and into a cab and up the three flights to his walkup in the East Village, Billy didn’t have the energy to settle him in. He phoned Jessie and left a message on her answering service. Then he turned to Greg, who was collapsed in a chair with his coat still on.
‘I think it’s working,’ said Greg. ‘I can feel it lifting.’
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ said Billy, setting a hand on his back. Then he left.
Greg sat in the silence after the door had closed and realised it was true. His blood was singing; some weight was gone. So he did not care that Billy was off to see Irish Dan, that they would spend the night together, and the morning also. He did not mind that Dan would twist Billy’s love, somehow, and make him sad, because Greg had survived a course of amphotericin B, that bastard. He was still alive.
Dan did not shrink from Billy’s arm, thrown over his shoulder on the ferry, but he did not seem to want sex when they arrived at the Pines, or he did not want the sex to be good, or interesting or slow. And this was surprising because no one went to Fire Island just to walk along the beach. The only move Dan made, when they were finally in the house that Billy had organised, all tubular chairs and walnut floors, with its white linen curtains and Billy attractively arranged on the bed, was to unzip his fly. He did not let Billy near his ass, which was a pity, because Billy really wanted his ass. He turned away (which was fine) from Billy’s kiss. He might as well have folded his arms. For someone else, this would have been a challenge and a delight – a whole weekend to drag this Irish boy out of the closet, kicking and screaming with raw pleasure and afterthrob. But this was not Billy’s style. Billy wanted to talk to Dan. He wanted to put his tongue on the salt corner of Dan’s eye, where his eyelid trembled shut. He wanted to make him happy.
He also, personally, wanted to come. But Dan had no manners in that regard and, when Billy ended up doing the honours himself, he seemed to sneer a little, looking down at him from a height. Which was also fine. If sneering turned out to be Dan’s thing, there were plenty of guys who liked that too.
You could not say that Fire Island was entirely happy in the summer of 1991, but it was defiant, and happiness was there on the horizon, if you lifted your eyes to the sea. Dan did not seem to notice the sea. He watched the Friday night crowd at the Botel from behind a beer, followed by another beer, while Billy smiled and deflected offers of various kinds of fun.
Dan said, ‘They all look sort of identical.’
‘I know,’ said Billy. Though he was wearing the same short shorts and lace-up ankle boots as two hundred other men out on the dance floor.
Billy, meanwhile, was worried about the house-share, which was through a friend-of-a-friend with no mention of the cost. The beers were outrageously expensive and Dan drank steadily then looked for more. In the middle of his, maybe, third bottle, he turned to Billy and said, ‘Tell me. What do you want?’
‘What do I want?’
This was such a strange question, there in the middle of two hundred bare torsos, all holding the scent of the day’s lost sunshine, that Billy got a bit distracted and had to say it again: ‘What do I want ?’
Later, Dan relaxed a little in the darkness of their room. He did not complain about the double bed and allowed Billy to touch him down his back and legs. But he stayed curled over an undoubtedly steaming erection, and Billy woke early and so horny he had to slip out before Dan knew that he was gone.
‘Where were you?’ Dan was in the kitchen when Billy came back, he was opening and closing cupboard doors.
‘Just took a walk,’ said Billy, not mentioning the remnants of the night’s dancing he found wandering the dawn; a very pink blond boy who knelt in front of him, and a massive, tripping Blatino he leaned against, who jabbed a
‘I think it’s working,’ said Greg. ‘I can feel it lifting.’
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ said Billy, setting a hand on his back. Then he left.
Greg sat in the silence after the door had closed and realised it was true. His blood was singing; some weight was gone. So he did not care that Billy was off to see Irish Dan, that they would spend the night together, and the morning also. He did not mind that Dan would twist Billy’s love, somehow, and make him sad, because Greg had survived a course of amphotericin B, that bastard. He was still alive.
Dan did not shrink from Billy’s arm, thrown over his shoulder on the ferry, but he did not seem to want sex when they arrived at the Pines, or he did not want the sex to be good, or interesting or slow. And this was surprising because no one went to Fire Island just to walk along the beach. The only move Dan made, when they were finally in the house that Billy had organised, all tubular chairs and walnut floors, with its white linen curtains and Billy attractively arranged on the bed, was to unzip his fly. He did not let Billy near his ass, which was a pity, because Billy really wanted his ass. He turned away (which was fine) from Billy’s kiss. He might as well have folded his arms. For someone else, this would have been a challenge and a delight – a whole weekend to drag this Irish boy out of the closet, kicking and screaming with raw pleasure and afterthrob. But this was not Billy’s style. Billy wanted to talk to Dan. He wanted to put his tongue on the salt corner of Dan’s eye, where his eyelid trembled shut. He wanted to make him happy.
He also, personally, wanted to come. But Dan had no manners in that regard and, when Billy ended up doing the honours himself, he seemed to sneer a little, looking down at him from a height. Which was also fine. If sneering turned out to be Dan’s thing, there were plenty of guys who liked that too.
You could not say that Fire Island was entirely happy in the summer of 1991, but it was defiant, and happiness was there on the horizon, if you lifted your eyes to the sea. Dan did not seem to notice the sea. He watched the Friday night crowd at the Botel from behind a beer, followed by another beer, while Billy smiled and deflected offers of various kinds of fun.
Dan said, ‘They all look sort of identical.’
‘I know,’ said Billy. Though he was wearing the same short shorts and lace-up ankle boots as two hundred other men out on the dance floor.
Billy, meanwhile, was worried about the house-share, which was through a friend-of-a-friend with no mention of the cost. The beers were outrageously expensive and Dan drank steadily then looked for more. In the middle of his, maybe, third bottle, he turned to Billy and said, ‘Tell me. What do you want?’
‘What do I want?’
This was such a strange question, there in the middle of two hundred bare torsos, all holding the scent of the day’s lost sunshine, that Billy got a bit distracted and had to say it again: ‘What do I want ?’
Later, Dan relaxed a little in the darkness of their room. He did not complain about the double bed and allowed Billy to touch him down his back and legs. But he stayed curled over an undoubtedly steaming erection, and Billy woke early and so horny he had to slip out before Dan knew that he was gone.
‘Where were you?’ Dan was in the kitchen when Billy came back, he was opening and closing cupboard doors.
‘Just took a walk,’ said Billy, not mentioning the remnants of the night’s dancing he found wandering the dawn; a very pink blond boy who knelt in front of him, and a massive, tripping Blatino he leaned against, who jabbed a
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