Jane Fonda to get around to exhibiting her body again, almost nothing had changed in Seattle.
Almost nothing. The lesbians who had baked nine-grain bread in the sixties and seventies now earned their livings at copy centers across the city. Mona was one of those lesbians, though she was every bit as puzzled as the next woman by this bizarre reshuffling of career goals. “Maybe,” she told a friend once, in a moment of rare playfulness, “it’s to prove we can reproduce without the intervention of a man.”
Mona lived on Queen Anne Hill in a seven-story brick apartment house the color of dried blood. She worked four blocks away at the Kwik-Kopy copy center, a high-technocracy in varying shades of gray. Neither place did very much for her soul, but when was the last time she had worried about that?
“Cheer up, Mo. It can’t be as bad as that.” It was Serra, her co-worker at the neighboring copier. Serra, the perky young punk.
“Oh, yeah?”
Serra looked down at the huge manuscript she was collating. “It
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