TO POSSESS BOBBY HOFFMAN By TORSTEN BARRING A Renaissance E Books publication ISBN 1-58873-846-9 All rights reserved Copyright © 2006 Torsten Barring This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission. For information contact: Renaissance E Books Email
[email protected] A Sizzler/Wilde Edition
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CHAPTER I In August of 1958 the thermometer hovered close to 100 degrees for days on end. As a matter of fact 'The heat was on' in more ways than one. During those dog days several of Manhattan's most popular gay bars were raided and the tight-panted young male patrons arrested. The homophobia of the fifties with its emphasis on gays as 'a threat to national security' was linked to the 'red scare' that outlived its psychotic progenitor, Senator Joseph McCarthy, to the end of the decade and well into the sixties. Not to say that homophobia isn't alive and sick to this day, despite the post Stonewall fights for gay rights. I'm an old man now – almost as old as Paul Kleist was when I first met him that unbearably hot summer day in 1958. My memories of that day and its aftermath press upon me more urgently than ever as I stagger through the final phase of my long life – my wonderful terrible life with my two Bobbys. I am not in the least clairvoyant, which I would have had to be to know that that fateful day would be the beginning of the end for Bobby #1 – the Bobby I loved with all my sex and soul who could only love me platonically – until he became Bobby #2 - or 'Bobby Paul,' as I came to think of him. I was dawdling in the shower long after I'd soaped and rinsed and shampooed my hair three times. I was trying to insulate myself against the sweat and strain and grime I knew the stifling day would bring on my journey to the far end of Long Island to interview the great Paul Kleist. Under the steady stream of water my disjointed meditations flowed with an exquisite freedom from the bounds of logic that is the logical domain of dreams. The kind of dreams in which the most ordinary, mundane situations turn violent – or erotic – or both – without warning. Oft times while showering, I experienced the traumatizing sensation of being ambushed by my own meditations. Some harmless, pleasant thought would trigger an unsuspected association
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that unleashed furies of suffering, helplessness and fear – only to skip without transition – like switching to another channel on the television – to opposing images of such potent eroticism that I would spring a hard-on. And when I gave my hard-on the service it demanded all my rage and suffering and feelings of helplessness got washed down the drain with my cum. Then I could enjoy some peace for awhile. That particular day under the shower my disjointed thoughts began with the pleasant anticipation of riding in an open car with Bobby at the wheel as an alternative to having to take the train from Grand Central Station. But the moment I thought of Grand Central I thought of the notorious Men's Room there. And the moment I thought about the Men's Room and what it was notorious for I thought about the tales of police entrapment I had been hearing about all that summer. How handsome young cops were being selected by the NYPD Vice Squad and trained to dress like dirt trade and stand in front of urinals in the Men's Room at Grand Central with their cocks hard and blatantly exhibited – waiting for some poor fool to cop a feel – (or should I say 'feel a cop?') – and promptly feel, instead of a hard hot cock, the hard cold steel of handcuffs. But after a moment's rage over the injustice of it all my exercise in McCarthy age paranoia segued ever so smoothly into a pleasing homoerotic fantasy that began with a lineup of handsome young cops being 'auditioned.' It wasn't enough for the chosen cops to be handsome and muscular. They had to be extremely well hung to pass the final test. In my dirty mind I pictured them already in 'costume' for the job – standing before their chief wearing nothing but jeans so tight they looked as if they had been painted on the men's gorgeous bodies. In New York in the 1950's skin tight Levis, worn without under shorts, were a dead give away. Strictly a uniform for cruising. No straight man would dare to be caught dead in pants that showed off the shape of his ass. So I pictured the cops in the lineup being ordered to take their cocks out of their 'fag-hustler' Levis and jack them to full erections in front of their chief. I pictured another plainclothes cop going from man to man with a ruler. I pictured only the men who
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could flash a minimum of eight hard inches being selected and the others eliminated. Then, in a flash, the scene in my mind's eye switched to the Men's Room at Grand Central. The handsomest and best hung of all the Vice Cops is standing well back from a urinal at the far end, next to the tiled wall. Standing next to him is an equally tight panted youth who is not a cop. The youth can hardly believe his good luck, for the big butch trick is obviously offering his incredible dick to the youth – turning toward him – waving it at him – and smiling– A moment later the youth realizes it is not his lucky day. He is being marched in handcuffs through the building, out the door, and into a waiting squad car. What a sight! A tight panted young man arrested and handcuffed by another tight panted young man. My God! The two looked very much alike. They belonged together in my 1950's scenario of police entrapment – bondage – interrogation – confession under torture – trial and sentencing – prison punishment by sadistic guards. I could have terminated my underwater fantasies by jacking off. But I was compelled to hold off and yield to yet another SM scenario: I recalled a true story (at least I believed it at the time) told to me by a very sexy guy I dallied with at the St. Mark's Baths. It would not be an exaggeration to call it my introduction to sexual paradox in which the dark delights of sado-masochism anesthetize the unbearables of reality that can well lead to madness for a sensitive soul. He was from England and he told me how matters were even worse for gay guys there in the mid-twentieth century. He spoke from personal experience. But his demeanor as he described his arrest, imprisonment and punishment for 'Gross Indecency' seemed designed to arouse me sexually. It seemed to me that he was describing his prison punishment as if it had been the most sexually exciting experience of his life! We were naked together in a tiny private room on the second floor of the bathhouse. He reached for my nipples and proceeded to pinch and pull them, giving me sensuous pain, as he related every
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homoerotic detail of what was intended to be an ordeal of humiliation and pain. The judge ordered the 'sexual deviant' to be stripped naked and whipped! Before witnesses! Every step of the elaborate ritual of an English Prison Whipping he used for sexual foreplay, seeing plainly that I was swooning under his sado-masochistic spell. Gone completely was any sense of outrageous injustice – cruelty – inhumanity. I was conscious only of his husky, sexy voice with its exotic accent as he spoke of ropes and whips and naked young men while torturing my nipples so expertly. As he continued I reached for his large protuberant nipples with their hard, penis points and returned his sweet agony, beat by beat, intensifying our mutual pleasure-pain all the while. "You shall be stripped naked and whipped! – You shall be stripped naked and whipped!–" He told me that those words echoed in his mind as the English prison guards tore all of his clothes off and threw him into a cell for solitary confinement – to meditate upon his naked punishment to come. To 'come' indeed! He already had a hard-on from the way the guards had used their hands on him when they stripped him. He sat naked on the cold concrete floor wanting desperately to masturbate. But he dared not because a guard peered in upon him at frequent intervals. Through the tiny, barred window of the cell he could hear the screams of other naked young men being tortured. He knew he should have felt horrified, but he didn't. The steady cracking of whips followed by lusty, male screams only fueled his lust. He was jacking off furiously when they came for him. Too soon! For he was close – so close – to orgasm. They grabbed his hands, cuffed them behind his back, and marched him to the room with only one piece of furniture: the triangle on which his naked young body would be stretched to its limits to receive the kisses of the lash. To add to his humiliation they tied a stout rawhide thong around the head of his huge, angry cock. And while one guard grasped his bound arms
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from behind, holding him back, another tugged and teased and abused the prisoner's throbbing erection as he was literally pulled by his cock to the place where he would be whipped. And when he arrived he found the room filled with men and boys gathered to witness his naked scourging! Fathers had brought their teenage sons to observe the fate of youths who turn to other men for sexual gratification! He was so turned on by two generations of males gazing at his nakedness and his spectacular erection that he came violently at the first lash. He had some help however. The handsome, bare-chested young guard whose duty it was to administer the punishment had aimed the lash at the prisoner's buttocks but delivered it in such a way that it struck half way along its length, allowing the lethal tip to wrap itself around the boy's body and land with a smart crack on the huge flared head of his rigid, perpendicular cock! The tortured boy hung by his wrists in a delirium of sexual hallucination through out the forty lashes he endured. But he wondered if he was really hallucinating when he saw several of the teenage boys frantically rubbing their hard young cocks through the fabric of their skintight pants. At that point in his story my delightfully depraved English trick for the night threw me down on the bed, and we brought each other off with our cocks buried deep in each other's throats. My memory of that bathhouse encounter possessed me utterly. I couldn't postpone my need to come another second. Pretending I was the naked prisoner bound to the whipping triangle I turned the hot water all the way up to scalding and aimed the spray at my ass. I pressed the front of my body against the tiled wall and raised my arms as high as I could – so high I was forced to stand on the tips of my toes. Then, while pretending that the pain on my ass from the scalding water was being caused by the strokes of a cat-of-nine-tails, I rubbed my throbbing cock against the tiles. I masturbated that way – fucking the wall – each thrust of my cock representing another stroke of the lash. I kept it up until I came. After I came my legs went numb. I knew I couldn't step out of the shower stall without falling
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down. So I switched the water to cold and slid to the floor and stayed there while the cold water rejuvenated me. I knew I had been in the shower far too long. Any moment Bobby would be yelling to me – wanting to know why I was taking so long – and what the hell was I doing in there all that time. Gone were the fantasies that made my dick hard and I could deal once again with reality – in my thoughts at least, for I wasn't ready to stand up yet. Encounters like the one in the bathhouse happened before I met Bobby. After Bobby came into my life I vowed to 'clean up my act' as they say nowadays. I strove to be worthier of all the 'high minded' thoughts he inspired in me. It was bullshit, of course. I didn't want to admit to myself that I was terrified of the law. I longed to take refuge behind the facade of a 'respectable Queen,' as if the term could have any meaning in an age in which homosexuality was a crime. The pose of 'respectable Queen' meant, among other sad and silly things, aping the lifestyles of British Aristocrats with an emphasis on 'high culture' epitomized by regular attendance at the Opera. We had no American role models. Everyone who was anyone was in the closet. So we turned to Europe for the living, (Jean Cocteau), and the dead (Oscar Wilde). It may seem incredible to gay folk today that a gay man such as myself would fall in love with, live with, and devote his life to a man who was sexually unavailable. But it was by no means uncommon half a century ago. We could suffer so beautifully. We could be Bette Davis or Barbara Stanwyck all over the place. Or just plain masochists if we had the guts to be honest with ourselves. Bobby had been a hustler before we met. He may not have been the type who convinces himself that he's really not gay as long as he gets paid for having sex with men. That type would have been too infuriating even for a 'Tragic Queen' like me. It was just that he had never had sex with other men under any other terms. And his idea of love – love for me – had therefore to be strictly platonic. I loved him
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so much that I did not dare to push him and run the risk of losing him altogether. He wanted to put his sordid past behind him. So he submitted gladly to my efforts to transform him – if not into a 'respectable Queen' then, at least, into a 'cultured gentleman'. Therefore it could be said that he became my protege. My credentials for playing Pygmalion to his Galatea were adequate enough. I was a professional musician, not good enough for a big time career, but good enough to earn a modest living in New York City where good piano accompanists who understand singers have always been able to find work. So I took Bobby to the Opera and, to my amazement and delight, he fell madly in love with it – all of it – from Bel Canto to Wagner. But even at the Opera I was ambushed by homo-erotic exhibitions that went far beyond anything the public might have seen in any other theatre in New York. A comedy on Broadway had been closed and the producer fined for allowing a gorgeous young actor to cavort in his jockey shorts and, at one point, pull them down to flash his best asset which, to be sure, was his bare ass. And yet! In a newly staged production of Samson and Delilah that opened the Opera season of 1957 the Boys Of The Ballet flashed their totally bare butts in the orgiastic Bacchanal of Act Three. By some strange double standard the girl dancers were modestly costumed while their boy partners were nearly nude in tiny G-strings. If you knew when and where to look you could see things at the Opera you could never see on the Broadway stage or in films. The campy explanation seemed to be that as long as you kept singing or dancing to classical music you could get away with almost anything. It wasn't just the Boys Of The Opera Ballet who got away with showing skin. A perfectly gorgeous young baritone from Australia, making his American debut as John the Baptist in Salome, for the Opera season of 1955 emerged from the cistern, where Herod had had him imprisoned, to confront the sex crazed Princess Salome at her
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command. The chaste Holy Man just happened to be young, handsome, muscular and Hung Like A Horse! He was wearing nothing but a loincloth so abbreviated that it was instantly apparent that he had been obliged to shave off his pubic hair. That was another hilarious example of sexual hypocrisy in public performance: As long as the nearly naked man looked like a classical oil painting it was OK. And, of course, naked men and women in GREAT ART never seem to possess pubic hair. I had no idea if the Australian Baritone could sing or not. I could only sit there, hoping I could summon enough willpower to refrain from coming in my pants as the Holy Man raised his arms for a high note, allowing his loincloth to slide down another two inches. It was, of course, the very gay stage directors of the 1950's who made the Opera a refuge for gays. One could be fairly confident that a performance at the staid Opera House – bastion of 'High Culture' – would not be raided by the Vice for public displays of gross indecency even as the aforementioned Aussie Baritone, in red ballet tights, rubbed his crotch against a phallic column when he sang the title role in Mephistopheles that same season. But – for some strange genetic reason it was only basses and baritones who possessed beautiful bodies and could add their physical assets to the lusty thrills of their dark, masculine voices. Never was there a Samson who could show us his muscles. Because – alas! – the tenor singing the role possessed only flab that had to be concealed by a corset under his full coverage costume. One tenor with a nice, flat tummy showed us his sexy navel in his Egyptian outfit for Radames in Aida but he was trashed by audiences and critics alike for his thin, reedy voice. The moral was clear: A provocative navel isn't enough for the role of Radames. One either has the requisite blazing top notes - or one doesn't. And – speaking of blazing top notes fit for an ideal Radames – my meditations under the shower which segued effortlessly from the erotic to the musical were, at that moment, annihilated by Bobby's stentorian voice calling to me from the kitchen.
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CHAPTER II "Les! You out of the shower yet?" Even with the bathroom door shut and the water on full blast I could hear Bobby's voice resounding from the kitchen, loud and clear, as if it were electronically amplified and blasting through a speaker located inside the shower stall. I had often thought, 'What a pity he's tone deaf. With a set of pipes like his what a hell of a baritone he would make! Maybe even a dramatic tenor! And with his six-foot-four height and Greek God physique and blond hair and matinee idol profile...' "Les! You dressed yet? Gotta hurry UP!" The 'gotta hurry' came out on four notes of a baritone's upper middle register. Then the 'UP' soared up – literally – to a dramatic tenor's stentorian high B. That voice, without his having to strain in the least, could be heard a mile away. That super-human resonance came from every cavity in his body: his massive chest, his thick neck, his leonine head. Any would-be Opera singer would kill to possess such phenomenal vocal equipment. But Bobby couldn't sing. Aside from being tone deaf (also known as 'singing in the cracks') he had no musical talent. Not that he didn't try. He tried constantly. And I tried to help him. But to no avail. All the ear training and rhythm exercises I drilled him on couldn't sink into his beautiful head. On the simplest four-square tune he would skip a beat on one phrase and come in late on the next. And any interval wider than a third would go disastrously sharp. It was a joke among our friends. Jerry Connors said Bobby ought to return to his roots in Texas where he most certainly could win the blue ribbon in any hog calling contest. He didn't say it in front of Bobby but I chewed Jerry out for saying it. True, his looks were all Bobby had going for him. An uneducated country boy, he was a misfit in the big bad apple. But he was worth ten of Jerry, who was one of those superficially intelligent types with no depth, no wisdom, no heart.
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Bobby, who was all heart, had a sense of humor about his impossible singing. He knew. And I knew it hurt him. But, bless him, he didn't let anyone else know how fervently he wished he could sing. He even regaled our friends at parties with his audio-surreal impersonation of Mario Lanza singing "Be My Love." I would accompany him on the piano, trying as best I could to minimize the damage by changing keys when he did and skipping beats when he did. But my hastily improvised adjustments could not disguise the sublime ridiculousness of that uncanny voice hitting notes that weren't even on the piano. And Bobby's ardent sincerity served only to heighten the ludicrousness of his performance. When he took the final high note it was nowhere near the right note but he held it and held it and held it with super human reserves of breath. Bobby's mangled rendition was rewarded always with hysterical laughter. Bobby laughed too, pleased that his efforts were not a total waste so long as they could provide comic relief at parties that were inclined otherwise to be rather dull affairs. I alone did not laugh. I felt very strongly that Mother Nature had played a cruel joke on Bobby and, like Queen Victoria, I was not amused. To have such a great natural instrument and not be able to control it. To have music imprisoned deep in your soul and not possess the key to let it out. Not funny. Not to Bobby who I knew would offer his sweet soul to the Devil in exchange for the ability to sing. "Come on, Les, damn it, you don't wanna be late!" I was out of the shower and dried off. But I couldn't decide what to wear. And why, I wondered, had I been meditating so intently on the voice of the gentle giant I lived with instead of the voice of Paul Kleist, the legendary Wagnerian tenor with whom I would be face to face at four that afternoon? "I'm almost ready!" I shouted, but with the kitchen so far away, and the high decibel competition from an ambulance's siren screaming through the heavy 46th street traffic outside, I doubted he could hear me. I had only normal human vocal chords.
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We had one of those crazy railroad apartments in a crumbling tenement on 46th Street near Tenth Avenue. The bedroom overlooked 46th and the kitchen was half a block away at the opposite end, overlooking the grimy courtyard of another tenement on 47th. At last I was dressed in the suit I didn't want to wear. It was lightweight, at least – one of those form-fitted jobs with 'natural' shoulders and narrow lapels that had come into fashion in the early fifties. It was 'wash and wear' and I had washed and worn it until it shrank. The pants were much too tight. But it was the coolest outfit I owned. And with an extra sheer, short-sleeved white shirt with a collar starched enough to accommodate a regulation rep-stripe tie I felt I looked respectable enough. Of course I would have to leave the jacket on as the shirt was almost transparent and would call attention to my large dark nipples – unless I wore an undershirt, which was unthinkable in that weather. Would any young person today believe the dress codes for men in the 1950's?! We were expected to wear jacket and tie regardless of the heat. And – can you believe it? – few men were bold enough to leave off their undershirts when the thermometer reached the 90's. There were exceptions, of course, and Bobby was one of them. When a young man was so masculine, tough, and sexy-dangerous looking that he could pass for a truck driver or a member of the Actor's Studio (Was there a difference after the likes of Marlon Brando and Steve McQueen?) he could get away with the same cruising uniform associated with gay men on the make. With my portable tape-recorder hanging by its strap from my shoulder I walked through the cramped, narrow boxcar shaped rooms linked together like a freight train to find Bobby in Levis and T-shirt, standing in a pose of mock command beside the kitchen table on which was a glass of milk and a tuna salad sandwich. "You vill eat it unt you vill enjoy it by order of Der Furher," he snapped, in his charmingly unsuccessful impression of a movie Nazi. "You didn't eat a bite of breakfast. You do that interview thing on an empty stomach and you'll get a headache, and your stomach'll start
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growlin', and the tape recorder will pick it up, and when you play it back that's all you'll hear: Gr-r-r-r-r-r-r-rrrr!" "I don't dare show up late." "You got time for a sandwich and milk. That's why I hurried you. And I'm gonna drive you and pick you up. So no more argument. Sit. Eat." I obeyed and was instantly glad I did. He had fixed the tuna salad the way I liked it: lots of mayonnaise and very finely chopped celery. One bite and I realized how hungry I was. "Thataboy – And there's enough left in the bowl for another one when you finish that." "No. One is all I can manage, really." "You're sure?" "Definitely. You eat the rest." "No way. I ate a big breakfast. Remember?" "Oh, yeah." "Gotta watch my weight." "Your weight is perfect." "Yeah, because I watch it. Two pieces of bread with breakfast. Then no more bread for the rest of the day. No sweets, no liquor, no starch. All that stuff is out from now on. Guy I work out with at the Y, he says sugar and white bread are both deadly poisons. And, like – wow – I was hitting all that deadly poison like crazy when I was trying to give up cigarettes. Gained eight pounds. Was starting to get a spare tire around my middle." "Doctors tell us cigarettes are poison." "Yeah, but smoking helps me to keep my weight down. Plus working out and eating right." "You never looked better. You look terrific." "Thanks." He flashed me his dazzling smile as he pulled his T-shirt up and off. He posed for me, half naked, flexing his Tarzan-the-Ape-Man muscles. "Look at these abs!" he cried, as he shoved his Levis down to well below his navel.
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I beamed. I applauded. I wanted to tell him that looking at his fabulous body gave me such a hard-on it hurt inside my tight jockeys. But I didn't. That kind of talk coming from me made Bobby uncomfortable – I was expected to show my admiration without getting too down and dirty about it. Yes, he loved to be admired. And he knew I worshipped him. But his narcissism wasn't in the least offensive. There was no arrogance in it. It was as if he knew that his beauty was the one and only thing he had that no one could underestimate or subject to ridicule. No wonder he was terrified of losing it or allowing it to depreciate. No wonder that in his mid twenties he was already obsessed with fear of growing old. And yes, he was a cock-teaser. After holding his spectacular physique pose long enough to make his point, he put his T-shirt back on, seated himself across from me, and silently watched me eat my sandwich to the last bite. I glanced at my watch, saw that we still had plenty of time, and settled back to relax and digest for a few minutes. "So, Bobby, what are you going to do with yourself while I'm interviewing Herr Kleist?" "Thought I'd drive on out to Montauk Point. See the lighthouse. It's not too far out from were he lives, is it?" "Oh Bobby, you're asking the wrong guy. My knowledge of the geography of Long Island starts and stops with Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, which I read in English class. Teacher told us Fitzgerald deliberately fictionalized the geography of Long Island for symbolic effects, like all those necks and eggs, East and West." "Necks and eggs! What does it mean?" "Don't ask me. Then after omitting the entire borough of Queens, he has Northern Boulevard copulating with the Long Island Railroad, and their illegitimate offspring is named 'Valley of Ashes.'" "A pretty name." "Isn't it? Especially for what in real life is a swamp filled with ashes, garbage and manure. Or so I've heard." "So what is it you're trying to tell me exactly?"
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"Only that I don't know the first thing about Long Island because I've never been there. All the rest was just me camping it up. When there's something I don't know or can't understand I camp it up to relieve my anxiety." "Well you don't have to worry 'cause I got a map." "Terrific. Can I see it?" "It's in the jeep. But I don't think I'll need it. I was out that way once. I remember – it's straight and narrow." "You were on the straight and narrow, eh?" "Hardly. I meant Long Island. The road through it. It's hart to get lost if you–" "Follow the straight and narrow." "Ah, come on, Les, you're puttin' me on." "Affectionately, Bobby, don't get sore." "Aw, I'm not sore." "Good. So when was it you went out to Long Island?" "Before I met you, of course." "Of course." "Soon after I came here to the Big Apple. I had just started hustling. Hanging out at the Astor Bar. I had heard that James Dean used to hang out there and get picked up by rich guys." "Not that he was really gay, of course, tut tut. I believe he called it 'research': trying everything out, at least once, to enrich his acting." "More than once, I heard, because gay or not, it paid better than waiting on tables." "And more fun besides." "Yeah, that's what I figured. Boy was I wrong. My very first john – he picked me up at the Astor and drove me out to his huge mansion on Long Island. Oh boy! A Long Island Millionaire! I had struck it big time! My Sugar Daddy would buy me fancy clothes; take me to the best restaurants; hook me up with a Broadway agent who would get me into the Show Business. Ha ha, oh yeah, turns out he wants strictly the one-night-stand and he'll be generous enough to pay me a hundred bucks if I let him tie me up and whip me – then screw me for good measure. He went on and on about what a thrill it would be to
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have a big, strong, handsome stud like me at his mercy. You know the rest, I'll bet." "No, I don't. You've told me a few things you had to do to keep from starving but you never told me about that episode. But then I've never pumped you to tell me anything you didn't want to." "I woulda' told you but I pushed my one and only Long Island gig out of my mind until you told me, the other day, how you'd scored for an interview with this famous Opera Star who lives in style out there. Then it all came back to me." "So – you know I'm curious. Do you want to tell me?" "Tell you what?" "Did you, or did you not, accept the slime ball millionaire's offer?" "Yeah, I did. That's how much I needed the money. It was bad enough just going through it. What made it worse was – he – he – reminded me of – of–" "Your father." "Stepfather." "Oh, right. I'm sorry my appointment has brought back shitty memories for you." "Naw, it's O.K. At least I know for sure the famous Opera Star you're gonna interview ain't the same guy who picked me up at the Astor. Your guy would have to be much older and – I remember for sure – my hundred dollar john didn't live nowhere near so far out. I remember 'cause he drove me out himself then sent me back to Manhattan in a cab the next morning." "Did he give you cab fare too, I hope." "Yeah. And a bottle of lotion to rub on my whip welts." "Thoughtful of him." "Yeah, real polite when he wasn't doing his rope and whip act." "I'm curious – tell me – was there ever an occasion when it was the other way around?" "You mean – did guys ever offer to pay me to use a whip on them?" "Yeah, that's exactly what I mean." "Yeah, but I wasn't very good at it. You know – my heart wasn't in it."
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"You mean your dick didn't respond to it." "You could say that. I couldn't get into that scene." "Too bad I wasn't around then. You could have practiced on me." "Are you serious?" "Not necessarily." "You ever let a guy whip you?" "No. I've thought about it." "You mean – you've thought you might like it?" "I'm not sure. It would depend on the other guy. He would have to be the right type – the kind of guy I would want to submit to – in that kind of way." "And you haven't met him yet." "Apparently not. I have my fantasies." "Really." "Yeah, really. My fantasy life is very active. In it I offer myself, body and soul, to the man of my dreams – to be his sex slave – to let him do anything he wants to me." The poor dumb guy hadn't a clue I was talking about him. "That's creepy." "To each his own." "I suppose so. But I gotta say I hated my date with the whip. O, sweet Jesus! What some guys won't do when they're hard up for cash." "What some guys won't do when they're hard up for cheap thrills. Hey, shouldn't we be starting out about now?" Bobby glanced at our kitchen clock, pondered a moment, and replied: "No hurry. We really shouldn't start out too soon. You said he told you to be there at four on the dot – not to be early or late. We don't want to have to sit in the hot car. Don't worry. I'll get you there on time and with no sweat. You can rely on me, Les." "I know that, Bobby. I only hope he's ready to start and doesn't keep me waiting. He said the interview had to be over by five on the dot." "Five! Hell, that gives you only one hour. Is that enough time?"
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"I guess it'll have to be. I'm lucky to get the hour. He's refused all requests for an interview since his retirement. Not surprising. He must have been hurt bad by those nasty reviews of his farewell a couple of years back. He's been in complete seclusion ever since." "What did they say that upset him so?" "Said things like, 'He should have retired ten years earlier – that he'd destroyed his reputation by continuing to sing long after he was past his prime – that all his great acting and depth of interpretation couldn't compensate for cracked high notes and a wobble wide enough to drive a truck through!' Bitchy mean things like that." "And why were you, Mr. Lesser Porter, given the big fat honor of an hour of the great man's time?" "He said he was impressed by the rare insight I had revealed in my article in Opera Quarterly about the tragically brief career span of the high voices – tenors especially. I pointed out that some aging sopranos manage to move down to the mezzo parts successfully. And elderly bass-baritones can still sing the great comedy roles. But no veteran tenor to my knowledge ever made a successful switch to baritone when his top notes were gone. Then I went on to list a couple of dozen conductors and instrumentalists who are still active and greater than ever in their eighties and nineties. And therefore it follows that a tenor who has had to devote so many years of study and preparation before he is ready, only to have so relatively few years at the peak of his form is, in my view, an essentially tragic artist." "I'll drink to that," said Bobby, and he grabbed my glass of milk and took a swallow. "Go on, finish it." "No way. Milk's fattening." He lit a cigarette and pushed the pack to me. "We really ought to start out." "We got time for a smoke. I figure we got no problem with traffic heading out to Long Island at midday. No trouble getting back either. All the traffic will be going the other way." "That's smart figuring," I said, and instantly regretted it. That all too familiar wound was showing through his lovely blue eyes again.
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"Not so smart, really. Even a dummy like me can..." His voice faded out and he sat quietly, gazing at the perfect smoke ring he had blown into a shaft of sunlight shining through the kitchen window. Damn it! I had tried to train myself never to use words such as 'smart' or 'dumb' or 'bright' or 'stupid' – or any word that puts an estimate on a person's degree of intelligence. Bobby had been brought up to believe he was slightly retarded. It was the one thing about which he was most sensitive. O. K., so perhaps his IQ was significantly below average. But what of it? He was beautiful and sweet natured. And I loved him so. I lit a cigarette and tried with a notable lack of success to blow a smoke ring. I wanted desperately to say, 'Teach me how, Bobby, teach me how you do it.' But I knew it would sound patronizing. Bobby wasn't with me anymore. He was back, way back, in Texas with his asshole stepfather. "Bobby, stop it, stop it right now. I really meant it. I was worrying about being on time and you were – aware that we wouldn't get stuck in traffic this time of day." He snapped out of it at once. He smiled – that warm, radiant guileless country-boy smile that healed all my loneliness – all my regrets – and said: "That was smart of me, wasn't it? And it was smart of me to hurry you up so I could get some food into you, wasn't it, Les?" "You're damned right it was," I replied, as I reached across the table and squeezed his muscular arm. "Let's finish our cigarettes, then we'd better hit the road," he said, and I watched as he blew another perfect smoke ring into the noonday sun. "You gotta teach me how to do that," I said, confident that my good natured giant was back with me and fully aware that I would forfeit my life before I would hurt his feelings. "Oh I don't know, Les, it takes a real smart guy to learn how to blow good smoke rings."
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He broke into his high-pitched, little boy's giggle which, as always, was a startling contrast to his deep, masculine speaking voice. That's what he was: a sweet little boy in a big, muscleman's body. We were like George and Lenny in Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. We protected each other. Bobby, as Lenny, protected me, as George, by acting as my bodyguard. It was not at all an unnecessary role. We first met on the night he rescued me from a gang of fag bashers in Hell's Kitchen. Short, thin, and none too masculine looking it wasn't the first time I had been physically assaulted while cruising the streets, hoping to find my impossible Mr. Right. I, on the other hand, protected Bobby/Lenny from the inevitable consequences of his intellectual shortcomings. Although I was two years younger than he (and with my baby face I looked like a teenager), I managed to play the role of benevolent father figure. Many a time I had felt obliged to intervene when some wise ass bastard tried to exploit him. Although he had been a hustler he never acquired the necessary street smarts. As we got up to leave I was seized with an almost overwhelming need to put my arms around him and tell him how much I loved him. But, as I had done many times before, I suppressed the impulse. Rare were the times I dared to hug him or express any physical affection whatever. A nice butch pat on the back or a brief squeeze of a bicep was the most I could get away with. I knew him so well. Early in our friendship he had told me of the men, the many men, who had offered their 'friendship' as bait to get him in bed. Then, when their lust was sated, they had dropped him without the slightest regard for his feelings. Too many gay men were like that in those days (still are in this post Stonewall age, sad to say) and I was determined not to risk a move that might betray the trust and mutual respect it had taken us so long to achieve. Whether Bobby might in fact be gay was beside the point. If he was, it would have to be he who made the first move. I had no doubt he knew I would be ready and waiting. Jerry Connors scoffed at what he called my pose of nobility and self-sacrifice. A case of pure and simple masochism, my carrying a
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torch for a guy who was unattainable. And letting him move in with me when he didn't have a job and couldn't pay his share of the rent. And didn't seem to be trying very hard to find a job. And didn't seem to mind too much being my kept boy. Jerry was dead wrong, of course. I tried to tell him how Bobby busted his chops helping me out. He did all the shopping, cooking, laundry, and house keeping, while I footed the bills, playing piano for voice teachers and Opera workshops in addition to the small fees I earned writing articles for music periodicals. I could not and did not tell Jerry or anyone else that Bobby was not capable of holding a regular job. He would get very upset and walk out when he was criticized or made fun of. He had tried many jobs – menial, low paying jobs, all of them – until I convinced him he didn't have to be humiliated by sons-of-bitches who didn't understand him – understand that he was special and he shouldn't be judged by – jerks – or by supercilious queens like Jerry Connors. Nor did I tell anyone I had stopped having casual sex with available guys – that I was living a celibate life with a man who had awakened in me a capacity for unqualified love and commitment I didn't know I possessed. Or was I kidding myself? Was Jerry right about his judgment of me? Of course I was sexually frustrated. Of course I fantasized having sex with Bobby. Constantly! In some of my fantasies – accompanied by frenzied masturbation – I would cast him in roles utterly alien to his nature: Bobby – looking exactly like Bobby but transmogrified into a sexually aggressive brute, bending me to his will, making me his willing slave. So there were times, such as his bedtime push ups which he performed always in the nude, when I went quietly crazy with desire. But I never for a moment lost sight of what he gave me in return for his keep. However irrational of me, I felt his presence in my life – the way we took care of each other – was nothing less than my salvation. It was enough. My kinky lusts could damn well stay in the closet. Or so I thought.
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We didn't talk much on the road. Bobby needed all his concentration for driving. "Can't chew gum and walk at the same time, " he said. But he was a good driver who had kept in good repair the World War II Army Surplus Jeep he had driven all the way from Texas. Now, in the late 1950's, the beat up old machine, with holes in its canvas top to let in the rain, was still running. We arrived at Paul Kleist's address (which turned out to be a mansion such as Fitzgerald endowed his hero in The Great Gatsby) with a few minutes to spare. Just enough time to have a last cigarette with Bobby before I went in to face the music.
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CHAPTER III "I hope you won't be smoking when he comes down." He pushed an ashtray toward me as a wordless command to extinguish my cigarette at once. I would have done so had he shown me the slightest courtesy during the twenty minutes I had been kept waiting. My retaliation was quick and not altogether uninspired. I flashed the creep my most winning smile, flicked an ash into the tray, said "thank you," and went on puffing, as if he had graciously provided the ashtray for my convenience. It required all my will power to refrain from blowing smoke in his face. He was still standing there, looking down on me. "I wonder if I could tax your hospitality to the extent of asking for a glass of water?" He hesitated for several moments as if trying to decide if my request was reasonable. Finally he said: "Mr. Kleist does not grant interviews, you know. Not since his retirement. He has made an exception in your case and I hope you realize how fortunate you are. Let me remind you again that the interview must be over by five as his personal physician will be arriving at that time. And Dr. Anselmo is never late. Five on the dot, Mr. Porter. Five and not a minute past." "My appointment was for four. It is now twenty-two after. Perhaps you will be good enough–" He turned abruptly and left the room. Was he going to fetch the water I had asked for? I doubted it. What, I wondered, had I done to inspire such insufferable rudeness? And who was he? What was his relationship to Paul Kleist? Aside from doing everything possible to alienate a freelance writer who had arrived precisely on time for an appointment made a week earlier and confirmed by telephone that morning, what was his official function in the household? Butler? Secretary? Live-in lover? An all-purpose combination of the above?
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It was definitely he with whom I had spoken that morning. I recognized his voice. On the phone he had sounded courteous, friendly, cheerful even. "Oh yes, Mr. Porter, Mr. Kleist is expecting you at four. How nice of you to call to confirm. Mr. Kleist will be so pleased. He's looking forward to meeting you. His only regret is the weather report: another beastly hot day. Worse than yesterday. I hope the drive out won't be too uncomfortable. But you know, it's cooler out here than in Manhattan. Yes, see you then, and thanks again for calling. Goodbye." And when he opened the door in response to my ring he had a smile of welcome for me already fixed on his boyish, rather too pretty face. But seconds later, as his gaze streaked me from head to foot and back up again, the smile collapsed into a hostile glower. I could only assume there was something about my physical appearance that offended him or that he found in some way threatening. For the change came before I had uttered a word or taken a step to enter the house. Perhaps it was our resemblance that unsettled him. Not that we looked too alike. Nobody would have thought we might be related. But we were very much the same type: short, thin, not handsome, but what in the gay world is invariably called 'cute' (a word I detest!). The major difference was our ages. He appeared to be a still youthful looking early to mid thirties: a good ten years my senior. But, like myself, he would always be a boy – never a man – never mature – a juvenile – then an aging juvenile – then a little old auntie who might or might not have acquired the dignity and common sense to avoid using make-up. Whatever the cause, it was a case of hate at first sight on his part, and it didn't take long for the feeling to become mutual. He swished. He pouted. His histrionic facial expressions and body language demonstrated clearly that he was thirty plus going on five. But I, on the other hand, was twenty plus going on fifty. To compensate for looking too much like a kid, which was not necessarily a professional advantage in that conformist era, I had
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developed a defensive persona of maturity and sophistication that I was inclined to overplay when in fact I was nervous and insecure. He conducted me through a grand foyer complete with a chandelier fit for an Opera house, past a staircase on which Bette Davis could have played the most dramatic scene of her career, and into a hot, humid drawing room slightly smaller than Grand Central Station where he seated me in what I suspected was the least comfortable chair in the room. He offered me nothing to drink. He abandoned me only to pop in and out from time to time, playing now-you-see-menow-you-don't, as if hoping to catch me trying to steal something. After twenty minutes of waiting for the great tenor to appear I was ready to give up. Not so much as a hint of breeze was coming through the open windows. And the late afternoon sun was shining through the filmy draperies to give the room the atmosphere of a greenhouse. I was getting hotter, thirstier and angrier by the minute. Time was running out. There seemed no point in remaining another second. I got up to leave. But for some unfathomable reason I sat down again and lit a cigarette. That was when Twinkle Toes (I didn't even know his name) appeared on cue with his no smoking admonition as if he could hear the faint little flick of my Zippo lighter from any room in that enormous mansion. I'm sure my refusal to put out my cigarette infuriated him. And he punished me for it by turning his back on me and walking out when I asked for water, only to return a short time later without the water. He stared at me a long moment. Then, somewhat to my surprise, he announced: "He's coming down now." I quickly stubbed out my cigarette. Too late, however. "Someone is smoking!" "It's Mr. Porter. I told him not to, Paul, really I did!" he yelled hysterically as he rushed to the foyer to intercept Paul Kleist before he entered the drawing room. Although both men were out of my line of vision I could hear their conversation through the double door that Twinkle Toes had left open in his flight. "Who?" "Mr. Lesser Porter, come to interview you for Opera Quarterly."
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"Oh – why – yes, of course. The appointment was for four, was it not?" "Yes, Paul." "How long has he been here?" "Since four, Paul." "It is now half past. Why didn't you wake me, Conrad?" "I didn't like to. You were sleeping so soundly after a bad night." "That is nonsense and you know it. An appointment is an appointment. It appears you have some reason for wanting me to sleep through it." "Er – very well – yes, you're right. I've had a look at him. He's not anything like we expected. He's only a kid – some student or other who's trying to make a name for himself at your expense. Let me send him away, Paul. Please." "When did you take it upon yourself to make these decisions for me, Conrad?" "I'm only thinking of you, Paul." "A certain desperation combined with your customary duplicity tells me otherwise, dear boy. I think I'd better take a look at him." "There isn't time. Dr. Anselmo is coming at five." "You can entertain the good doctor with a well made cocktail and your charming company in the library." I was hearing Paul Kleist's speaking voice for the first time. His singing voice in its prime I knew as if it were part of me. I owned every record he had made. "As for Mr. Potter, I'll decide for myself if he's worth my time." "Porter." "What?" "His name is Porter, not Potter." "Potter, Porter, whatever. A kid he may be, but I assure you he doesn't write like one." Deep speaking voice. More like a baritone than a tenor. "Paul – please!" "Get out of my way, Conrad, or I swear I will knock you down." "Alright. But you'll be sorry."
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"Stop pouting and fetch me a whiskey highball. Plenty of ice. You have given Mr. Porter something to drink, I hope." "No, I have not." "I thought I had taught you some manners. I see you must need more lessons." Footsteps on marble floors. Approaching. I was already standing and waiting with what I hoped was an appropriate air of deference. Enter Lohengrin. "Mr. Porter. I am sorry to keep you waiting." I was far far away at the other end of the room and uncertain whether I should walk toward him to meet him halfway or stay where I had been put by that odious little Toy Boy whose name I now knew to be Conrad. And lo and behold, there he was – again! – following close behind his meal ticket with an exaggerated air of protectiveness and solicitude, which seemed hardly necessary as the man who was once hailed as the greatest Tristan of his generation appeared to be a healthy, vigorous man in his late sixties, at most. "So glad to meet you at last. May I call you Lester?" "It's Lesser, sir. My friends call me Les. And yes, of course, please do." I was so spellbound by his powerful presence I could not move a step from where I stood. When he came close enough to get a good look at me a certain glint in his eyes told me he liked what he saw. "Well well. Do sit down, Les. I will stand for a moment or two if you don't mind. I've taken a nap and I need to move around a bit until the old circulation kicks in. Conrad, why do you hover? Make yourself useful. Mr. Porter and I will require something cold to drink. I'm having a whiskey highball. What would you like, Les?" "Whiskey is fine, sir." "You heard that, didn't you, Conrad? Your ears are keen. They hear everything, do they not? Even things they are not supposed to hear. Fetch the drinks, then make yourself scarce." When the chastened Conrad left the room Paul Kleist said: "I must apologize for Conrad. You can understand why he didn't want me to
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see you once he had seen you. He is very jealous of any very young and attractive man I may happen to meet. Some years back, when he was about your age, I employed him as my dresser at the Opera. He proved useful in many ways, and I kept him on as my houseboy when I retired. He has no family. His father kicked him out when he learned his only son was gay. He has attached himself to me as a kind of surrogate. But now that he is no longer in the first bloom of youth he is terrified that I might want to replace him with – how should I say? – a newer model? So his increasing possessiveness and pathological jealousy, I fear, will one day drive him to the selffulfilled prophesy. In plain words, if he doesn't stop carrying on so I'm going to throw him out. I hope you are not offended by these revelations. I mean – you are gay, are you not?" I would have resented the question from anybody else. The question, put to me on such short acquaintance in an age in which homosexuality was still a crime. But he was not just anybody. He was the greatest Wagnerian tenor in the world, and no other tenor had yet succeeded in replacing him. The spell he had once cast as Parsifal was there at close range, surrounding him like a nimbus. "Yes," I replied. "So am I. But I ask you, can you imagine anything so bizarre as a man waiting until he is my age to come out? Although I have known about myself since I was a choirboy I have had few opportunities to do anything about it. The Opera world is nothing like the Ballet world. Almost all male ballet dancers are gay, and all the world knows it, and nobody seems to care. But Opera singers are mostly straight. So too the managers who engage us. And they are generally as prejudicial as everyone else in this bigoted world. I did not dare let it be known. I did not dare stray from the straight and narrow. It would have meant the end of my career and possibly my life. I am speaking of my heyday in Germany now – the period of the systematic persecution of homosexuals in addition to Jews, Communists and Gypsies. Here in America, if we are not sent to concentration camps as in Nazi Germany, or flogged as in England, we suffer discrimination in other ways that are sufficient to ruin our
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lives, such as being silently and discreetly blackballed from working in our chosen professions. Yes, even the Opera." "But surely not you: the possessor of the rarest type of voice. And you had no competition. You would have been in demand in all the major Opera houses of the world regardless of your sex life." "You think so? There was a certain baritone. American. I shall not mention his name. Young, handsome, with a huge voice, incredible range. He got rave reviews for his debut as Kurvenal in Chicago. There was no doubt that he was on his way to international stardom as a dramatic baritone. He was born to sing Wotan. Instead, his career ended abruptly one night in London when, after his sensational appearance at Covent Garden, singing Iago to my Otello, he was photographed by one of his own admiring fans kissing a seventeen year old boy in the back seat of his hired limousine. The adoring fan sold the picture to one of those sordid scandal magazines that are read by more people in England than here – and taken more seriously." "I think I know the baritone you're speaking of. I have his recording of the Dutchman's 'Die Frist Ist Um'." "And he was only twenty–seven when he made it. He was thirty when he committed suicide. So is it any wonder I remained celibate rather than risk exposure? But none of this is suitable for Opera Quarterly. At least I hope you don't plan to include anything I have said so far." "Of course not. But I'm honored you should trust me enough to reveal such personal information." "I am an astute judge of character. I knew I could trust you the moment I entered this room and saw you standing there – so sweet and shy. And so very attractive, if you don't mind my saying." "I don't mind at all. But time is running short. We should begin the interview proper. I have brought my tape recorder with me. Do I have your permission to turn it on now?" "But of course. Is that it? That little silvery box beside the ashtray with one cigarette butt in it?"
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"It is. There. It's on and recording. And trust me, Mr. Kleist, if anything of a personal nature should happen to come out in the course of the interview you can rely on me to edit it out. And I apologize for smoking in you home. I was nervous and fearful that we might not have enough time to do a proper job of it. Please forgive me." "Well I might forgive you and I might not. It depends. Smoking. Such a nasty habit. It should be discouraged in one's boyhood, as it was in mine. But it is never too late. Perhaps I should discourage you from smoking here and now by means of a suitable punishment. A punishment you will remember the next time you feel the urge to light one of those ridiculous cylinders. Perhaps I should order you to take down your trousers – and your underpants too if you are wearing any – expose your delectable buttocks to my lustful gaze – then bend over my lap for a proper spanking." "Mr. Kleist, let me remind you that you are being voice recorded." "So what? I was jesting, of course." "Of course. But can't you tell me something I can actually put down in my article on your career." "I have, actually. I am strongly opposed to cigarette smoke anywhere in my vicinity." "I am sorry." "Oh, my dear boy, think no more of it. Besides – what does it matter now? I am retired from the stage and need no longer worry lest a whiff of cigarette smoke should spoil my high note. But it might interest your readers to know it was in my contract that nobody in the company, not even the General Manager of the Opera House, was allowed to smoke in my presence. But all of that is past. Go ahead and smoke if you like. As I said, what does it matter now?" "Thank you, no, I wouldn't smoke in front of you for all the world. Can I start with some questions?" "Of course, might as well. Do you need that I should sit close to the machine?" "With your legendary resonance, Mr. Kleist, the recorder will pick up your voice from anywhere in the room. Sit where you'll be most comfortable. Or walk about the room as you speak, if you wish. The
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machine is on and recording. The interview has begun. It is said, Paul Kleist, that no tenor in your time or since has had a voice as big as yours." "Ah yes, the biggest tenor voice in Opera, they said. That much is true, I suppose. But I assure you I never shattered glass like they said. They also said it about Caruso but it never happened. Pure myth. Publicity. You'll puncture that silly nonsense in your article, I hope." "You already have. It's on the tape." "Good. Oh dear, it is very hot in here today. I am sorry. I am arranging to have air conditioning installed quite soon. I avoided it when I was singing. Terrified of colds, like all singers. It was in my contract that I never be booked into a hotel room with air conditioning. But now, what does it matter? One of the happy consequences of retirement is that I can at last enjoy the so many comforts and pleasures I dared not risk when I was singing. What most men consider all the good things of life. Air conditioning is bad for the voice. So too electric fans. But high humidity, heat and much sweating are good for the voice, however miserable they made me on the Spring Tours with the Metropolitan. Can you imagine what it was like during a heat wave in those huge auditoriums in Dallas and Memphis in the costumes I wore for Lohengrin and Tannhauser? I had to drink gallons of orange juice to keep from dehydrating and to keep my blood sugar up. And I loathe orange juice. The heat was enhanced by the stage lights and the bodies of five thousand human beings en masse. There was this Finnish bass doing his first Met tour. I should remind you the tour started in the Spring but it extended well into the dog days of Summer. During a matinee in Memphis the Finnish bass drank four bottles of cold beer before he went on. I tried to warn him but he would not listen. He made his grand entrance as King Marke in the second act of Tristan and Isolde. You know that excruciatingly long narrative Marke has to sing? He fainted dead away in the middle of it. Ha. I love beer too. But I gave up everything I loved for my art. Even love itself. Ha. No alcohol, no tobacco, no late night parties. Even laughter is bad for the voice, did you know that? Laughing irritates the larynx. On the other hand
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weeping is good for the voice. It relaxes all the right muscles. As does vomiting. It is true. Vomiting is the best possible exercise for the diaphragm. So my only allowable indulgences were weeping and vomiting. Where is that silly boy with our drinks. Conrad! Where the deuce has he gone? I'm sorry, where was I?" "For the sake of your art you had to make many sacrifices – all your adult life, in fact." "Long before. I was an alto in the Apollonius Boys Choir. Quite famous in Europe before the war. We performed in concert. Traveled all over the continent. It was great experience for me – so young – a child and already a professional. But what a hard life! They would not let us do anything. No fun at all. Unnatural for young boys. Rehearse, study, perform, eat, sleep. A private tutor was engaged to make us keep up our school studies. We were kept busy from early morn 'til bedtime. And can you believe this? Even our sleep was supervised. Watchful eyes. A light was always on. We couldn't even – you know – do what all boys do. We felt like convent girls." He laughed, and I laughed with him. But I didn't fail to notice that his laughter was forced. Nor would I forget the darkness and pain I saw on his heavily lined face as he spoke of a lifetime of renunciation. Like a priest. Like a penitent. "Oh, dear dear dear, this is going very badly, is it not?" "Why no, you are being very candid, and I appreciate it." "But so much of what I am telling you cannot be put into a proper musical periodical such as Opera Quarterly. The editor would never print it. I mean – really! – I have just introduced the subject of masturbation." "Let me worry about the censorship aspect. Say anything about your life that you feel the urge to bring up. There are ways to word these matters discreetly. Leave that to me." "Well – in that case – would you like to hear about how we were punished if we got caught masturbating?" "Yes. I personally would be very interested." "I thought you would be." "Did you indeed?"
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"Yes. Something about you. I am very observant. Very intuitive. Besides – as an intelligent man – and a gay man – you must acknowledge a link between corporal punishment and sex – or sexual arousal, at least." "I won't deny it. Go on." "When in the dead of night there was observed to be a certain movement beneath the bedclothes of one of us – remember the night light and the watchful eyes – there was of a sudden a violent invasion not unlike the Nazi Storm Troopers. But instead of being dragged off to the Gestapo, the offender was seized and dragged over to the Whipping Bench where he was stripped of his nightshirt and bent into a position that was highly provocative. Can you picture it? Totally naked. His wrists bound. His legs spread wide. His round, firm buttocks well elevated for all the rest of us to see. Then he was whipped with a leather strap. Thirty strokes. And what did the rest of us do while we watched? Surely you can guess. We, all of us, masturbated – timing our release to the final crack of the strap. And ever since – I have associated undressing for punishment with undressing for sex. In point of fact: I cannot to this day see a desirable young man without imagining how good it would make me feel to tear off every stitch of his clothes and take a whip to him." At that point I was sweating profusely. And not just from the heat. Good thing I was wearing tight jockey shorts under my suit trousers. I would not have wanted that dirty old man to notice the huge erection I had sprung from hearing his colorful account of naked discipline in a boys' dormitory. Nor would I have wanted to confirm his 'intuition' that I thought often of such things – fantasized about them – even to the extent of projecting Bobby into the role of a Nazi Torturer who had me stripped naked and at his mercy! Suddenly he was the ever-so-proper host again, feigning concern for my discomfiture. "Oh, how thoughtless of me! You are suffocating! I should have told you – Conrad also – Oh, where is that boy with our whiskey highballs? What could be taking him so long? Con-RAD!! – He should have told you – I should have told you – urged you – because
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of the heat – do not sit there so uncomfortable. Do, please do, take off your jacket. Take it off right now, and be more cool. Oh, is the machine still on?" "Yes, but it's o.k. I can edit out the dull parts." "The dull parts – like my ordering you to undress. Not so dull, I dare say. And you have not done it yet. Why do you hesitate to remove your jacket when your host has granted you permission to do so? Indeed, when you host has insisted. Are you so shy and repressed and unduly modest that you prefer to sit and suffer this unbearable heat rather than make yourself more comfortable? I shall not continue this interview until you take off your jacket." The white shirt I was wearing was extremely sheer – quite transparent, in fact. And copious perspiring had caused it to cling to me. When I took off my jacket – at his command! – it was as if I were wearing nothing underneath. "Ah! You do not wear an undershirt. I like that. I like it very much." He was staring at my nipples – and licking his lips. "And here are our drinks at last. Bravo Conrad! What took you so long? Just put the tray down there. Yes, that is right, thank you, Conrad. You are dismissed. Goodbye Conrad. Goodbye goodbye. Wave goodbye to Conrad, Les. Go on, wave wave wave. This is how we wave goodbye to the waiter. He won't be needed anymore. Here – drink up, my boy. Cheers. Now, where were we?" "A lifetime without the pleasures most of us enjoy." "Not at all. My life is far from over. And in the years remaining I shall make it up to myself for all the sacrifices I was obliged to make for the sake of my art." "Does that mean you've no intention of taking pupils? – of passing your art down to some worthy youngster who, under your guidance, might follow in your footsteps?" "Oh must there always be that kind of crap in these interviews? I am expected to sound humble, am I? 'My talent is a sacred gift from God, and I am duty bound to pass it on to some worthy youth that he might follow in my footsteps.' Oh such pious, hypocritical garbage!
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Let me tell you exactly what I intend to do with my time remaining: eat, drink and fuck. And you can spell it out in your article in Opera Quarterly – my exact words: eat, drink and fuck. Don't you understand? I was cheated out of what should have been my best years – my mature prime – by stupid journalists nurturing the American public's hatred of Germans. I owe nobody. Nothing!" "You are referring to your long delayed American debut at the Metropolitan." "Of which the less said the better at this point in time. But yes! The long, drawn out 'denazification' process during which I was not allowed to sing. I was never political. I was an artist who happened to be born a German. Was it my fault that that madman, Adolf Hitler, fueled his insane doctrines by linking them to the music dramas of Richard Wagner? Was it my fault that I was his favorite tenor? I was everybody's favorite because I was great. Would an American artist snub the President of the United States by refusing a command performance at the White House? And what would have become of me had I made such a gesture of defiance? So I was demonized by the New York Press because, as they put it, 'I sang for Hitler.' As if I had a choice." "But they did clear you eventually, and you made your American debut at the Met in Tristan und Isolde." "Too late! After too many years of total inactivity during which time I suffered a nervous breakdown. That was kept secret at the time. But what does it matter now? Who cares any longer?" "I care. And my readers will care when I tell them how you were made a scapegoat." "I knew I could count on you to set the record straight. But let us tell the whole truth. I made two serious mistakes. One: I sang too long. I should have retired earlier. Two: I should not have chosen the heaviest of all my roles for my first appearance in New York." "Tristan." "Correct. My great recording, made at the peak of my powers in 1939, had just been released in America. Everyone expected me to sound like that. Alas! I was sixty years old and still suffering from
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the debilitating effects of the breakdown. The one tenor in all the world I could not compete with was the tenor I had been in 1939. And I was upset by the picket lines out front. The nasty little puppet patriots carrying the nasty signs saying things like 'DON'T LET HITLER'S PET SING AT THE MET!' It was not until the last minute that I knew the curtain was going to go up. I sang poorly and the reviews were a disaster. But I had a contract and I continued. I improved. I regained some of my old powers. But the critics never let up on me." "You were irreplaceable." "Yes, and I took full advantage of it as long as I could. Did you – you are so young – did you ever see me on the stage?" "Yes, once, your final season, and my first year in New York. I saw you as Herod in Salome. And the critics praised your Herod, surely you recall." "Yes, you are right. They forgave the state of my voice because Herod is a character role. It is alright to scream your way through it because the man is an hysteric." "They praised your acting and your profound interpretation. I've read all your reviews." "Have you indeed?" "Spent much time at the library doing research on your career. I've bought all your available recordings. It's uncanny how you sound like a baritone in the low and middle range. Then you soar up to the top notes – so clear and brilliant – without a sign of strain." "I started out as a baritone. When my voice changed it seemed certain I was a baritone. The breath control I developed as a boy alto made it possible for me to progress swiftly and I made my operatic debut as the Baptist in Salome. But I assure you I did not wear a loincloth like some of these slim young baritones do today. I was always self conscious about my weight. And when I found my top notes and switched to tenor I got fatter than ever." "But you're not fat." "Not now. Dr. Anselmo put me on a diet last year. He wants to keep me alive for some reason. I have lost forty pounds and am
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actually quite fit now – for my age. You don't have to sit there wondering if you dare ask. I will be celebrating my seventy–third birthday on the sixth of September." "You don't look it." "Thank you. The weight loss helps. Too bad I did not look slim and reasonably romantic on the stage. But the pressures of performing – the wear and tear on the nerves. Add to that the relentless ordeal of dieting and – boom! – I knew singers who lost their voices trying to get thin. But I learned to carry my weight with poise and dignity. I refused to sing Siegfried on the stage. I recorded the role and sang it in concert. But I positively would not wear those skins and put on a curly blond wig and do all that running and jumping and dragon slaying. Siegfried is a teenage boy and I was terrified of being laughed off the stage. Too bad, because vocally the part was perfect for me." "You said a moment ago you plan to devote the rest of your life to eating, drinking and..." "Fucking." "Right. Well aren't you afraid the eating and drinking will put back the weight you've worked so hard to lose?" "Possibly. But not the fucking. They say lots of fucking keeps you slim." "And smoking too, I hear. Whatever else it does that's bad for us it certainly doesn't make us fat." "How true. I never thought of that. Should I maintain my weight by taking up smoking?" "Oh, I shouldn't think so. It's habit forming. Really. Once you start it's hard to stop. My friend – er – a friend of mine – he stopped for awhile and started gaining weight. So the best thing is not to start." "Advice from a youngster! Well well well." "Oh I'm sorry. I shouldn't–" "No no no, it is charming to have a young man around me who cares about my health. Charming. This – uh – friend of yours – did he start again?"
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"Smoking? Yes. He says it helps him keep his weight down." "How does he look?" "Sensational." "Give me a cigarette." "You're kidding." "I do not kid." "I don't want to be the one who gets you started." "Oh, I see, you are going to look after me. It is what I need. A really intelligent and sensible young man to take care of me. One who happens also to be just my type: boyish and so pretty." "Are you making a pass at me, Mr. Kleist?" "Call me Paul. Not necessarily, Les. But I should love to see more of you. Take off your shirt for me." Suddenly I felt a cold wind on my chest and on my back. I had taken off my jacket at his insistence. Damned if I would take off my shirt. For a moment I thought the sudden chill was my nervous reaction to his wanting to see me with my shirt off. But it was actually due to a sudden change in the weather. Through the open windows that had provided no relief until that moment there came cold gusts of wind that blew the floor-length curtains far into the room. At the same time a clock somewhere chimed five times. The room darkened perceptibly for a moment only to brighten fitfully to staccato flashes of lightning. When the thunder clap came seconds later it nearly knocked me out of my chair. Then came the rain with torrential force and the room was dark as night. I felt unsettled to say the least, but my host was clearly unperturbed. "My-oh-my, what on earth could be the cause of this so sudden change in the weather?" "Dr. Anselmo." It was Sweet Buns again, come to announce in the manner of a stiffly formal butler the arrival of Paul Kleist's personal physician. Enter Mephistopheles.
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CHAPTER IV For a moment he was a shadow in the doorway. Then Conrad turned on the chandelier in the foyer which backlighted him in a ghastly halo, giving him the appearance of a cloaked and hooded apparition from the middle ages. But then Conrad turned on the lights in the drawing room and I saw that he was wearing a long black mackintosh and a wide-brimmed hat. These he removed with a theatrical flourish, tossed them to Conrad, and said: "What the devil?! Shut those windows. It's raining, or haven't you noticed?" Conrad rushed to obey the formidable doctor's command but his equally formidable master stopped him. "No! The rain is most merciful. It cleans and cools the fetid air. Let the so refreshing breeze fill the room for awhile before shutting the windows." Conrad glanced nervously from one man to the other as if uncertain which to obey. It was then that I began to wonder if there were any other servants in the house. "I shall be very distressed if you catch yourself a cold, Paul." "What does it matter anymore? Stop fussing and allow me to introduce Mr. Lesser Porter. The dear boy is interviewing me for a music magazine. Mr. Porter, this is Dr. Theodore Anselmo, come to scold me for my new found excesses." "How do you do, sir?" "Charmed I'm sure. Yes, Paul, I was about to inquire what is that amber liquid you are consuming?" "Whisky. Won't you have one while you are waiting?" "Waiting for what?" "My interview. We are not finished, are we Mr. Porter?" "Well – no sir – we have digressed a lot. I have a list of questions. We've hardly begun." "There, you see, Theo, we are running a little late. Would you mind awfully waiting a short while?"
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"It appears I shall have to, in which case I'll have a whisky, thank you." "Conrad, a whisky highball for Dr. Anselmo, and refills for Mr. Porter and myself." "I shall have mine in the library. You will want to be alone with Mr. Porter, I'm sure. But don't take too long. I've a meeting in town and in this rainstorm I shall have to drive slowly. By the way – there is a military vehicle parked in the drive. Did you know that?" He strode to the nearest window and looked out. "The driver is a husky blond youth and the rain is pouring in on him from large holes in the canvas top. I believe the vehicle in question is called a jeep." "Oh my God!" "What is it, Les?" "My friend! He is supposed to pick me up at five." "Well from the looks of him he's been here since the storm began. He appears to be soaking wet. I do believe he might be catching his death of a cold." "Well then by all means let us bring him inside and dry him off. Conrad! Get an umbrella and go outside and rescue Mr. Porter's friend." "Oh, no sir, it's alright. I'll just dash out and Bobby and I will drive back to town. We won't impose on you." "But our interview!" "Perhaps we could reschedule. That is if you don't mind. Otherwise I'm sure I can write something interesting using the information we already have on tape." Hastily I turned off the recorder and grabbed it and my jacket, anxious to get out of there. Some instinctual alarm caused me to panic at the thought of bringing Bobby into that house. I ignored my host's protestations as I hurried to stop Conrad who, umbrella in hand, was heading for the front door. He already had the door open when I reached him. "No!" I shouted, as I grabbed his arm and thrust him back into the foyer.
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"I'm sorry, but it won't be necessary. My friend has come to pick me up. We must go back to the city." I dashed out and when I reached the jeep I was rain soaked. Bobby was in even worse shape. He was shivering. The rain was pouring in on him. He had taken off his T–shirt and was trying vainly to wring it out. "Let's go!" I screamed, as I jumped in beside him. I had not put my jacket on. Instead, I had wrapped it around the tape recorder before I dashed out. And now my thin white shirt was soaking wet. So too were my pants and jockey shorts. My irrational panic increased as Bobby tried again and again to get the motor started, without success. "What's the matter?" "Can't you tell? It just won't start." "What's wrong with it?" "I guess it's half drowned. Like me." "Keep trying." "I am. I don't wanna flood it. It's old, Les. Gotta treat it gentle." "Oh shit!" "Calm down, Les. It ain't a case of life and death." He sneezed and began to shiver worse than before. "Christ, Bobby, I've got to get you inside and out of this downpour." I looked across the drive and there he was – Kleist – standing in the doorway and beckoning to us. His broad, operatic gestures were urging us to come inside. It appeared we had no choice. And running out to us was Twinkle Toes with his trusty umbrella. By now I was beginning to feel sorry for him. And when he spoke this time his manner was considerably more polite. "Mr. Porter, please come back inside and bring your friend. Dr. Anselmo says it's madness to drive in this storm. The roads will be flooded. And Mr. Kleist will be much offended if you don't accept his hospitality." The umbrella was useless in that raging wind. We ran, the three of us, and when we were inside Paul Kleist slammed the door shut.
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Bobby was a sight! He had left his wet T–shirt in the jeep. He was half naked. His wet jeans were riding low on his slim hips. His hair was a mass of wet ringlets. Never had I seen him look so vulnerable – nor so eerily beautiful. "Why I do believe it is Neptune himself, risen from the sea and tempest tossed to my doorstep." "No, Paul, you're quite wrong. He is Poseidon." "What is the difference, Theo?" "Plenty. Neptune is Roman. Poseidon is Greek. We have here a Greek God, judging from his face and physique." "This is my best friend, Mr. Robert Hoffman," I declared emphatically, as if Bobby needed to be defended from mythological references. "Hoffman! A fine German name. You see, Theo, we are both wrong. He is neither Roman nor Greek. He is pure Aryan. So blond he is! Ubermensch. What a Siegfried he would make! Well, Mr. Hoffman, we must must must get you into some dry clothes right away. You too, Les." Bobby coughed. Once, twice, three times. Never had I heard him cough so loudly. "Oh I don't like the sound of that." "I do. It is like the roar of the Minotaur in the Cretan Labyrinth." "Dr. Anselmo is jesting, of course." "I was jesting, of course." "Dr. Anselmo is my personal physician. He got me through many a performance when I had a bad cold. His cures are quite miraculous. But what are we standing here for? Conrad, take these boys up to one of the guest rooms. Get them out of their wet things. Give them plenty of towels. Let them take hot showers. Make certain they have soap, shampoo, anything they need. And give them dressing gowns to wear. One of yours for Mr. Porter and one of mine for Mr. Hoffman. Then, boys, the doctor will be up to see you." Half an hour later Bobby and I were warm and dry and feeling no pain from the hot, strong whisky toddies that Dr. Anselmo himself prepared for us.
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I was recovered completely from my panic attack and feeling rather ashamed that I had treated my host and his doctor so ungratefully when it was now apparent that they were, both of them, despite their eccentricity, making every effort to provide for our health and comfort. My brief exposure to the storm caused me no ill effects but Bobby had a bad cough which Dr. Anselmo cured in a remarkably short time. He brought his medical bag with him into the guest room where Bobby and I sat in our borrowed dressing gowns. "Now drink down those toddies to the last. They are not only liquor, water, sugar and spice. They include a highly remedial blend of East Indian Palmyra saps together with a secret ingredient I brought back with me from Haiti. The natives there believe it can revive the dead. Although I hesitate to endorse that claim I can assure you it prevents a cold from developing if taken at the first symptoms. I have visited Haiti a number of times as part of my research on phenomenology. Amazing, some of the things the Haitians know that the rational bound Western mind cannot accept. How are you feeling now, Mr. Hoffman?" "Who? Me? Oh. Swell." "No more chill?" "No, sir, the hot shower and the drink really fixed me up." "Your cough is gone too, it seems." "Yes, sir, I never felt better." "You sound good. Where did you get that beautiful voice?" "Aw, I don't know." "You don't know your voice is beautiful?" "Well – Les says it is." "Les is right. I detect an accent. Are you from the South?" "Texas, sir." "Ah, Texas, of course. And where are you from, Mr. Porter?" "I don't know." "I believe you are – how do they say? – pulling my leg." "Oh no, sir, Les wouldn't do that. He means he's really from all over. His folks were show people and he was born on the road."
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"But not in a wardrobe trunk, I assure you." "Les was born on a train. A show train!" "Really." "It's true. My Dad delivered me himself. But he forgot to take notice of what state we were in at the time. All we ever knew is that I was born in the dead of night somewhere between Denver and Chicago." "Ah, so you traveled with them as a member of the troupe?" "No sir, they knew Vaudeville was dying out and they wanted me to get a good education. The sent me to – some good schools." "And you became a writer by profession." "No, not really. Writing is a sideline. I earn my living by playing piano. Mom and Dad were singers but I showed more aptitude for the piano. I was trained at Curtis and Julliard." "Your parents must be very proud of you." "Well – they were, I suppose. They're gone now." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear it." "They had a good life. They died the way they always wanted – together – instantly – painlessly – in a car crash – on their way to visit me my first year in New York." "They were professional singers, you said. What kind of music did they sing?" "Duets from Operettas. They dressed and made up to look like Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald and sang all the hits from their movies. They had both trained for Grand Opera but they stuck to Vaudeville because it was steady work and they wanted to make enough money to send me to conservatory. They were hoping I would succeed as a concert pianist." "Of course. And do you concertize?" "No sir, I'm not that good. I mean – the competition is fierce. I'm a good enough accompanist however. I keep busy accompanying for voice coaches, recitals, Opera workshops. Not a lot of money but I like it and it pays the rent."
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"Les has got Opera in his blood. Don't you, Les? He taught me all about it and now I love it too. He took me to the Met to hear Madame Butterfly and I – I – fell in love with – with – those sounds." "Yes yes yes and those sounds stirred something within you and made you want to sing." "How did you know?" "I can here it in the overtones of your speaking voice – the almost sensual pleasure you experience from the basic act of blowing air over your vocal chords to produce words that vibrate throughout your entire body. From the shape of your head and the expansion of your chest I suspect that you are a perfect acoustical instrument. Not just the bone structure and the musculature, which in your case are quite spectacular, but the cavities." "The cavities?" "Yes, the anatomical chambers: the chest, bronchial tubes, neck, throat, mouth, nasal passages. Even high up in the head behind the eyes. All the empty spaces where the voice resonates." "Well I guess I'm your man, doc. They tell me I'm empty headed." "Cut that out, Bobby." "Well I won't say I'm empty headed but you know darn well I'm tone deaf." "I wouldn't call it that." "What would you call it then, Les?" "An intonation problem." "You see, doc, he puts it a nice way because he's my friend. The plain truth is I can't sing. Not that I don't like to try. I try all over the place and everybody breaks up laughing." "Hypnosis has been known to improve pitch problems with singers if the cause is not the result of faulty voice production." "Oh I don't wanna be hypnotized, doc." "Don't worry. I've no intention of subjecting you to anything like that. But I would like your permission to examine your vocal chords with my laryngoscope. It will be painless. I will spray your throat with a soothing palliative so you won't gag. May I do that?"
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He seemed to be asking both of us. Very observant man. He had picked up on our mutually protective relationship. We both nodded to indicate our consent. This was a far different man from the flamboyant eccentric who made a joke of Bobby's cough, saying it was like the roar of the Minotaur in the Cretan Labyrinth. His professional bedside manner was soothing and reassuring. "Do you both go to the same doctor in Manhattan?" As he was in the act of spraying Bobby's throat I felt it was appropriate to answer for both of us. Customarily I refrained from prompting or answering for him. Even if a question was put to both of us I let Bobby reply first as a rule. Better he should sound foolish on occasion than for me to treat him like a child in front of others. "We don't have a regular doctor actually. We – I should say I – go to the Polyclinic when I'm sick. It's near our place midtown." I looked away as Anselmo inserted the laryngoscope into Bobby's throat. I had never seen one of the things and I felt squeamish. In addition, I could not avoid associating such deep throat intrusion with the act of fellatio – Bobby seated on the bed – Anselmo standing over him – their knees touching. "Polyclinic. Polyclinic." His voice sounded far away as he muttered the word 'Polyclinic' several times – slowly – meditatively – as if to conjure up some ancient memory. After a long moment of silence he spoke in his normal voice: "That's where Rudolph Valentino died. Amazing. Absolutely the most amazing thing I've ever seen." I looked at him then, and at the examination in progress. Anselmo was peering intently through his instrument. Something about what he had just said didn't sound right. "You mean – you were there when Valentino died?" "What? Oh no – no no no – that was too far back even for me. I was in school then. In Heidelberg." "I misunderstood you. I thought you said something about it's being the most amazing thing you've ever seen."
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"Oh it is, it is. I'm seeing it now and I'm telling you I've never seen anything like it. I'm talking about this young man's pair of vocal chords. They are an inch long. Don't move please, Robert. I won't be much longer. Say 'ah' for me. Say it again and hold it like a tone. Yes yes yes incredible! The phonation! You're being very cooperative. I appreciate it. Only a moment longer, I promise you. Les – is Robert subject to colds particularly? – or hoarseness?" "I've not known him to be sick a day – with a cold or anything else. He lives a very healthy life. Works out in the gym at the YMCA three days a week. And watches what he eats and drinks." "He smokes. I can see the signs. Not so healthy. There's a slight irritation of the pharynx. But no infection, I'm glad to see. Do you both smoke?" "I'm afraid so, yes." "Naughty boys. You should perhaps be spanked with your trousers down?" I was taken aback by that remark. Kleist had said as much to me earlier. Were they both of them disciples of pants down discipline? And I didn't need to hear the subject brought up at that particular moment because I had nothing on under Conrad's skimpy little robe. The good doctor removed his disturbingly phallic instrument from Bobby's throat in time for Bobby to reply: "Shucks, doc, no bare butt spanking ever stopped me from smoking." "Oh really? I take it you are speaking from personal experience." "I sure am. My stepdad used to catch me smoking – he'd march me straight to the old woodshed. He'd strip me bare ass naked and tie me over the sawhorse and whip me with his razor strop. Fifty lashes! But I'd just smoke all the more to rile him." Never before had I heard him make light of his stepfather's sadism. Was that old emotional wound beginning to heal or was Bobby just showing off by bragging about his boyhood bravado? "Ah yes! And, of course, the punishment made the forbidden pleasure all the more pleasurable. That's how it goes for lusty young
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boys. How old were you when this old fashioned woodshed discipline was being administered?" "Aw, I was just a kid when it started. The last time he did it to me I was seventeen." "Seventeen! I'll wager you were already a big, strong man by that time." "Yes sir, I was. That's why it was so shameful! A grown man, buck naked over a sawhorse, getting his ass whipped! What made it worse was – wow! – he invited a couple of my buddies to come into the shed with us and watch! Just to shame me more. I could take anything he dished out, and he knew it. But having my buddies see me getting whipped without a stitch of clothes on! That was the last straw. I made sure he could never do that to me again." "Really? How?" "I ran away." Bobby had never told me any of those colorful details. Now he was telling them to a man he had met only an hour before. Perhaps it was because the man happened to be a doctor. But in any case I felt a twinge of jealousy. I felt also a swelling of my cock which caused me to adjust Conrad's skimpy little bathrobe more securely around my waist. "Ah, you ran away! How adventurous! To where did you run?" "New York." "Of course. It seems to be the ideal refuge for many of us. Have you any family or old Texas friends you still keep in touch with?" "No sir – Les is all my family now. He's the only person who ever understood me and liked me just as I am." "Well, if some others should take an interest in you, why not give them a chance?" A discreet knocking at the door. "Yes, come." The door opened a crack and we heard the voice of Paul Kleist: "I don't wish to disturb you." "You're not, Paul, come in. We are finished here."
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"I wanted to let you know that Anna and Martin have come aboard and are preparing supper." "Come in, come in, I want you to look at something." He entered the room rather timidly, as if he were no longer in his own house. "And the boys are dining with us. I insist. I can promise a good table. I was hoping you could cancel your meeting due to the weather and stay to dine with us. Then you could drive the boys back to the city in your car. That is if their car still refuses to start. If it's not running I can call Carrington's garage early in the morning and ask a repairman to come over and fix it. Then Conrad can drive it back to them and return by train. Better still, the boys could stay the night and return tomorrow in their own vehicle after it's repaired. The storm has subsided somewhat but it is still raining steadily. I have been watching the six o'clock news on the television and they report flooded roads and other hazardous driving conditions. I urge you, Theo, to cancel your meeting and stay to dinner." "Paul, will you please stop talking and come over here. I want to show you a phenomenon. I have looked down the throats of some of the greatest singers of the Twentieth Century but never have I seen a larynx like the one Robert possesses. You don't mind if Herr Kleist has a look, do you Robert?" "No, not at all. Look all you like, Mr. Kleist." Bobby was obviously pleased to be the center of attention. He was completely relaxed in the company of these two men and more than willing to open his mouth and take the laryngoscope down his throat once again so that Kleist could marvel at the sight of what Dr. Anselmo had called 'a perfect acoustical instrument.' Again Bobby was urged to say 'ah' repeatedly – soft, loud, high and low – while the two men engaged in a technical discussion of what they saw in Bobby's throat, using terms that were incomprehensible to me. The spoke of Bobby's 'extraordinary laryngeal vestibule – the margins of the ventricular folds – the transition from the respiratory to the stratified epithelium – superior and inferior arcuate lines – the
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ventricles of Morgagni – the supraglottic space – low isotonic inner tension' – etc. – !' And all the while I had the impression that Bobby was being treated like a specimen in a laboratory. Not that he minded. Far from it. He loved every minute of it. Paul Kleist and Dr. Theodore Anselmo were in perfect agreement regarding my friend, Robert Hoffman, as 'A perfect acoustical instrument.' Their consensus seemed to be that were it not for the fact that he couldn't sing he could be the greatest dramatic tenor the world has ever known.
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CHAPTER V When Anselmo telephoned to inquire if the meeting he was scheduled to attend that evening had been cancelled he was not surprised to learn that the storm had indeed forced a postponement and he announced with apparent delight that he was free to accept Kleist's invitation to stay for dinner. I had wondered earlier why there were no other servants visible in the mansion besides Conrad. It was at dinner time that the mystery was solved by the appearance of Anna and Martin, a married couple who served as cook and house keeper. Through some exchanges between Kleist and Martin while the latter was serving dinner I gathered that the couple lived in a cottage on the estate and came into the great house only at certain prescribed hours to perform their duties. Besides what I assumed about Kleist's relationship with Conrad I wondered what other secrets he didn't want his servants to be privy to. Despite the excellent food and wine provided by our host, together with his gracious efforts to entertain us with amusing stories about some of his operatic colleagues, I felt unaccountably nervous and uncomfortable throughout the meal. I thought perhaps it was only because I was once again wearing clothes that belonged to Conrad. Kleist advised me that Anna would do her best to dry and press my suit and shirt after dinner but that it might be advisable for Bobby and me to accept his invitation to stay overnight. Bobby was enjoying the evening immensely. Kleist had loaned him a brand new white silk shirt which he said he had never worn. When Bobby thanked him for the third time and told him how wonderful it felt against his skin Kleist told him he could keep it with his compliments. "Believe me, dear boy, it looks much better on you than it ever possibly could on me." The shirt really didn't fit Bobby at all. It was too narrow in the shoulders and too wide at the waist. But I lied and said it looked just
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dandy on him because I knew it was the costly silk that impressed Bobby and made him happy. He was wearing his own jeans which had had time to dry over a chair near the gas stove while we were under Dr. Anselmo's care in the guest room. Adding to my discomfiture throughout the meal was my bizarre impression that Bobby was still himself only from the waist down and that from the waist to neck he had become a caricature of the man whose shirt he was wearing. Equally distressing was the sensation that I had turned into a clone of Conrad! I had never seen Bobby so relaxed and comfortable in the presence of other people. I thought perhaps his euphoria was due to the wine and gourmet food he consumed with great abandon after sticking to his diet for so long. Somewhere around his third glass of wine and fourth buttered roll he whispered in my ear that he felt it would be awfully rude not to eat and drink all that our host had put before us. He also whispered urgently that he would be thrilled to sleep over in that opulent guest room in that fabulous mansion. These whispered confidences were clearly overheard by the others. Bobby was charmingly unaware that even his whisper had an uncanny resonance that projected to every corner of the room as if it were amplified by an invisible microphone. As for his desire to stay over, I hated to have to remind him that I had a gig, accompanying Antonia Campi's voice students the following day, starting at ten AM, and that I would be running the risk of being late if we didn't get back to the city sometime that night. But when I saw the look of disappointment on Bobby's face I decided to telephone Madame Campi and tell her the truth: that I was stranded on Long Island indefinitely due to the rainstorm and couldn't possibly show up for her lessons. If I called her immediately she would most likely have time to engage a substitute accompanist. When Kleist told Martin that we would have coffee in the music room I assumed we were to be treated to an after dinner concert composed of some of his best recordings. But when we were seated and coffee had been served Kleist turned to Bobby and announced: "And now, my boy, you must sing for your supper."
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"Oh really, Paul, that's cruel. It's too soon after dinner. You never sang after eating a large meal. You always said it puts a singer at risk of abdominal cramps." "Your memory is faulty, Theo. I never ate a complete meal before singing a full length Opera. Just a cup of broth or some fruit juice. On the other hand, I frequently was asked to sing at dinner parties and I never refused. I sang one song – something short and not too taxing. And that was that. If an encore was demanded I surprised the guests by doing some of my clever impressions of popular American personalities." "It would astonish you how good he is. You wouldn't imagine a European could have such an ear for American accents. He can do anyone from Jimmy Durante to Franklin Delano Roosevelt." "I can do Eleanor too." "I'm not at all surprised," I said. "I noticed at the start of our interview that you speak flawless English without a trace of German accent." "Thank you. But I must remind you that English is a second language for educated Germans. We are drilled in proper pronunciation from earliest childhood. Our tutor in the choir made us place our tongues against our upper teeth and say 'The, this, that, those' until our teeth fell out. Or until we got it right, whichever came first." "Education is beside the point, Paul. Such skill at mimicry as you possess cannot be taught. You could have a second career in nightclubs and on the television doing your remarkable impersonations." "I seriously doubt if the American public would accept an elderly, former Opera singer as a popular entertainer. Especially one who was accused of being a Nazi. No, my days before the public are over, and you know it." "That may be so. But at least you can give the present company a little demonstration for their amusement on a rainy night. Come, Paul, give us a bit of Jimmy Durante. Or that marvelously eccentric
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novelist from the deep South. You know. The one who wrote Other Voices, Other Rooms." "Oh, you mean Truman Capote." "Yes. Do him." "I will. But only under one condition." "And what is that?" "Mr. Robert Hoffman must sing for us first. Now Robert, don't look at your friend with that fearful expression of appeal. I heard you say emphatically that you cannot sing but I want to hear you try. It does not matter whether you can sing on pitch or not. I want to hear the quality of your voice. The sound is all I care about. Dr. Anselmo and I can listen and determine if your pitch problem is – how should I say? – physical or mental. Come now. Go to the piano. Plant your feet. And sing something. Anything. And, Les, you must accompany him. Go on. I shall not take 'no' for an answer." Was getting up and going to the piano my first serious mistake? Or was it my going to that house in the first place? I did it because I knew Bobby wanted it. I could not imagine any harm in it. If Bobby wasn't embarrassed then what right had I to be embarrassed for him? I went to the piano and Bobby followed and together we did our key shifting, beat skipping routine on Mario Lanza's "Be My Love." After Bobby's very loud, long–held final high note on what was supposed to be C but was, in fact, somewhere between C sharp and D there was dead silence that continued for some moments. The silence was broken when Paul Kleist turned to Dr. Theodore Anselmo and said, quite seriously: "It is not fair." Conrad appeared at the door. I had not seen him since dinner. He had sat with us at the table, not speaking a word. After dinner he had excused himself, saying he was tired and wanting to go to bed. He was wearing the robe he had loaned me earlier while I was now wearing one of his shirts (a nelly, hot pink number) and a pair of his skintight pants – clothes I would not under normal circumstances by caught dead in. No! Not in that buttoned down decade when any
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grown man who dressed like that was labeled Queer At First Sight. Most disturbing was the fact that they fit me perfectly. "Yes, what is it, Conrad? I thought you had retired for the evening." "I had. I was asleep. I heard – I wondered – who on earth? – I mean – I've never heard anything like it." "Nor has anyone else, I dare say. But it is nothing for you to be concerned with. You may go back upstairs now." "Can't I stay, now that I'm up?" "No. You have displeased me today. I shall deal with you later." "But I'll be sleeping." "Then I shall wake you." "Oh Paul! You're so cruel!" "And you love it. Now get out." Did I see tears welling up in Conrad's eyes a moment before he left the room? I thought so but I couldn't be sure from where I sat at the piano. By then my resentment of Conrad had changed altogether to pity. And Kleist's contemptuous treatment of him revealed a side of the old man's nature that I didn't like at all. And what did he want from Bobby? In the case of most gay men the answer would have been obvious. But not with Paul Kleist. No, it wasn't sex he wanted from Bobby. Even with Bobby close by, the old man's libidinous gazes were fixed on me exclusively. It was obvious that he wanted me as a replacement for poor Conrad. 'A newer model,' as he had put it. But I could not fathom what earthly use he might have for Bobby if his sexual preference was for an altogether different physical type. My type! A moment before Conrad entered the room Kleist had said: "It is not fair." Now he turned to Anselmo and said it again. To which the doctor replied: "So what? Can you have arrived at your stage of life still thinking life is fair? Of course it isn't. It isn't fair to you that the life expectancy of your voice is a couple of decades shorter than – well – the rest of your life. But it isn't fair to this young man either – that he should be so phenomenally endowed with more voice than any fool
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singer should need for a world class career and yet – you'll forgive me, Robert, I'm not saying this to hurt your feelings – and yet be so hopelessly ill equipped in matters of intonation, rhythm, and all other aspects of basic musicianship. I mean – if the lad didn't care it wouldn't matter. But it's obvious he cares very much. Such terrible sincerity! It's heartbreaking." "At least you didn't laugh!" cried Bobby. "You're the only people I ever sang for who didn't laugh at me." "They were not laughing at your voice, actually. Your sound is gorgeous. You did not sing a single note that was ugly in quality of tone. They were laughing at the intrinsically comical effect of very loud, sustained high notes sung wildly off pitch. It's a device that comedians who parody opera use to get laughs. Oh I wish you would allow me to hypnotize you. Not tonight, it is getting late, and I soon must be going. But think about it. I have had success using hypnosis on singers with problems such as yours. And I will charge you nothing. It will give me personal satisfaction to help you because – if I succeed – the musical world would hear for the very first time in history a dramatic tenor with a sound as dark as a baritone who can hit notes to high C and above, full from the chest!" "The doctor is right!" declared Kleist. "You are in fact a baritone with a range extension as high as the highest tenor." "Indeed! There has never been a voice like yours. And, let me assure you, your tendency to go sharp is actually a healthy sign. There is not the slightest effort or strain because your breath support is in fact overdeveloped. The sheer exhilaration you experience when sustaining a high note causes you to ride the overtones so freely that the center of the pitch rises until it is a half step sharp – or more when you get carried away. The good news I am trying to get across to you is that there is nothing whatever wrong with your vocal production on a physical level. All you need is a period of rigorous ear training – preferably under hypnosis." "And some basic rhythmic exercises that I can teach you. Your sense of rhythm is no worse, I assure you, than a world famous lyric tenor who could not for the life of him negotiate a simple syncopated
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passage in La Traviata until the conductor literally beat it out on his head with his baton for a full five hours. Oh my dear boy, place yourself in our hands and your impossible dream shall come true. And you, Les. Dear Mr. Lesser Porter. You shall have to revise our interview which, although a mere two hours or so past, seems already like ancient history. You must correct what I said about refusing to teach. I most surely would take a pupil like Mr. Robert Hoffman, who definitely has what it takes to be my logical successor." Bobby shook his head wildly and cried, "Oh no! No no no you don't understand! I can't – I'm slow – too slow – in my head. Les doesn't like me to say it but it's true. I don't have the brains it takes to learn all those words in foreign tongues. I'm too slow." "All the better! Most singers try to progress too quickly. Slow is better. Words and notes can be taught a little at a time. Day by day. You say you are slow but you have no idea how stupid some of our legendary tenors are and have been. Now and in the past. Stupid and arrogant, which makes them almost unteachable. But you, my boy, are modest, sincere, honest and receptive. Right now you are – you are–" "In shock, I dare say," declared Dr. Theodore Anselmo. "Say no more tonight, Paul. Let him think it over and discuss it with his good friend. Oh, but look at him, Paul. We have upset him. Such a pained expression. And look at Mr. Porter – the faithful friend, Lesser. He is also in pain. He feels his friend's pain. They feel each other's pain – like the Corsican Twins. We have dropped a bombshell and they don't know what to make of it. But there is a remedy, Paul. You must get their minds off of the bombshell. Relieve their tension and state of shock by fulfilling your promise." "What promise? I never make promises unless they are in writing." "Such short term memory! It's not like you, Paul. My dear Robert, I leave it to you to remind our forgetful host what he promised to do in return for your very obliging song rendition." Bobby remained silent for a long moment. I knew he was struggling to overcome the incredible suggestion that he might actually become Paul Kleist's successor on the Operatic stage. He
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turned to me as he often did when he was at a loss to reply to something said to him on a social occasion. But I could not for the life of me help him out at that moment because my own mind was just as blown away as his. Through the numbness – as in a delayed reaction – I felt the vague stirring of rage. Surely they were having a joke at Bobby's expense. And that was the unforgivable sin. And yet – was it not possible that it was I, myself, who underestimated Bobby's capacity for learning? Or overestimated what it takes to learn? Were there not, indeed, incredibly childish if not downright stupid tenors "who have resonance where their brains ought to be," as Anna Russel put it, and were coached painstakingly until they could stand and deliver like well oiled singing machines? And did not the audience, if not the critics, forgive them a thousand and one musical crudities if they could bat those top notes out over the heaviest orchestrations to send chills up the listeners' spines?! Suddenly Bobby spoke up – all his boyish charm restored: "I remember! Mr. Kleist promised if I would sing for him he would do some of his – his–" "Impersonations!" I shouted, much too loudly, as if a tightly wound spring in my head had snapped in two. "Yes, you can't wiggle out of it, Paul. You simply must give us Eleanor Roosevelt." "I don't feel like Eleanor tonight." "That is, as young Americans say these days, 'a cop out.' So who do you feel like tonight?" "I feel like – and it is utterly exhilarating, I assure you – quite like being newly born – a second life – a young, strong fresh new start for me – because it is unfair – unfair to me – ME! – Paul Kleist – whose life and art were truncated by war and politics. And now is a chance to right the wrong and give back to me the years of my prime to which my many sacrifices entitle me. And you know full well what I mean and what you must do, Dr. Theodore Anselmo of Heidelberg and Haiti." "Shut up, Paul, you've had too much wine on top of too much whisky and you don't know what you're saying."
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"On the contrary, it is you who are pretending not to know what I am saying. IT IS NOT FAIR!" He buried his face in his hands and shook all over as if he were having a seizure. But then the spell passed as quickly as it came. He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. "This coffee is cold," he said, in the petulant whining voice of a spoiled child. "Of course. You didn't drink it while it was hot." "We have both of us been thinking the same thing all evening and you know it." "That does not make it appropriate to discuss the matter – in technical terms, I mean – in front of the boys. Here. Tonight." "Quite right, Theo. I meant only that it would be like starting a new life were I to take a pupil. And – and – pass on to some deserving young man all my – knowledge and lifelong experience. To lose myself in that commitment. To overcome the feeling of being a washed-up has-been by – putting everything I have – everything I am – into a protege who is – receptive. But you are right, Theo, we should not discuss it further this evening. But do think about what I would expect from you. I would need you to monitor the progress by means of – tests – medical tests – the inner ear – possibly some slow motion films of the vibrations of the vocal chords on specific notes of the scale – like those x–ray charts and films you showed me of my own voice when I was... But enough. Enough! I am tired and not making much sense." "Oh sir!" cried Bobby, "You don't have to do your in persons tonight if you're too tired." "In persons?" "I mean–" once again he looked to me for assistance. "Impersonations," I said, again, rather irritably, for I, too, was tired. In addition, I was DYING for a cigarette! Even the good doctor looked tired. Bobby, on the other hand, appeared to be the only one of us who wasn't tired. And if he was also having a nicotine fit he seemed willing to bear it indefinitely. "I am not too tired to do one very special impersonation."
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"Oh good!" cried Bobby, with his childlike enthusiasm. "If you don't feel like Mrs. Roosevelt then do that funny writer fellow. I saw him on the TV talking about his grandmother and his book about crazy Southern folk." "Oh, you mean Truman Capote." "Yes. That's him. Let me hear your im – im – do him." "But, dear boy, I'd much rather do you." "Me?" "Why not? Let me think a moment. Let me get in the mood. Alright – a deep breath – and here is my impression of Bobby Hoffman, lately of the state of Texas." "Paul. Don't. Use you head. It would be a serious mistake to – I mean – you might offend him. Nobody likes to be imitated." "Quiet please. I am concentrating." After a long pause I heard Paul Kleist speak in Bobby's voice: "If you don't feel like Mrs. Roosevelt then do that funny writer fellow. I saw him on the TV talking about his grandmother and his book about crazy Southern folk." It was then that I wanted desperately to grab Bobby by the hand and drag him out of that house and get back to New York City by any means possible, even if it meant we might have to hitch hike. Instead – I sat there, determined not to spoil Bobby's evening, and said to Paul Kleist: "I agree with Dr. Anselmo. Show Business is being deprived of a great comedian." Bobby turned to me and asked, "Is that the way I talk?" "Sort of. It was clever, I admit." It wasn't clever. And it wasn't 'sort of.' Nor was it a caricature – an exaggeration for theatrical effect. It was so completely Bobby that I felt momentarily terrified. When the terror passed I knew and felt one thing only: I loathed Paul Kleist! The great tenor I had idolized was an appalling human being. And yet – what had he actually done to make me hate him? Why should his convincing impersonation of Bobby strike me as a presage of Calamity? Why was I convinced that his desire to collaborate with
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Anselmo in grooming Bobby to be his replacement could only be selfserving, if not malign? Dr. Theodore Anselmo rose and announced: "Now I really must say goodnight and take my leave. Can I give you boys a lift back to town? The rain seems to be letting up considerably. Enough to drive safely, at least." "Theo, that would be most impractical. They do not want to return to town without their own vehicle. You were not listening when I was outlining our available options in the bedroom. You were hypnotized by your own laryngoscope. The boys are spending the night here, and that is final." "Nothing is final. Not even death. Since my visits to Haiti I have concluded that death is nothing more than a temporary inconvenience." Rather too aggressively I said to Anselmo: "I've heard both Haiti and Heidelberg mentioned more than once. Where are you from originally?" "All over the world – East and West. And in me the twain has met. But to return to practical matters of the moment, it would seem sensible to me – now that it has stopped raining altogether – for you boys to go outside and try your motor." "Why don't you try your own? Chances are it too has drowned in the great Summer Storm of 1958 and you too will be obliged to stay the night." "I wouldn't want to put you out." "Nonsense. This house has fifteen guest rooms ready and waiting for guests. How could you be putting me out?" Anselmo sat down again as if he had already decided to remain for the night regardless of the condition of his car. "Why is it, Paul, that you still have no car of your own?" "You know very well, Theo, that I do not drive. I never learned to drive. I never had the need nor the desire to learn. A limousine and driver were always at my convenience when I was singing at the Met, but I am sure you must recall I lived at the Ansonia hotel then – as did many of my old colleagues – for convenience."
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"I thought only that it might be good for you to learn to drive now that you have time on your hands." "I do not have time on my hands. Time has me in its hands. And to where would I drive? I never go anywhere. If someone wishes to see me, and I am agreeable, he can jolly well come here. I am not in retirement merely. Nor am I in total seclusion. Rather I should say I am in a condition of self imposed exile." "Is the condition permanent?" "That is up to you." "Paul – it is not so easy. There is much danger." "You succeeded with that little girl and her grandmother." "Your memory fails you. The old woman died." "How can you say that? You of all people! She was twelve years old and had her whole life before her." "Of which one are we speaking, my friend?" "The one who survived, of course." "And who exactly was the one who did not?" "We must talk about this further, Theo." "Yes, we must talk, I agree. About how you are deliberately blinding yourself to the consequences. I must somehow make you comprehend–" "Oh my dear Doctor Anselmo, I do comprehend. I am not blind to the dangers or the consequences. What you do not seem to comprehend is that I simply do not give a damn." They felt perfectly free to conduct that extraordinary conversation in front of Bobby and me. They knew we hadn't the faintest idea of what they were talking about. And if we did, they knew we wouldn't believe a word of it. Like vampires, they knew their safety was insured by the fact that sensible, civilized beings don't believe in such things. Later – much later – far too late, in fact – I would recall their remarks about the little girl and her grandmother and wonder how I could have been so determined not to disappoint Bobby that I failed to recognize something that had to be either complete insanity or pure evil of a supernatural kind.
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I think I was single-mindedly obsessed with the fear of losing Bobby. I think I knew he was already hooked and that to object strongly to his having anything further to do with those two men might drive him from me. And, as it happened, the jeep still wouldn't start. Nor would Dr. Anselmo's 1959 Cadillac. The Great Summer Rainstorm of 1958 cancelled our preferences. Whether we wanted to stay overnight or not no longer mattered. Dr. Anselmo retired to his guest room and Bobby and I retired to ours. Bobby slept soundly in the huge King-sized double bed (with black satin sheets, no less!) that we shared. But I did not. The bizarre events of the preceding hours extended deep into the night. And when I finally dozed off I had a nightmare. Or was I awake and hallucinating?
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CHAPTER VI Bobby undressed and got into bed. "Oh wow! Les, hurry up and get undressed. You gotta feel these crazy sheets against your bare skin. Never heard of black sheets. What'll they think of next? Bet they cost a lot. So soft and smooth against my naked body." We, both of us, were accustomed to sleeping naked. But not in the same bed. I knew what that meant. It meant I wouldn't be able to sleep at all unless I jacked off before getting in bed with Nature Boy. "Are they silk?" he asked, rubbing the fabric against himself – all over – in the most sensuous and provocative manner. It was then that I gave in to an irresistible impulse. Instead of feeling the top sheet on my side of the bed I caressed a portion of it underneath which was Bobby's muscular thigh. "Satin," I said, with a certain tightness in my throat. It required all my willpower to take my hand away from those rippling muscles swathed in satin. "Bobby, I gotta ask you, how do you feel about us sleeping in the same bed with both of us naked?" "Aw Les, no problem, the bed's plenty wide. Room enough for three guys." "Who would the third one be? Conrad perhaps?" Bobby giggled and said, "Oh boy, what a treat! Poor little guy – gets treated like a slave." "Maybe he enjoys that." "Yeah, maybe. Takes all kinds. Some guys are really heavy into pain. I heard James Dean liked to have guys stub cigarettes out on his chest. They called him the human ashtray." "Please! You're giving me a hard on." "Oh yeah, that stuff turns you on, I forgot. I'm sorry." "Don't mention it. But speaking of cigarettes..." "Oh yeah – you got any? Mine got soaked in the rain and I had to throw 'em away."
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"Mine are ... where? Did I leave them in my jacket pocket? – or did I – Yes, I must have – they're still downstairs. I'm sure I left them and my lighter on the coffee table when I..." "I'll go down and look for 'em. We gotta have a smoke, for gosh sake." "No, I'll go. Why should you have to put clothes on when I'm still dressed?" "Gotta admit I'm too comfortable just the way I am. And – Les – when you're back and we can – just relax in bed with our smokes – there's something we gotta talk about." "Bet I can guess what it is." "Bet you can, at that." "Are you worried about what I think of the idea?" "A little, I guess. You don't like those guys very much, I can tell. I mean – you're suspicious." "Sure, we can talk about it all you like, Bobby. But I won't make you wait until I get back from my tobacco search to put your sweet mind at ease. Yes, I think they're deadly serious and they made some points that sound convincing enough. Although I have some misgivings about their motives – whether they can be trusted – the way they jumped to conclusions so fast – some of their weird double talk – like they were hiding something – Kleist getting carried away, saying too much, and Anselmo trying to control him. One minute they were talking about the same thing, or so it seemed, and a minute later they were contradicting each other – Finally lapsing into some kind of code that was not meant for us to understand – Anselmo warning Kleist about some kind of danger. Danger to whom? To him? To you? I suppose he meant the stress of teaching might endanger the old man's health. I'd like to think that's what he meant. I can't imagine what possible danger there could be to you aside from the possibility of setting you up for a big disappointment." "I'd take that risk, Les, really I would, and gladly, just for a chance it might work out. I want to try. So bad. It's my dream and you know it."
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"Sure I do. And I'd feel entirely comfortable had he just said he'd like to teach you and see how far you could go. But he acted like there was no doubt he could take you all the way. Well – still – Give it a try. It's not as if you're obligated to him in any way. If either of us smells a rat along the way we can pull out, and there's nothing they can do to make you stay with it. Don't sign anything. No kind of contract. Not for a long time, at least." "You mean you're with me on this?" "I'm with you, whatever you want. You know that. I would never discourage you." "I've got nothing to lose." "So it seems. It had better stay that way, is all I'm saying." "What the heck did they mean by that bit about the little girl and her grandmother? What did that have to do with giving me voice lessons?" "I have no idea. That was the really weird part that bothers me. The old woman died. Died of what? Then there seemed to be some confusion about which one died. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. They're a weird pair. Hypnosis as an aid in ear training. I'd like to ask Madame Campi about that. And I'd like to do a bit of checking up on Dr. Anselmo's credentials. But don't let that bother you. You just go along with the lessons and let me know if anything they have you do seems fishy. Does that sound agreeable to you?" "Gosh yes! Completely!" "Shall we have a smoke on it? To celebrate?" "You bet. I'm plumb having a nicotine fit." "Likewise." "Bet he'll make me quit." "He cannot make you do anything without your full consent. Remember that." "Yes, Master." "I'll be right back. Don't do anything funny while I'm gone." "Oh – you mean – like jacking off?" "Oh Hell, you can do that if you like. But it might be more fun if you wait for me."
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"Get outa here." "And what will you do should I – accidentally – when I'm sound asleep – roll over on top of you?" "I will very gently roll you back to your side of the bed." "I was afraid you'd say that." "Go get those darn cigarettes before I turn you over my lap and spank you." "With or without my clothes on?" "Without, of course. When I spank you, boy, you'll be Buck Naked!" I didn't bother with the tedious task of unfastening buttons. I pulled Conrad's form fitting shirt up over my head and flung it across the room. Before it hit the floor I was starting on the pants. Part of the thrill was my acute awareness that I wasn't wearing any shorts underneath. Hell! In those nelly tight pants of Conrad's there wasn't any room for shorts. In less than two seconds I was totally naked and approaching my 'let's pretend' sadist with my head bowed in shame and my hands cupped over what was definitely not a 'let's pretend' hard-on. Then, without a second of forethought, I lapsed into an exaggerated imitation of Conrad: "Oh, Paul! You're so cruel! But I know how you love to spank me without a stitch on! And if that's the only way I can get you to pay attention to me, I'm more than willing to provoke you. Oh Paul! My Lord and Master! Spank me! Spank me hard! I do so deserve it!" "Cut that out, Les. Cut it out right now or I will beat your ass – so hard you'll need to put five pillows on your piano stool before you can sit on it." "What do you think I want you to do, you slow witted oaf?" I couldn't believe I said that. What was happening to me in that house? I didn't dare look at Bobby to see in his eyes what I had done to him with those words. I looked away – and fixed my gaze on the open window far across the room.
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"It seems the rain has stopped completely," I said, as if it were an announcement of the utmost importance. When finally I looked at Bobby he was sitting on the side of the bed. His feet were on the floor. His sleek, slick satin cover had fallen aside, leaving him totally exposed. I tried to say 'I'm sorry,' but I couldn't. There was a lump in my throat. I couldn't swallow it or spit it out. I couldn't even breathe. Just when I felt as if I were going to pass out Bobby started laughing. It wasn't his usual high-pitched, childish giggle. It was a deep, booming laugh, full from the chest. I was too stunned to feel the relief that such good-natured laughter encouraged. When his laughter subsided Bobby said, "Well it's about time." "What? – what?..." "Time for me to stop being so sensitive and time for you to stop walking on egg shells and biting your tongue all the time. Because we both know I'm a dimwit. Say it. Say it! Dimwit dimwit dimwit! Say it, darn you, or I won't spank you." I threw myself on my knees, at his feet. I seized his hand, kissed it, and said: "Oh my dimwit. My beloved dimwit! I love you. Just as you are. Be my sweet, beautiful dimwit to the end of our days. And I'll be anything you will let me be. Never your lover. Ever your friend. I worship you. I always have. Take my love, I beg you, on any terms you will accept." I was sounding like a bad English translation of an Italian verismo opera. The hell of it was: I meant every word of it! And Bobby took pity on me. "Aw, Les. I love you too. Don't you know? I only wish I could – be your lover all the way. I can't. And it's so unfair to you. How can you live with me when I keep you so frus – frustate..." "Frustrated." "Yeah. I must drive you nuts." "I am frustrated. And you do drive me nuts. But I don't mind because there's no one else for me, and never will be. Oh Bobby! I thought I'd never say these things to you. And I vowed I'd never ever
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make a pass at you. Now I've done both. I've lost all my inhibitions. All my self-control. Here. In this unfamiliar room in this strange house. There's something about this house and the people in it – some strange occult power that forces me to do and say things I've been too cautious and fearful to do in the privacy of our own apartment." "What is it, Les, that you've been afraid of at home?" "Of losing you. Of driving you from me. Of saying or doing anything that would lead you to think I was – like all the others who led you to believe you had found a true friend at last – only to dump you when they'd succeeded in seducing you. From what you've told me about yourself I've gathered that all the men you've had sex relations with – whatever form they took – were either the impersonal johns who paid you for it or the sexual predators who deceived and exploited you. No wonder you're blocked off from the possibility of – of making love with the very man you love – who loves you in return." "You understand! Oh my God, I never thought anybody could understand. Not even you. If I didn't love you I could. If you were nobody it would be a cinch. I would fuck you and do anything else you wanted. And even enjoy it. Until after I came. Then I'd feel dirty like I always did – with all those others you spoke of so – so right on. But loving you as I do – you being all the real family I've ever known – it would be for me like – like..." "Incest." "Yes. Incest. That's the word I was looking for. I'm so screwed up in my head it seems like sex and love are as far apart as any two things can be. Maybe – someday – I can get it sorted out. Get it together, I mean. Will you wait for me?" "Do you still have to ask that after all I've just said?" "I guess not. Thanks, Les." "You're welcome, my adorable dimwit." "I told you I'd spank you if you called me that." We had run the gamut of operatic extremes from Orpheus to Electra. Now, it appeared, we were ready to take on the kinky atonalities of Lulu!
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"Oh no you didn't. You said just the opposite. You said if I didn't call you a dimwit you'd punish me by not spanking me." "Oh – so I did. Well then I reckon I'll have to reward you with a good, hard spanking. That wouldn't be the same as incest, would it?" "Oh no, not at all. It's a perfectly natural family matter. You're older than me. You're the Big Brother I look up to. And when your little brother has earned himself a good bare bottom spanking you're the right man for the job." "Well then, little bro, suppose you just bend over my lap and take it like a man." I couldn't believe that one of my many masturbation fantasies about Bobby – and all of them were about Bobby, of course – was coming true. As I stood up I glanced at his cock to see if it was hard. It wasn't. But that beautifully shaped weapon was so long, even in its flaccid condition, that it dangled over the edge of the bed like an ivory hued length of hose. Obviously the situation was not a turn-on for him. He was merely being obliging. Nor could he act the part of the sadist who enjoys the infliction of punishment. His puckish smile told me he was amused. And when I draped my nakedness over his own he began at once to deliver playful little smacks to my butt that were – well – much too mild. Were it not for my angry hard-on, stabbing his thighs as I squirmed and wriggled on his lap, I would say we were like a couple of naughty-nice little boys playing an almost innocent game – just barely aware enough to make certain that nobody was around to catch us at it. And – low and behold! – there was somebody around to catch us at it. Conrad was standing in the doorway – watching! I had not heard him knock – if he knocked. I had not noticed the door being opened, and I cursed myself silently for forgetting to lock it. "What the hell!" I gasped, as I none too steadily got to my feet. Unperturbed, he took his time looking me over – and looking Bobby over – before he said: "Oh do pardon me for disturbing you. I've come to ask a favor of you. I hope you won't mind."
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He was almost as naked as Bobby and I. He was wearing only a tiny red thong that was more revealing than a bikini. "Oh that's OK," said Bobby, as he ever so casually got back in bed and pulled the sexy black satin top sheet up to a point just below his waist – leaving his huge navel exposed and winking to the rippling of his belly muscles. "We were just fooling around," he added, as he squandered upon the unworthy intruder one of his most stunningly guileless smiles. That smile alone – to say nothing about that face and that body – was like a magnet. And, like a somnambulist, Conrad advanced dreamy-soft toward the bed. As he passed me I took him by the arm and turned him back around – toward the door. "You want to ask a favor of me, Conrad, old buddy? Why, sure. Let's just step out in the hall a moment. You'll pardon my birthday suit but I noticed you're not exactly over dressed yourself." "It will only take a couple of seconds. Why do we have to go out in the hall?" "Well, you see, it is Mr. Hoffman's custom to meditate before he goes to sleep. We wouldn't want to disturb him, would we?" Bobby giggled. He must have found my remark quite hilarious because he was still giggling as I firmly escorted Conrad into the hall and closed the door behind us. With Bobby out of sight it was now my turn to be gaped at. And when his open mouthed gaze, streaking up and down my nakedness, fixed upon my still fully erect cock I experienced a pleasant sense of power. Because because because. His kinky little thong revealed all too plainly that his sexual equipment was no match for mine. Our physical resemblance stopped short at that area of the groin. Not that I was any match for Bobby in that department but – hey! – who was?! "So what is the favor you would have me do for you?" "I have to get up very early in the morning to be at Carrington's garage, soon as they open, and bring back a service man to fix your
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car. And Dr. Anselmo's too. I have nothing in my wardrobe except my very fine suits that Mr. Kleist bought for me. I'm terrified of maybe getting grease or oil stains on them. I mean there's greasy stuff all over the place. Even in the office. You simply can't walk into the place without picking up grease. The only casual clothes I own – I mean the only ones I wouldn't mind too much getting a little messed up – are the shirt and pants I loaned you to wear while Anna was pressing your shirt and suit which, I'm pleased to report, will be ready for you before you go down for breakfast in the morning. Meanwhile – as you won't be needing them while you're sleeping – could I please have them back now? – so I can put them on – to walk all the way to the garage – at the crack of dawn – to get the service man – so your car will start – so you can drive back to Manhattan – tomorrow – after breakfast – please." "No problem. Wait here." He waited in the hall while I fetched his clothes for him. Then I waited and watched him until he had walked far far down the long hall and entered a room that was, I presumed, either his own or Kleist's. I didn't know or care whose room it was. I wanted only to be certain that the coast was clear before I ventured downstairs – totally naked – to get my cigarettes and lighter. I didn't give a damn that I was naked. Didn't give a damn who I might run into. Not even Anna, if she was still around. It seemed there was a conspiracy going on to prevent Bobby and me from satisfying our nicotine craving. Conrad's taking his clothes back was the last straw. No! – The conspiracy went beyond keeping us from smoking. Of that I was sure. I strongly suspected that Kleist put his skimpythonged little slave up to it, with a suspiciously flimsy excuse, just to prevent my escaping with Bobby in the dead of night. So now I was his naked prisoner! And I really didn't care as long as I could get my damn cigarettes and get back up to Bobby. Most of the lights were out but it wasn't as dark as I feared. There was a dim night light, here and there. One at the top of the stairs. Another at the bottom. None in the great drawing room. But so
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what? Nothing to stop me from turning on a couple of lamps so I could look around. And there they were! – cigarettes and lighter – on the coffee table next to the spot where I had put the tape recorder. The ashtray was still there with my one cigarette butt in it. So I hadn't left the pack of smokes in my jacket pocket after all. Lucky break. But why was I having such difficulty remembering? It seemed so long ago that I had sat there, taping an aborted interview with Paul Kleist. And where was my tape recorder? Did Anna have it? Would I get it back with my suit? Did she give it to me when she took my suit away to press it? I could not for the life of me remember. All the things that had happened to me in that house seemed as if they were spread out over a period of weeks. Or months! I wondered if I would ever get that interview typed up and sent off to Opera Quarterly. Suddenly I knew I would not – and that nothing in my life would ever be the same. Worst of all – that there was no turning back. Because the point of no return had already been reached. And I knew why I had bolted from that room at the onset of a sudden storm – fleeing in panic into the wind and rain. I grabbed my cigarettes and lighter, turned out the lights, and rushed from the room. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. I could not wait another moment to tell Bobby I was wrong. Dead wrong! We could not – he could not – not possibly – be associated – Danger – much danger – a matter of life and death! Better to disappoint him now than sit by and let him fall into the abyss that awaited him – awaited both of us! But I stopped short at the top of the stairs. Stopped dead in my flight – because of a sound I heard coming from the room I had seen Conrad enter. It was a sound I had never heard in real life. But I recognized it at once – and unmistakably – because I had heard it so often in movies. Heard and seen and remembered. Was I dreaming? Or was such a thing really happening in that house?
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What I heard was the cracking of a whip – loud as a gunshot – followed by the scream of a young man. Then again. And again. Ah yes! How many young actors who look great with their shirts off had I seen whipped in movies as I sat alone in a dark balcony, masturbating under a jacket draped discreetly over my lap? I followed the whip cracks and the screams all the way to that room and, much to my surprise, found the door ajar. Only much later did it occur to me that the door had been left ajar deliberately – so that I would hear and follow and see. Yes. Surely I had been seen walking naked down that hall as if searching, not for my pack of cigarettes, but for something else I wanted that I was not yet ready for, however much I wanted it. And how could I possibly have wanted it from a dirty old man?! I was peeking into Paul Kleist's master bedroom which was dominated by an enormous canopied bed. The canopy was supported by four tall, sturdy phallic posts. Spread eagled between the two posts at the foot of the bed was Conrad. He was completely naked and being lashed by Paul Kleist. At first I was terrified of being discovered. Then I realized it was not Kleist and Conrad I was seeing, but their reflections in a fulllength mirror. The hall was dark and I was standing in deep shadow. I could watch undetected. I did not have to feel pity for Conrad. He was obviously enjoying being whipped. His cock was stiff and absolutely perpendicular as he twisted and writhed in response to every lash of the whip on his shapely naked butt. He looked as if he were fucking the air. On the bed were the tattered remnants of the tiny red thong that had been ripped off after he was bound in a sexy spread eagle for a proper naked whipping. Doubtless this was a regular thing between the two of them. Conrad was getting the kind of attention he craved. And when he craved it he deliberately provoked his master until he got it.
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It was not quite the sexiest thing I had ever seen or imagined. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The man with the whip was old and ridiculous in his nightshirt – panting and sweating from his exertions. He should have been young and powerful – beautiful and naked. He should have been Bobby! And the naked boy bound hand and foot between the posts should have been me. Oh God! I pictured it as it should have been – and I came. I didn't have to jack off. I didn't even have to touch myself. All I had to do was reinvent the scene to my secret desire. I fell to my knees, weak and shaken. I had made a mess on the highly polished floor. What would Kleist think when he found a pool of come on his threshold? Would he slip on it and fall as Herod slips on the blood of Narraboth in Salome? How convincing and spectacular was Kleist's fall when he played Herod! And he remained on the floor – lying in a pool of blood – as he sang: "Ah! I have slipped in blood! It is an ill omen. Why is there blood here? And this body, what does this body here? Do you think I am like the King of Egypt, who gives no feast to his guests but that he shows them a corpse?" It seemed that hours had passed when finally I was back in our room. Bobby was sound asleep. I was glad. Quite relieved, in fact. I didn't want to have to tell him what I had seen – and what had happened to me when I saw it.
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I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. I walked across the room and stood by the open window and smoked one cigarette after another as Bobby slept, peaceful and undisturbed. When at last I turned out the light and slipped in bed beside him I too fell asleep, almost at once. I slept until a hand on my bare chest aroused me. I opened my eyes. And by the light of a full moon shining through the window I saw Bobby standing over me – stroking his hands all over my nude body. "Bobby!" I gasped. "No, not yet," he replied. "But soon, soon, I promise you. Be patient a little longer and I shall come to you as you desire me." But Bobby's voice was not right. It sounded tired from age and overuse. Nor were his hands on my body quite right. They were dry and scaly – like an old man's hands. With a cry of revulsion I sat up in bed. I groped for the lamp on the bedside table. I switched it on. There was no one there – except Bobby – sleeping – his golden blond curls peeking out above the black satin sheet he had pulled over his face. I eased the sheet down to a point just under his chin. I gazed at his face for some moments. I even checked to see that he was still breathing. I don't know how long I kept vigil over him before I fell exhausted into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.
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CHAPTER VII A knocking on the door awakened me to sunshine and fresh, cool air. The heat wave was over and so was the rain that had cured it. More knocking. But I was not eager to respond. I didn't want the sight of my host or his consort to spoil the perfection of the morning. But when I turned in the bed to see if Bobby was awake and discovered that he wasn't there the perfection disintegrated without a trace. I leaped out of bed and opened the door wide, mindless of my nakedness. For a moment it seemed a perfect stranger was standing there and I instinctively cupped my hands over my morning erection. "It's alright, sir, its only me, Martin." Standing close to him he appeared much bigger than I remembered from the night before – which seemed ages ago. "I'm afraid I've some bad news, sir." I held my breath. Waiting. Waiting for him to tell me something had happened to Bobby. "If it's about my friend, tell me straight off." "Your friend? – Oh, you mean the tall blond fellow. He's fine, sir. He was up and out at the crack of dawn." "Out? You mean he's left?" "Yes, sir, but he'll be back. He left with the man from the garage. In the tow truck. It was necessary to take your vehicle in to do the repair work." "So that's the bad news, is it?" "Oh no, sir, not at all. They are very reliable. Whatever needs to be done will be done. And Mr. Kleist has asked me to inform you that he will take care of the bill." "That sounds like good news." "Why yes, I should think so, sir." "Then what, may I ask, is the bad news?" "It's your suit, sir. I'm afraid it's ruined. There was an accident with the iron. My wife is very distressed. She takes pride in her
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ironing. But somehow she got distracted and left the hot iron on the seat of your trousers. It burned completely through. We will pay for the cost of a new suit, of course." "No no, I won't hear of it. I never liked that suit. It was so like a uniform. The regulation dark blue with white shirt and striped tie. I'm glad to be rid of it. Tell your wife to dry her tears and forget all about it." I was telling the truth. The suit was old and starting to turn shiny. I hated it. "That's most kind of you, sir. But we'll need to get you something to put on. Nothing of mine would fit you, unfortunately. But Mr. Kleist's – er – companion..." "Conrad." "Yes, sir. He is about your size. Perhaps – " "No, I don't want to wear any of his suits. He mentioned they cost a lot and I don't want to be responsible for anything of his. Haven't you a pair of old dungarees? I could wear them with my belt to hold them up – and – and – roll up the legs. I don't care how I look as long as I can get back to town without getting arrested for indecent exposure." "If you don't mind jeans, sir, I could–" "Jeans are fine. Would you get them for me, please?" "Certainly, sir, right away." "And my shirt." "A shirt, of course, right away, sir." He left and I lit a cigarette. But before I had finished it he was back. "Here you are, sir. Just in time, too, because breakfast is served in ten minutes." "Splendid. I'll just have time for a quick shower. I hope my friend will get back in time." "Oh, he has already breakfasted, sir. Quite early. Before the man from Carrington's arrived." That news didn't unsettle me. Bobby was often up and going at the crack of dawn.
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"Well – thank you, Martin, I'll be down shortly." "Very good, sir." I threw the clothes on the bed and hopped in the shower. When I was finished and ready to dress I picked up the jeans and discovered they were Levis – very faded – tattered – and my size exactly. They had to be Conrad's! And the shirt. It wasn't the white dress shirt I had worn with my suit. It was a sleeveless job – more like a vest – with no pockets and no buttons. It came down only to my waist. The front was wide open except for fine criss-cross string-laces that served only to call greater attention to my exposed chest. Only a Queen who wanted to advertise would wear a shirt like that. A Queen like Conrad. The Levis were equally revealing. Skintight, with rips and holes here and there to allow provocative glimpses of bare flesh – including twin peek-a-boos of ass cheeks, the result of ripped-off back pockets. And where the hell were my jockey shorts? Were they also a victim of Anna's hot iron? Oh hell! It was so obvious. I was being made to look the way Kinky Kleist wanted me to look. Yes, that was his name from that moment on. 'Kinky' suited him better than 'Paul.' Kinky Kleist wanted to dress me to look like his fantasy of a half naked slave. And as I studied myself in the mirror I had to admit that I looked sexy as hell! Much sexier than Conrad could possibly look in that male whore outfit. Well – let the poor old fool get his kicks drooling over me at breakfast. It would be his last chance because, after breakfast, I would be out of there. Furthermore I would keep the indecent exposure costume for its fetishistic appeal – maybe wear it some night in Greenwich Village where gay guys could get away with costumes strictly for cruising. Indecency as a come-on. Conrad had lied about not having 'casual' clothes in his wardrobe. Martin had lied about the hot iron. It was a household of liars. And what the hell did I care?! Dressed as Kinky Kleist desired me I went downstairs. Kleist was alone at the dining table.
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"Ah! Les, dear boy, did you sleep well?" "No, not at all, thank you, but I can take a nap when I get home." "Have some scrambled eggs." "No, thank you, just coffee." "Dr. Anselmo asked me to say his goodbye. He left at dawn." "I take it his car recovered from its watery malaise." "Apparently. May I say you look delicious this morning?" "You may say anything you please, Herr Kleist." "You sound a bit peevish this morning." "Do I? I'm sorry. I want to thank you for your hospitality but please, sir, understand I am very eager to get home. I have my life to live and my work to do. I've already missed one job today. I have another one tonight at the Bel Canto Opera Workshop and I've no intention of missing it. My livelihood depends on my being reliable. I'm sure you, of all people, appreciate that." "But of course, dear boy. We can expect Robert back with his vehicle in good repair at any moment. Meanwhile I should like to talk about his voice lessons. When do you think he could start?" "You will have to discuss that with him. It is entirely his affair. He is a free soul and can do as he wishes. I've no say in it whatever." "But I'm sure he will want your consent." "He has it. I made that clear to him last night." "I'm so pleased. I think – I really think a lesson every day would produce the best results." "If Bobby wants to drive out here and back every day that's entirely up to him." "Oh, but that would cause too much traveling back and forth. And so unnecessary when he could live here – indefinitely. So much more convenient. Naturally I realize how close you two are. I shouldn't want you to be separated for the duration of his training. So I thought perhaps you would take a job working for me." "As your houseboy, no doubt." "Certainly not. As piano accompanist, which is your profession, is it not? I can play. A little. But not well enough to do justice to the piano scores of the Operas I have in mind for Robert. Oh it would be
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ideal! You could both move in here and we could all work together. I will pay you well. I will pay you more than you are earning at present. That plus free room and board would make it possible for you to save your earnings." "It appears to me, Herr Kleist, that you move very fast. For instance, how can you be sure that I'm good enough to do justice to the scores you have in mind for Bobby?" "You told me you play for Antonia Campi's students. I know of her and her outstanding reputation. She would not engage you were you not highly competent. In addition you are a Julliard graduate, are you not? You don't have to audition. You are hired here and now to play for your Bobby, comfortable in the knowledge that you do not have to be separated for a moment, as you will be living together as usual." "And our lives would be entirely in your hands." "Not at all. You will be free to go anywhere you like when we are not at work. Nor would we work more than three hours a day at most. Not for the world would I push him too hard or too fast. And think upon this: If you live here while our Robert is in training you could keep close watch – a constant vigil – to make certain that the boy you so obviously love comes to no harm. I say this because I know you do not yet trust me entirely. And I do not blame you. Why should you trust me on such brief acquaintance? In addition it will give you peace of mind to hear with your own ears the steady improvement in his singing from day to day. When you hear for yourself what I know he is potentially capable of you will know that I want for him only what he so desperately wants for himself. Then, Mr. Lesser Porter, you will thank me." I didn't want to reply. I didn't want to say another word to that man. And, thank God, I didn't have to – because I heard the happy horn of Bobby's jeep honking outside, announcing his arrival. I rushed outside to meet him. "Great news, Les! They gave this old girl a complete overhaul. Everything works." "That's swell, Bobby. Let's leave right now." "Sure. Hop in. Where did you get the sexy outfit?"
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"The tooth fairy," I said, as I leapt into the jeep. "Oh but – shouldn't I say goodbye to Mr. Kleist?" "I've just said goodbye for both of us. Please, let's just go." I couldn't believe we were actually on the road, headed back to Manhattan. Bobby, who usually didn't talk while he was driving, talked nonstop all the way. I closed my eyes. I tried to doze off. I didn't want to listen to Bobby's prattling about his operatic career or impossible fantasy there of. When I realized that sleep was impossible I tried to drown out Bobby's voice by playing piano pieces in my head. Always I had been attentive to Bobby. Now I wanted only for him to shut up and drive. I experienced a moment of exhilaration when we arrived home. But it was short lived. Before we opened the door to our apartment I heard the phone ringing. Somehow I knew the call was not for me. And with a certain turning of my stomach I knew who was calling. Bobby spoke as softly as possible, obviously not wanting me to hear. I helped him by going into the kitchen and making as much noise as possible, brewing coffee and frying an egg. He had eaten breakfast. I had not. When I finished eating and had the dishes washed and dried he was still on the phone – whispering. Damn it! I could hear that stage whisper all over the apartment. I felt torn in two. I wanted to hear and I didn't want to hear. I decided to go for a walk. To think. To have some time to myself. We were running low on coffee. That was a good excuse. I wrote a note and put it in front of him: Gone to the deli. And I walked out. I didn't know when I'd be back. What plans were they making? Why did Bobby feel he had to whisper? Sharing secrets with Kleist?! Then it struck me: Kinky Kleist knew I would refuse his offer to take a job as accompanist and live at his place by Bobby's side. He figured I would be reassured of his benevolent intentions. Then, knowing I would refuse, he and Doctor Quack could proceed with their diabolical plot – whatever it was.
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"The old woman died." "How can you say that? She was twelve years old and had her whole life before her." I remembered that exchange in the music room between the elderly singer and his alleged 'throat specialist.' But my mind could not make the leap required to grasp its meaning. I didn't even believe in Astrology much less the paranormal – the supernatural – witchcraft – voodoo – etc. I thought all that stuff was bullshit. But all my instincts told me – screamed at me! – that the clever Kraut had Bobby hooked – that Bobby was already slipping away from me – beyond my power to protect him. "You know what you must do, Dr. Theodore Anselmo of Heidelberg and Haiti." What could Anselmo do to poor Bobby besides stick his God Damned laryngoscope down the boy's throat to examine his Perfect Acoustical Instrument?! As I wandered aimlessly around Hell's Kitchen I asked myself 'What is the worst that could happen if I put my foot down and forbade Bobby to have anything further to do with the dubious team of Anselmo and Kleist?' Three possible consequences presented themselves for my consideration. All three seemed equally unhappy, to put it mildly: Bobby would see me as jealous, possessive, and selfish – leading to: His decision to leave me for whatever catastrophe awaited him under Kleist's control. Or: He would obey me by abandoning his fervent hopes and dreams and resign himself to remaining with me with his heart broken and an eradicable black cloud over our relationship. But – if I could find something to back up my intervention – some proof to validate my distrust of the whole affair... I resolved to make some phone calls the first moment Bobby was away – at the Gym – shopping – whatever. A lawyer? Private investigator? Could I scrounge up enough money to pay for professional assistance?
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Could Jerry Connors help me? Even though we were hardly best of friends, Jerry knew a hell of a lot of people. One of his former lovers was a detective on the police force, for Christ's sake! And he bragged about having had a mad affair with a dashing young doctor at Roosevelt Hospital. Perhaps through Jerry and his contacts I could, at the very least, get sound advice about the best way to conduct my own investigation before I started dialing numbers from the telephone directory. I could just imagine the frustration: "Yes. Is this the number to call to inquire if a man who says he's a doctor actually has a license to practice? No? Well can you tell me what number I can call to get that information? – I'm sorry, I can't hear you clearly, would you repeat that? – I still can't understand you, could you take the clothespin off of your nose and say it slower? – Well same to you, Madame!" Christ! I was only a musician. Why should I have to know anything about how to expose quack doctors who practice voodoo in Haiti? – And broken down old tenors who promise big time careers to none-too-bright young men who can't carry a tune in a bucket? There was a gay bar in the far west outskirts of Hell's Kitchen, near the waterfront. I hadn't gone there since Bobby and I got together. They were just opening when I arrived. It was the kind of bar that opened for the lunch trade – 'mixed' as they say – when gay-friendly straights of both sexes joined the gay (mostly male) regulars at certain hours – then got gayer and gayer until the rough trade and the reckless queens packed the joint from six o'clock cocktail hour until four AM closing. I was quite aware of my indecently revealing outfit that had turned me into a Conrad Clone. I had not bothered to change into something that reflected the person I liked to think I was. Nor did I know whether I was being reckless or merely indifferent. I had received plenty of outraged stares while walking the streets. Luckily, I had not encountered a single cop. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender hesitated – looking me over – shaking his head. "Sorry buddy, you can't come in here dressed like that. You could get us raided."
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I slipped him five bucks. A big tip in those days. I got my beer. I drank it and tried to think. I drank too much and couldn't think. Where the fuck would thinking get me? I drank beer until I was definitely drunk. The place was filling up. Mostly men. An hour or so later it was men only. A semi-attractive blond man approached me. If I squinted my eyes through my alcoholic daze I might with some effort have succeeded in pretending he was Bobby. "Hi! I'm Joe and I have a hotel room half a block from here." "Hi! I'm Conrad and I have the clap." How fast he disappeared! I could almost see a puff of smoke where he had been. Bobby was the only man for me. The last thing I wanted was a pale imitation. But why so nasty? It wasn't like me. But then I wasn't like me. Anymore. I was Conrad. Half naked. Feeling like the silly bitch I was. Silly bitch, helpless now to intervene on behalf of the man I had formerly been able to protect. What time was it? How long had I been sitting there getting drunk in the afternoon? I had to go home. But I couldn't. Not until I could figure out what to do. Not until I could clear my head. Sober up. Take charge. Gain control of the situation. Come on, boy. Get up from the silly barstool. Go to the pay phone. Call home. Tell Bobby where you are. Ask him to come get you. I staggered toward the phone booth. Bumped into a guy. Spilled his drink. "Sorry. So sorry. Buy you another. Got to get to the phone. Help me, please. Where the fuck's the phone?" Nice guy. He steered me to the phone. Even dialed the number for me. Held on to me so I wouldn't fall on my ass. Some queens are really very nice. Help another queen out when he's too drunk to stand up.
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The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Bobby wasn't home. Bobby would never be home again. Bobby had fallen off the edge of the earth and nothing I could do would save him. I started crying. A crying, drunken helpless useless faggot. Never had I loathed myself as I did that day in that bar. "Come on, fellow. It can't be that bad. You've just had one too many. You live near here? I'll see you home." I told the nice stranger where I lived and he walked me home. He kept his arm around me, supporting me all the way. "Do you want to go to bed with me?" I asked the man. "No, you're too drunk. I just want to get you home safe. You worry me. What's your name?" "Conrad." "Well, Conrad, take some advice like a sensible guy. Two things about you that could get you arrested: One, you're publicly intoxicated. Two, you're half naked. These are bad times for gay folk. Drunkenness and indecent exposure could land you in the clink. Lucky there're no cops around. You're in sorry shape. What happened? Your lover walk out on you?" "Don't know. Gotta get home and find out. He's under the influence." "You mean – alcohol?" "No. I mean the devil." "You're sure about that?" "Sure as hell. Will you – will you – help me upstairs? I don't think I can make it alone." Nice guy. Helped me into the apartment. Wanted nothing from me. Wanted only to help out a poor drunken queen who was falling apart. Helped me all the way in and eased me down on my bed. And left. Damn my uptight, buttoned down soul! Without realizing it I had been a homophobic homosexual ever since I came out. Never had I had a gay friend I could trust. Always it was competitiveness and one-upmanship. Rivalry. Who among us can be the most brilliant? –
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the most desirable? – the best put-down artist? – the most brittle and bitchy and glacial and piss-elegant? How dehumanizing was our arsenal of defenses! In those days! – the God Damned days of the most conformist and repressive decade of the twentieth century. And all along there were, out there, some brave, strong, gay men who refused to let their sick society make them sick. Strong, sweet, generous, unselfish gay men like the stranger who saw me home safely and walked out of my life before I learned his name. But I never looked for his kind. Oh no. I gravitated only to the types who conformed to my own negative attitudes regarding gays and gay life in general. Except Bobby, onto whom I projected – what? – all the impossibles I could dream up to feed my masochism and self-loathing. I tossed and turned and sweated and felt sick. I sat up and saw the note Bobby had left on the bedside table. My eyes didn't want to focus. Finally, with much difficulty, I managed to decipher the three words Bobby had printed in the uncertain hand of a child: Gone to JIM What?! Who the hell was Jim?! He had left me for a guy named Jim! It was too much. I passed out. Oblivion. Sometimes there was nothing sweeter. Bobby woke me up in time for me to show up (barely on time and still half drunk) for my gig at the Bel Canto Opera Workshop. Bobby had gone to the gym. Yes – the gym at the Y.M.C.A. Not some guy named 'Jim.' In my delirium I forgot that the poor guy couldn't spell for shit. Drunk and emotionally exhausted, I still managed to play Bellini's La Sonnam-bula about as well as I played it sober. Maybe a little better. So overwhelmingly relieved I was that Bobby was still Bobby! And as long as Bobby remained himself I could go on being Lesser Porter. God help us, I was far more dependent on him than he was on
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me. But in a few short weeks he would be Bobby no longer. No, not at all! And I would grovel in the shadow he left behind.
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CHAPTER VIII We were in that house on Long Island about seventeen hours. And yet the changes of half a lifetime affected everyone gathered under that roof – with the possible exception of the servants who, perhaps, to their salvation, lived in their own little house apart. It was not only Bobby who would never be the same – and I because of him – but also Kleist, Anselmo, and Conrad. None of us could ever return to what we were before that stormy afternoon and night. I was curious to know whether Conrad left of his own accord, having read the writing on the wall, or if Kleist threw him out, already certain that his successful ensnarement of me as Conrad's replacement required nothing more than a brief passage of time. For the murderous body snatcher knew that even when I discovered there was nothing left of the Bobby I loved except his outer shell I would follow it to the end, knowing that the creature I hated most in all the world resided within. As for Anselmo – he had bragged about his knowledge of the occult and yet, when the subject of the old woman and her granddaughter was first introduced, I perceived in his manner more than a little guilt and remorse, leading me to suspect that he was not entirely willing to commit another murder. Is 'murder' the right word? Should it be called 'indirect manslaughter'? How about 'transferential homicide'? Or just plain, old fashioned 'body snatching'? Except, of course, the body that is snatched is alive, well, and young. What name should be given to one who robs another of three quarters of a lifetime if not 'MURDERER'?! Even if the child had not died when her grandmother's heart stopped – even if her grandmother's body had survived the transmigration of souls, and stayed alive another ten years, what kind of living horror would it have been for the child to go into a trance only to wake up in the body of a decrepit old woman? And what kind of life would await an old woman, risen, reborn, with all her wisdom and corruption, art and guile, twelve years old going on ninety?!
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It did appear that Anselmo was reluctant, at first, and I wondered what his star patient 'had' on him to use as blackmail if he didn't get what he wanted. The old incident in Haiti, perhaps? Or something else, dating back to the Nazis and their Crimes Against Humanity. They didn't get them all rounded up for the trials at Nuremberg. Some escaped, fled to other countries, changed their names, assumed new identities for new, quietly respectable lives. I could only wonder how one human being could actually possess another. And to this day I still wonder at what point I knew beyond a doubt that Bobby was no longer Bobby. Every morning he drove out to Paul Kleist's house and didn't return until nightfall. At least he declined to spend the night there and I was grateful to have him with me at all. Always he was cheerful and eager to keep me informed. When he was with me in the evenings he was affectionate, attentive, in every way his old sweet self. He gave me many moments of reassurance that perhaps my fears after all were unfounded. It was Bobby who told me Conrad had left. Kleist told him nothing more than that "Conrad is no longer with us." No further information was forthcoming and Kleist, in his nice-Nelly fashion made it clear that further inquiries were unwelcome. As it happened, I ran into Conrad on 42nd Street. With Bobby gone all day, taking his singing lessons (presumably) from Kinky Kleist, I had to do the shopping myself. I bought our meats and vegetables at the markets along 8th Avenue. There was a fruit stand across from the bus station where I could get the melons Bobby liked. It was there, on the corner of 8th and 42nd that I saw Conrad. He was wearing pants so tight they looked as if they had been painted on him. He was leaning against a lamppost in the classic streetwalker's pose. I knew from Bobby's stories that hustlers didn't have to wait for nightfall to ply their trade. Sex was a twenty-four hour a day business in New York City. (Still is, of course.) I went up to him and spoke his name in what I hoped was a friendly enough manner without sounding too phony. "Conrad! I'm glad to see you. I want to talk to you."
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He stared at me a moment. Then he cupped his hand over his well displayed basket and said: "Ten dollars." "What do you mean?" "I mean I charge for my time. Talk to me or fuck me. It doesn't matter as long as you pay me." There were no tears in his eyes now. Only hard, cold ice. "I'm sorry for what happened, Conrad. I want nothing to do with Paul Kleist. I never intended for you to get hurt." I started to walk away but he caught me by the arm and said: "He's into bad things. Him and his evil doctor. He wants you, yes, but that's not why he threw me out. It was because I know too much. He didn't want me around to find out more. Go away. I've said too much to you already. Please understand, my life is in danger." When I hesitated he turned and walked quickly away – west – toward the river. I finished my shopping and went home, determined to tell Bobby as soon as he arrived about my encounter with Conrad. But he was in such high spirits, talking away the moment he entered the apartment, leaving it impossible for me to get a word in edgewise. I could not bear to dampen his ebullience. I gave in to him – nodding, smiling, sharing his joy, or pretending to. "He says he will put everything he has into me!" "How generous of him," I managed to reply, which was the longest sentence I succeeded in uttering that evening. Once again I justified my refusal to puncture the boy's lovely pink bubble: Conrad, I told myself, was just being histrionic. From Bobby's exuberant and spontaneous demeanor I gathered that Kleist had not discouraged him from relating to me in considerable detail exactly what went on during his lessons. Nor was I taken unawares when he told me he had not done any actual singing at all. Instead, his teacher concentrated on a regimen of exercises, such as sitting at a table on which was placed a lighted candle which the pupil was directed to agitate by blowing a focused stream of breath through pursed lips in such a way that the flame bent into a horizontal shape
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without going out. This, according to Kleist, was an ideal exercise for modifying the breath to produce thoroughly supported pianissimo on high notes without resorting to falsetto. From what I had gathered at the voice lessons I attended as accompanist I knew it to be a valid technique, especially for large voices being trained for the heavy roles of Verdi and Wagner. But not once during that exercise or any of the others did Kleist allow him to utter a singing tone. He was instructed to save his voice. There were lessons given over entirely to stage movement, the purpose of which was to develop agility. Kleist, always a large, heavyset man, had learned to be light on his feet and to move on stage with a grace that belied his weight. He told Bobby it wasn't enough to possess a beautiful, perfectly proportioned body. "One must train his entire central nervous system to respond with feline grace to the contrasts of stillness and movement that the score indicates," Kleist said. "One must be able to lie flat on one's back and sing a high B pianissimo. One of the hardest things to do is stand still as a statue for ten minutes or longer, then make a sudden dynamic gesture on a specific chord in the orchestra." And to that end he was conditioning Bobby's muscular body, using some of the fundamentals of classical ballet. But no singing. Then came walking and running – barefooted – in dance shoes – in sandals – in oxfords – in boots. Nor was fencing neglected. Nor falling down a flight of stairs. Nor being shot or stabbed or poisoned. But still – no singing. He had to save his voice. Save it for what?! "I shall put everything I have into you." For me to understand what Kleist meant by that remark I would have had to believe in the supernatural. And I couldn't – or wouldn't – until it was too late. Dr. Anselmo joined Kleist twice a week to give Bobby 'HypnoTherapy.' I thought the purpose was supposed to be strictly to correct
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Bobby's pitch and meter problems. But the hypnosis was being put to an altogether different use. The sessions were being taped, using my portable recorder that I had left behind. I told Bobby to bring my machine home. It was my property and if Anselmo wanted to make tapes he could at least provide his own machine. The next evening Bobby came home with the recorder. But the following evening he announced that Kleist had invested in a costly new machine of the latest design, and the tapings would continue. Then I did something that was – well – not at all nice. I urged Bobby to steal one of the tapes and bring it home to me. I made it sound like a harmless game – "Wouldn't it be fun to learn what you say while in a hypnotic trance?" – so as not to upset Bobby with my unalloyed suspiciousness. As a child, Bobby had been quite adept at stealing and his skill did not desert him now. How he accomplished the theft I never asked. But with a big boyish grin he handed me the tape he had purloined and I played it through to the end. Was I relieved or disappointed? I could not trust the duality of my own reaction. Surely there was nothing on the tape to use against the two men I resented most bitterly for what I perceived to be their potential power to take Bobby away from me. (Whether to his harm or benefit remained to be seen.) The God Damned tape was nothing more than a long, boring, antismoking, post-hypnotic suggestion by Anselmo with brief responses from Bobby: "And now you know that you really don't want to smoke. Do you?" "No." "No what?" "I don't want to smoke." "Correct. And if you light a cigarette it will taste like shit. Won't it?" "Yes." "Yes what?" "It will taste like shit."
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A perfectly legitimate use of hypnosis to help a smoker kick the habit. On the same tape, Anselmo went on to implant by means of posthypnotic suggestions an aversion to junk funds and candies of the sort that people who have quit smoking are prone to indulge. "You don't like ice cream, do you?" "No." "Why not?" "It makes me fat." "Correct. And should you take one bite it will taste so vile you will have to spit it out. Won't you?" "Yes. Ice cream tastes bad." "Good. Very good indeed. And you love carrots and celery and all the other low caloric food I have advised. Don't you?" "Yes. Hate ice cream. Love carrots. Hate cake. Love celery." "Excellent." Damn! Nothing in the least diabolical on the tape to use in evidence against the mysterious doctor. Why wasn't I glad? For Bobby's sake. Was I the diabolical one? Motivated purely by jealousy and possessiveness? So the tape proved only that Anselmo was trying to help Bobby quit smoking without gaining weight. But when were the pitch problems and faulty sense of rhythm going to be cured by hypnosis? Weeks went by and still he had not sung a single note. Not even a scale or a vocalise. There was ever increasing emphasis on nutrition. What to eat and what to avoid. He began bringing home various food supplements – powders, pills, juices, etc. – nothing that couldn't be found in any pharmacy or supermarket. It appeared that Bobby was being built up to his absolute peak of health and vitality. He was even cautioned against sex in any form, including masturbation, like an athlete kept celibate before the Big Game. The exercises for building breath support to its optimum capacity continued on a daily basis. At the same time he was told to
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discontinue the kind of gym workouts that had been his custom. He was encouraged to concentrate on toning rather than bulk. "We don't want a weight lifter's body," Kleist told him. "We want a body more like that of a Russian Ballet Dancer – very masculine, but also very supple and agile – able to leap with dash and verve when we slay that dragon in Siegfried!" And I began to see the results. Bobby was becoming more beautiful every day. Even his face was taking on a more 'chiseled' appearance, the high cheekbones more prominent, the skin stretched tighter over the bone structure. He was taking on the look of a magical, Scandinavian God. Carrot juice and apricot juice gave his skin a pink and amber hue and his hair, by contrast, glowed with platinum highlights. But still – nothing close to music was introduced. No opera scores were studied. No languages learned. All the work was concentrated exclusively on his body – his lungs, his muscular coordination, his stance, his poise – above all, his preternatural beauty! Gargles, expectorants, throat sprays, and medicated lozenges were added to the arsenal of megavitamins and protein supplements he was instructed to consume daily. Then came the day – the amazing day! – that Paul Kleist paid us a visit in our railroad apartment. Oh, how jolly and convivial he was as he unloaded a huge shopping bag full of goodies – tins of high protein meats from all over the world – cheese made from yak's milk – canned kumquat juice – mysterious others. How did Kleist travel from Long Island to Hell's Kitchen? He had broken down and bought a limousine. And hired a chauffeur to go with it. And the grand old man climbed the three flights of stairs to our apartment without having a heart attack (I regret to say). As soon as he entered the apartment I noticed he had put on a lot of weight. Like so many overweight people he had stuck to a diet long enough to slim down noticeably, then stopped dieting only to regain quickly every pound he had lost – and more! He caught me staring at his bloated belly. As if he was the happiest man alive he chuckled, patted his belly and said:
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"Yes, I am fat again. You noticed right away. But it really doesn't matter anymore. I should care about this tired old body of mine? I do not. Not any longer. I have so much to look forward to. Like a kid who has learned he is soon to be given a brand new choo choo toy. I have some goods for your kitchen. Which way is the kitchen?" He insisted on putting the tins and jars in the kitchen himself. He opened all the cabinets and drawers and busied himself while crooning "a place for everything and everything in its place." He went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet to make room for bottles of strange elixirs. But when he went into the bedroom, opened the closets and examined their contents, it began to appear that he was familiarizing himself with our apartment. Why?! Was he planning to move in?! Well – yes – in a manner of speaking that was what he was planning to do. He was going to 'move in' in more ways than one. Then I remembered: "Be patient a little longer and I shall come to you as you have always desired me." My dream! – if it was a dream – in which hands I had thought at first were Bobby's caressed my naked body. I uttered his name in the dark. And the voice of Paul Kleist replied: "No, not yet, but soon, soon, I promise you." In the days that followed I went through the motions of conducting my investigation of Kleist and Anselmo and failed utterly to come up with a single item of evidence to use against either man. I questioned Antonia Campi about Paul Kleist. Her reply was fair and impartial. She told me she did not like Herr Kleist because of stories she had heard from several of her colleagues who had sung with him at the Metropolitan. Although the stories indicated that he was a man of obnoxious and unsavory habits she had heard nothing that would suggest that he was capable of committing a serious crime. "Of course he was generally despised for making no effort to resist the Nazis when he was the toast of Germany," she said. "But then – how can any of us who were safe in America be certain of what we
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would or wouldn't do if we found ourselves in that dreadful situation? No doubt it was for him a matter of self-preservation." For Dr. Anselmo she had nothing but praise. He was very well known among prominent Opera singers who went to him for the usual vocal problems. He had salvaged the career of one of her best friends, a soprano, who had lost her voice due to nodules of the vocal chords. The good doctor had removed them surgically with no ill effects and after a brief recuperation the soprano had resumed her distinguished career at the Metropolitan. Nor was there any hint of malfeasance in the report I received from Jerry Connors. Anselmo was properly licensed and had never been sued for malpractice. His record and his credentials were immaculate. So I was alone and without a scrap of evidence to support my conviction that Kleist and Anselmo were immersed in evil. Nor could I rid myself of the suspicion that I was somehow complicit in that evil – subconsciously at least – for I had longed from the beginning that Bobby should come to me as I desired him. When finally I had in my hands a bit of evidence that something was not at all right it was too late. Although I didn't know it, the transmigration had already been accomplished. While the fiend within performed his impersonation of Bobby so skillfully that I myself did not perceive a particle of change, I heard something on one of Anselmo's 'sleep tapes' that aroused my suspicions anew. Every night Bobby (I still call him Bobby because I refuse to give a name to the THING he became) went to sleep playing one of Anselmo's tapes made on the new recorder Kleist had purchased. But it was being played on my old portable. And in the dead of night, lying awake and listening to Anselmo's voice droning on and on about diet and exercise and serenity of mind, etc. – I thought I heard a soft, muffled, hum of voices – two voices – in a far distant, indistinguishable conversation. I thought at first this background interference was nothing more than a neighbor's radio or television. Then – as the muffled voices faded in and out I strained my mind to blot out Anselmo's monologue in an effort to identify the ghost voices. A pause in Anselmo's speech together with a corresponding
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increase of the background volume revealed to me the unmistakable voices of Paul Kleist and Bobby Hoffman. Even after the machine had shut itself off at the end of the tape, I stayed awake for hours, planning what I would do with that tape early the following morning. I knew enough about tape recorders to realize what had happened. Anselmo had neglected to use a new tape. He had recorded over a tape made earlier. The slight discrepancy between the tone head alignments of my machine and the new one left a trace of the original recording – faint, but audible. This time I wouldn't need Jerry Connors and his contacts. A friend of mine was a professional sound engineer who worked for Columbia Records. I knew he had the equipment and the know-how to enhance the ghost voices and tune out Anselmo. I took the tape to him, told him what I wanted, and the following day he called and told me he had achieved a fairly listenable enhancement of the original recording. I felt like some kind of spy as I sat with headphones over my ears before a huge console in Steve's studio. What I heard didn't surprise me. It simply made me want to die. Bobby was obviously in a hypnotic trance, answering questions posed by the man who wanted me to believe he was giving Bobby singing lessons. The tape began with Anselmo telling Bobby to listen to Kleist's questions and answer them as thoroughly as possible. I listened in a state of benumbed despair as Bobby, prompted by Kleist, related his entire personal history. Kleist was especially intent on learning everything he needed to know about Bobby's relationship with me – all the details of Bobby's history and habits, likes and dislikes, that I was familiar with. But now that I possessed the proof I needed what was I to do with it? What would it mean to the police? Only that I, Lesser Porter, was some kind of nut. That's all it would mean. Who could intervene? Some witch doctor who was on my side? Hell, I didn't know any witch doctors aside from Theo Anselmo. That was what Conrad knew. That was why Kleist threw him out – and threatened his life if he told anyone. But Kleist didn't have to kill Conrad to keep him quiet. After all, who would believe him? Every
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sane person knew there were no such things in the mid-twentieth century. Then came the day in early Autumn when the piano arrived, together with an enormous crate containing Paul Kleist's complete library of Opera scores. Both the piano and the crate came in through a window, hoisted by a crane from the street below. And later that same day Bobby came home in tears. I had never seen him cry. For a few moments I thought Kleist had broken the boy's heart by calling the whole thing off. "Some people can sing. Some people cannot. Impossible. Impossible." What movie was that line from? Why, Citizen Kane, of course, when the voice teacher hired to train Susan Alexander throws up his hands in despair because all his skill cannot turn that tiny squeak of a voice into an Operatic Soprano. But no. That was not the reason for Bobby's pitiful sobs as I held him in my arms and begged him to pull himself together long enough to tell me the cause of his profound grief. Finally, with tears streaming down his golden cheeks, he said: "Paul is dead."
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CHAPTER IX I sat in the elegant office of Paul Kleist's attorney. The reality of the occasion was already to me a half remembered dream. The late Paul Kleist left everything he possessed to his protege, Mr. Robert Hoffman – except his piano which he bequeathed to me. Bobby was there – dressed in black. Anselmo was there. He offered me his 'heartfelt condolences.' Why? Kleist was not a loved one of mine. I had asked the dark doctor a question at the funeral. Now I asked the same question again: "Why was the coffin closed? If he died of a heart attack then surely he was not disfigured." "I told you, didn't I? It was his wish and I followed it. He had gained an enormous amount of weight. When the heart attack occurred he was at the top of the stairs, preparing to descend. You remember the stairs, I'm sure. He fell on his face and crushed his nose. And his dentures – they broke and cut his mouth. His upper lip was cleft in two. Altogether it was best, we thought, he thought, and I agreed, that a closed casket was more agreeable than an attempt at cosmetic reconstruction at the hands of the undertakers." "It sounds to me like the two of you discussed it after he was dead." "I think not. I think it can logically be assumed that he said nothing at all after he was dead." He was so damned unflappable! But then – aren't all witches? "Logically assumed" – indeed! – as if anything at that point was logical. Even the sequence of events – the chronology of bizarre occurrences – their time frame – was all askew. Why had the piano arrived before the reading of the will? Before death. After death. The continuity of all things going on around me had turned surreal – like a dream in which past and present – indoors and outdoors – city and countryside – all merge and flow with a logic of their own that turns what we think is reality into an embarrassing joke. "Come, let me buy you boys a drink, " said the doctor in his most amiable tones. "You can break your regimen just this once. All
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artists should relax their discipline once in a great while, and you've been so good, yes, a really good boy and you deserve a break. I know a quiet, intimate little cocktail lounge a few steps from here. I've some important things to tell you, and you'll want to hear." "I want a martini," said Bobby, when we were seated in a booth in the cocktail lounge of the Algonquin hotel. "Then you shall have it. One." "Same for me," I said, as I started to light a cigarette. "Tut tut, Mr. Porter, shouldn't smoke in the presence of a professional singer." "No, let him be," said Bobby. "And give me one too, Les. Now do not give me that disapproving look, Theo. I am not going to start the habit. I meant to say: I am not going to start smoking again. But it will be nice to have just one with my one cocktail." Three cocktails arrived and two cigarettes were lit. Bobby inhaled deeply and emitted a great sigh of satisfaction with the cloud of smoke. "There is something you did not count on, Theo," said Bobby, after he took a sip of his martini. "And what could that be? I wonder." "This body – my body – is long addicted to tobacco. It will not be easy to refrain from smoking. Right away I felt the craving. It is in the bloodstream – or perhaps the very marrow of the bones. With all the rest that is so splendid – so perfect for my purpose – I have acquired also the nicotine addiction." "I left nothing unaccounted for, my dear Robert. That is why I supplied the sleep tapes. That is why I worked so hard to implant the suggestion under hypnosis – early on, if you recall. And well before..." "Before what?!" I demanded. "Why – before he began the advanced lessons in singing, of course. Which brings me to the first of the subjects I wanted to discuss. The day before he died, Paul mentioned he thought Robert should learn at least one French heroic role. He never sang French roles himself, but
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he thought Robert would be a superb Samson. You would like to sing Samson, wouldn't you Robert?" "I shall sing it. But I must improve my French. Les, you accompany for Louis Jacquard's classes, do you not?" "I do." "I understand he coaches a lot of Met singers for French roles. Perhaps I shall prepare Samson with him." With me he still spoke like Bobby. Now, in the presence of the dark doctor, he spoke like – the OTHER. "When I sing Samson I shall wear nothing but a loincloth in the last act when I bring the temple down. I have the perfect physique for the part and I see no reason why I should not show it to the audience. And I have some staging ideas I should like to introduce to the director." "Ideas you got from Paul, I presume," said Anselmo. "Of course, but like any good student they are my ideas now. I have thoroughly absorbed them." Paul Kleist was speaking through Bobby's mouth. When through his tears he told me that Paul was dead I had no doubt that it was my Bobby I was holding in my arms. But then – I had forgotten what a great actor Paul Kleist was. "You will need a manager," Anselmo continued. "An artist's representative whose clients are the top stars in the musical world. But you are, as of now, unknown. We can't interest a man like Edward Lancing until after you make your debut. But then! – Ah! – then – they will, all of them, come begging to represent you." "It is unfortunate that Paul's manager is retired. It would be so much easier to do business with a man of long acquaintance." It was then – that moment – that I looked at Bobby – not as a stranger – but as a devil I knew only too well – who had assumed the shape of the golden boy I would gladly have died for. Anselmo observed the look I gave the beautiful, evil creature seated beside me. But he continued speaking of things he had insisted we should hear:
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"Then there is the matter of your residence. The greatest Wagnerian Heldentenor the world has ever known, whose repertoire shall extend to Samson of the French wing, and Otello of the Italian wing, among other non Wagnerian roles that require the utmost vocal power – a major international Opera star who, I predict, will be the first Opera singer since Enrico Caruso whose every move will be reported on the front page of every newspaper in the world, and will be of interest even to those who hate Grand Opera – I say – such a star – as famous as any movie star – shall no longer live in a crummy tenement in Hell's Kitchen. Therefore I have taken the liberty of engaging a suite for you at the Ansonia. And here's a bit of luck: It is the same suite Paul lived in for the ten years he sang at the Metropolitan. His brand new limousine is yours too, you know, and the chauffeur as well, if he meets with your approval. You know Paul's taste in boys. He's quite pretty, I assure you. And discreet. But get rid of that old dilapidated jeep you've been driving. You are already a wealthy man, Robert, and you'll be more so with the fees you'll earn from all the major Opera houses in the world." Throughout Anselmo's speech Bobby was groping me under the table! It was Bobby's hand on my cock! It was Bobby's leg pressing hard against mine. It was Bobby! Bobby! Bobby! And I was spellbound. And destroyed. We had had little time together since the night he came home to tell me Paul had died. He filled his days shopping for an entire new wardrobe that befitted a devastatingly handsome new star on the horizon. He rented a studio in which to vocalize and PREPARE. He would not let me listen. "I want my voice to be as much a surprise to you as it shall be to the audience," he explained. And I stayed away. In the evenings he poured through his scores, making new notations in pencil to join those that had been made decades before. He even went to the piano and played certain passages he wanted to restudy to search out a new interpretation, singing them very softly an octave lower.
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To see and hear Bobby at the piano and 'marking' from operatic piano scores was unsettling, to say the least. Almost as unsettling as hearing him speaking on the phone with Anselmo – in GERMAN! He didn't have to wait for his 'inheritance' to start throwing money around, spending wildly, stopping just short of lighting his cigarettes with hundred dollar bills. He already had Paul Kleist's money. Because he was Paul Kleist. He was not ungenerous to me, although he bought me only what he wanted me to have – such as tit-clamps, cock-rings, handcuffs, manacles, and abbreviated genital thongs in various fabrics from silk to leather. But he had not yet touched me. That was why his hand on my cock under the table in the bar was the shock of my life! He had not, as Paul Kleist had promised, come to me as I had always desired him. Now I knew he would. Soon. That very night. And I no longer cared that he was no longer the sweet boy who could not bring himself to have sex with me because it would be like incest. I would not be able to resist my brand new DEMON LOVER!! Still, Anselmo talked on and on, coolly unconcerned with carnal grapplings under the table. For I now had Bobby's gigantic cock out of his pants and in my hand – jacking him off! "As for the house on Long Island – you can sell it or keep it. It's up to you, of course. Although there will be extended periods in which you will be too engaged, here and abroad, to occupy it, you might want to keep it for a retreat. Such a splendid showplace! Ideal for entertaining. Everyone who is anyone will be thrilled to be invited to the Long Island estate of the great Robert Hoffman. Oh! I nearly forgot: I suggest you consider your billing. You might want to spell you name with two N's, in the German manner: Robert HOFFMANN – like the great pianist, Joseph Hoffmann, or the great romantic German writer, E.T. A. Hoffmann. It would give you more class." But Bobby and I were oblivious at that point. Anselmo had to be quite firm to regain our attention: "You boys! Stop what you are doing long enough to listen to my final point for the afternoon. It is perhaps the most important point of
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all insofar as Robert Hoffmann's immediate future is concerned. I have accepted the post of house physician at the Metropolitan Opera, starting with the new season coming up. They have been after me for years because so many of the singers on the roster are patients of mine. Until now I have been too busy with my research on phenomenology to accept. But now is the time. The old house physician, bless his old bones, succumbed to a stroke only last week and the post is now available. I can be there to monitor you, Robert, when you take on those roles considered voice killers. Like Tristan and Siegfried. Sometimes things in life really do work out." Bobby sighed and said: "Theo, you have done well. You have surpassed my most hopeful expectations. I do not have to tell you, you shall be amply rewarded." "We shall have to discuss the matter of my 'reward,' as you put it, on a future occasion. For now, I must be off. I've an appointment at the Met for an orchestral rehearsal of Lakme which opens the season, starring that insipid little French coloratura whose art is about as satisfying as a meal composed entirely of lime Jell-O. But four nights later is the first performance of Tristan und Isolde since the retirement of the late Paul Kleist! As everyone who matters knows – there has not been a tenor voice for the role of Tristan. Even in his decline Paul was the only man in the world who could get through it – to the end – without total laryngitis. And the management has asked me to listen to that light-weight little Felix Anthony rehearse the part of Gerald, for which his voice is well suited, to offer my opinion of whether he can get through the part of Tristan, for which he is obviously inadequate. But he managed to sing the role in some of the smaller houses in the German provinces, and the Met has engaged him. Only because he is the least unlikely choice of the moment. And the Isolde is none other than Alma Angstrom, who is said to be the greatest Isolde since Kirsten Flagstad, making her American debut at the Met. One last thing – I have tickets – house tickets – for the three of us to attend the performance of Tristan und Isolde. Don't forget. You simply must be there to hear Madam Angstrom, and to hold your breaths until Mr. Anthony's final gasp. If he makes it to the end. And
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– guess what? – Ha! – he has no cover – no understudy – I mean, there is no one who can cover him. So perhaps the title of the Opera should be changed to Isolde. Just Isolde. Ha! And now – farewell. Don't have another cocktail, Robert, and definitely not another cigarette. Les, I rely on you to keep Robert in line. Here's money for the drinks plus tip." At last he was gone! Bobby turned to me and said: "Are you wearing underwear today? "Of course. Jockey shorts. Why do you ask?" "Go – right now – to the Men's room. Take them off and throw them away. You will wear no underwear from now on, do you hear? Except the kinky little thongs I desire you to wear just for me. The kind of thongs I made Conrad wear. You will wear them now. But never under your pants. You will wear them – and nothing else – when I decide you should be punished. Then I can enjoy the exquisite pleasure of ripping them off of you – and taking a whip to your delectable bare ass." Like a somnambulist I obeyed him. I had bought a new suit at a shop in the village that catered to the few bold men who went in for that daring skintight look long before the sexual revolution of the seventies. Bobby offered to pay for it but I was not quite ready to be his kept boy. I was still grasping the few remaining threads of my identity as Lesser Porter. Nevertheless, the suit was tailored precisely for the kind of crotch and buns display I had vowed to avoid. And just the kind of Male Whore's advertising outfit that Conrad would wear. It appeared that I was willingly dressing for the role I was expected to play for Paul Kleist. Going into that Men's room to discard my under shorts was my final surrender. I was Conrad's replacement! When I left the booth I tossed my shorts into the waste bin with the used paper towels. I looked in the mirror and got a narcissistic thrill from the spectacle of my huge, lewdly displayed cock! I left the men's room and returned to the table where the beautiful creature who was no longer my Bobby waited. He had ordered two
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fresh cocktails and was smoking another cigarette. I said nothing. I sat down beside him and sipped my cocktail while he groped me through my indecent pants. The look in his eyes! No longer were they Bobby's eyes. They were the eyes that had undressed me when I sat with my tape recorder trying to conduct an interview in that stifling room that fatal midsummer afternoon on Long Island. "Very good," he said. "It appears you will make a properly obedient slave." I no longer loved the blond giant seated beside me. I hated him beyond any capacity for hatred I had previously possessed. But instead of killing my desire for him the hatred fueled it. I wanted to have sex with him and then kill him. It was then that the most horrible fact of the case dawned upon me. "He's dead, isn't he?" "What?" "You killed him. Or Anselmo, at your request." "Killed? Who? Whatever are you saying?" "When Kleist had his fatal heart attack. Bobby was already there. In him! The shock! The horror! It was my Bobby – in Kleist's body – who fell down the stairs and died. It is my Bobby – dead in that coffin – buried in the earth – Bobby! – Rotting in Paul Kleist's rotting body!" "Keep your voice down!" "Murderer! You and that Haitian Witch Doctor from Heidelberg. Both of you! Murderers!" He clapped one of his huge hands over my mouth. With the other hand he grabbed my balls and squeezed. I screamed into his hand and the waiter came running. "Do not be alarmed. My friend has a touch of epilepsy. I shall take him home at once." He threw a roll of bills on the table, adding to the generous tip left by the dark doctor. When we were outside he said to me:
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"Not another word out of you or I'll smash your face like I smashed his." Grasping my arm in his powerful grip he marched me back to where we had parked the jeep. "This is the last time we shall have to ride in this pile of junk. It is a chauffeured limousine for us from now on. Get in and drive." "Of course. That's right. You never learned to drive, did you, Paul? That's why I've been doing the driving since you died." He slapped me. Hard. "I told you to shut your mouth! Wait 'til I get you home, boy. I will teach you some lessons you will remember. Or else! Now drive." But I wouldn't keep my mouth shut. Even as I drove with a bleeding lip I hit him with a question that unsettled him. "What did you mean about smashing my face like you smashed his?" "I was not going to tell you. Believe it or not I intended to spare your feelings. But you are such a little masochist, forever searching out the worst. And why should I not tell you? You can go straight to the police with the information, and from there straight to the Psycho Ward. For only a nut fit for a straight jacket would go to the police with such a tale. Do you still want to know?" "Yes. I must know." "Be it on your own head then. Watch where you are driving. You almost ran over that portly elderly chap in black." "I saw him, I saw him! Talk. Tell me!" "When I awakened and saw in the mirror the new me I realized I was like the snake who sheds his used up old skin for the shiny new one within. And then I looked and saw the bloated mass of desiccated flesh I was rid of at last. I was seized with loathing. And when he opened his bleary old eyes and looked at me. And opened his toothless old mouth and spoke – actually spoke! – in a half delirium, I don't wonder – I knew I had to silence that mouth and shut those eyes – forever!" "What did he say? Tell me. TELL ME!"
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"Oh, you really want to suffer, don't you? Very well, remember please you asked for it. He spoke your name: 'Les,' he cried, 'Oh Les, get me out of here.' I failed to comprehend whether he meant out of my elegant Long Island Estate, or out of the hand-me-down old body we had given him in exchange for his. He was staring in horror at his withered old hands. He screamed in his hoarse, broken old voice. I knew he wouldn't want to live like that so I took pity on him. I picked up a lead paper weight – an object I had little affection for as it represented in miniature one of the gargoyles on the roof of the Cathedral of Notre Dame – and with it I smashed his ugly old face. Again and again I struck my own remains until nothing remained except blood and spilled brains. That is why the coffin was closed at the funeral. Now – you are sorry you asked, are you not? – Well – I am now waiting for you to cry and be histrionic all over the place." No. I didn't cry. The dead don't cry.
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CHAPTER X When he got me home he said: "I could never live in this dump. I can hardly wait to move into the Ansonia. Thick walls. Soundproof. I can vocalize full voice without any complaints from neighbors. In addition, you can scream your head off when I whip you. Until then I shall have to gag you. We do not want the police coming to your rescue and spoiling our fun, do we?" "What a pity you wasted so much time and effort that day you showed up here – so fat and ugly – to go through our things – Bobby's and mine – to familiarize yourself with the apartment – as if you intended to deceive me, which you could have with your superb impersonation. Why did you bother learning to speak like him? Texas accent and all – which you have seldom put to use since that first night when you cried yourself to sleep over the 'death' of your friend, teacher, and benefactor." "I will need to impersonate Robert to enjoy my new career. But first I needed to convince you that I was Robert to assure myself of my skill. But, you see, I am not just Paul Kleist, reborn as a retarded hick from the sticks who God, in his folly, saw fit to endow with the voice of the ages – then top the joke by making him tone deaf as well as stupid. No! I am both! I am the best parts of the two so different men. Why does God, in his infinite absence of wisdom, give slender, tall, handsome basses and baritones such gorgeous voices only to see them obliged to hide their physical assets behind old age makeup, fat suits, and humpbacks? – while the tenors, who are supposed to be the romantic leads, are almost always cursed with the same unsightly deformities that the low voice males have to assume with putty, foam rubber, and bald wigs? There are a few exceptions, of course: Don Giovanni and the Toreador in Carmen. But how often is the audience insulted by the spectacle of a twenty-five year old father singing a duet with his fiftyfive year old son?! I tell you I am righting the wrongs for all of us! Artists who strive! I am punishing God!"
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"Thank you so much, Herr Kleist. I understand you more fully now. You are a Nazi. You think you are entitled to commit murder to serve your ends." "How, pray, do you figure me a murderer when your Bobby, as you knew and loved him, is still alive and well? Look at me. He is here, your Bobby, in me! In equal measure. You should praise me for what I have done. I have taken a useless, stupid Texas hick and validated his existence. Everything good about him is HERE – joined to my superior intellect and my accumulated musical knowledge of seventy years. "I – I! – the great Paul Kleist! – have given him – a no good street hustler and social parasite – a new lease on life in which his body, together with its perfect vocal instrument – so useless to him – will serve music through me for many many years to come." "And what role am I expected to play in order to serve music for years to come?" "You will be my dresser, for one thing. As Conrad was when he was young and malleable. Before he got – too – how shall I say?..." "Possessive?" "Ah, yes, the very word I was looking for: 'possessive.' In addition you will be my piano accompanist when I need to practice. Travel with me, of course. See to luggage, hotel reservations, the like. I shall not be too demanding. And you will live in style, believe me. The best of everything." "Haven't you forgotten to include my main duty?" "Tell me, dear boy. What is it you think will be your main duty in my service?" "Sex Slave." "It is what you want, is it not?" "Not with you!" "Who then?" "The sweet, gentle boy who no longer exists. The boy I love whom you've stolen from me. Body and soul." "Yes. Precisely. Body and soul. And here I am – your Bobby – as you have always desired me."
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He was dressed in blackest mourning. With amazing speed he tore his clothes off and posed before me. I had never seen him naked with a full hard-on. My God! It was a foot long and thick as his wrist. The spectacle he presented did not arouse me. It revolted and terrified me. Without Bobby's soul, his physical perfection was violent and obscene. Because – because – it wasn't human. There was not a single flaw to reveal the vulnerability of humanity. He was Hitler's dream come true. Not mine. He was the perfect Superman sculpted from ice. Fit for Der Fuhrer's banquet table. But – damn it! – why hadn't he melted now that the feast was over? I screamed out my loathing and fear: "No! NO!! Get away from me!!! You can never be Bobby. You can only be a filthy Nazi Son-Of-A-Bitch who, with the help of the Devil, has assumed the shape of an innocent angel whose feet you're not worthy to kiss! Get out of my life, you bastard! Or I swear I'll kill you!!" I ran for the door – but with the speed of an Olympic runner he beat me to it and stood before me, blocking the way. I ran – from room to room – in that railroad apartment – as he pursued me – an evil grin distorting his features – his cock swinging like a rubber truncheon. When he had me cornered in the kitchen I pulled out a drawer where we kept the knives. I seized the biggest butcher knife I could lay my hands on and sliced the air with it – in front of his vile grinning face – back and forth – frenzied – like a crazed madman – which is what I was at that moment – a madman! For I had every intention of killing him. And then myself. It was easy for him to disarm me – overpower me – bend my arm until I dropped the knife. Then, in a flash, he threw me to the floor and sat on me. "You little fool. You are getting what you have always wanted and it is blowing your feeble little mind." He seized the butcher knife which had fallen on the floor so conveniently near. I screamed! Thinking he intended to stab me with it. Instead, he proceeded to cut my clothes off. "My suit!" I cried, "You're ruining my new suit!"
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"I shall buy you a hundred suits, and cut them all off of you when it pleases me." He stood up long enough to sweep the condiments off the kitchen table. Sugar bowl, salt and pepper cellars, and mustard jar went crashing to the floor. My belt was among the cut-off strips of clothes that lay in a pile amongst the other debris. This he seized and tested it against the table top. The crack sounded like a gunshot. I was totally naked. And ready. Hoping it was a dream. A wet dream. I would come soon, and awaken without alarm. And hoping it was not a dream. The stuff I had dreamed from the first coming of puberty was coming now. He hauled me to my feet and threw me over the table. Using strips of my shirt and trousers he bound me to the table – ankles and wrists secured to the four table legs. Then – CRACK! – he proceeded to whip me on my upturned naked ass! Again! – again! – and again! – until I lost count. When I started screaming in agony he used the sleeve of my shirt to gag me, securing the rolled up ball with my necktie. Then the whipping continued until I was on the verge of passing out. He went to the sink and filled a saucepan with cold water. He returned to me and poured the water over my head. I knew what was coming next and I screamed into my gag. "Oh, is your gag too tight, dear boy? Here, let me remove it. You will be much more comfortable with my cock down your throat. It is the same big, stiff cock you have been dying for. Take it. Take it! TAKE IT!!" He was raping my mouth. I knew my ass was next. When he pulled his wet cock out of my mouth and moved behind me I began to cry. I sobbed as never before in all my life. "Yes. Weep. It will help to loosen you up. Weeping. It was my only indulgence. Weeping. And vomiting. Good for the voice. And torturing my slave. It will ease the tension for me."
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With a single brutal thrust he rammed the full length of his enormous cock into my butt-hole. But the blinding pain lasted only a moment to be replaced by a zonked-out bliss beyond anything I had ever imagined. "You are mine, are you not? Say it! Say it!" "Yes, Paul, I am yours." He came quickly. And when he pulled out of me he uttered a sigh that was like the lowest note of a contrabass. I thought it was over. What more did he want after the torture and rape? I must have blacked out for a moment. I don't remember being released from my position of bondage over the table. When next I was fully conscious and aware of what was happening I was tied to the kitchen chair in the manner portrayed in World War Two movies wherein the handsome Yank P.O.W. – stripped to the waist – is tortured for information. Except I was totally naked – as always in my best SM fantasy. NAKED for TORTURE at the hands of my SADISTIC ENEMY! My arms were tied behind the back of the chair. My legs were spread wide apart. My ankles were bound to the back legs of the chair. The entire front of my body was exposed to my tormentor's instruments of pain. Never could I have hoped or dreamed that my fantasy of torture at the hands of my Dream Boy would become a reality. But there he was! And he had stripped himself naked to torture his horny victim. He disappeared briefly only to return with a box containing the 'gifts' he had purchased for me. They were, all of them, instruments of torture – exact duplicates of the ones used by the Gestapo on the naked bodies of handsome young French students – many of them teenagers! – who were members of The Resistance during the German occupation of Paris. Oh yes! I had read everything I could get my hands on about Gestapo Tortures. Some of the published accounts were pornographic. At least they had that effect on me. For I was compelled to masturbate as I read them.
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And how the hell did Bobby Paul obtain such items in America in the 1950's? There were no stores that sold 'sex toys' or SM equipment as there are today. But there were underground sources via mail order that catered to sado-masochists. On the back pages of soft core, socalled 'physique magazines' there were discreetly worded advertisements for 'police restraints' and 'persuasive devices for military interrogation,' etc. There have always been ways and means of getting anything you want in spite of the law if you've the nerve to break the law, and the smarts to get away with it. Paul Kleist, reborn as a young and powerful Nazi Superman, had both the nerve and the smarts. So – Now! – he stood in front of the chair to which he had tied me – NAKED FOR TORTURE – exhibiting his huge erection – while he delivered a speech – a monologue – more demonic – more insane – than anything I had heard from the old Paul Kleist. It was as if the possession of Bobby Hoffman's body had pushed the already disturbed personality of the elderly man completely over the edge – into the blackest heart of the abyss. And he was taking me with him. Even worse! – I had given up all effort to resist. Like an audience of one, captivated, spellbound by a pornographic play, I stared at his cock and listened to his every word: "You little cockteaser! You took off your jacket that sultry day when we performed that farce of an interview at the climax of a heat wave. But when I ordered you to take off your shirt you demurred. Why? The shirt was transparent. You had worn it deliberately to provoke me. I could see your big, round sexy nipples right through the sheer material. I knew then what a cock teasing little whore you are. Your body! Half boy – half man. So sweet and innocent in your Sunday School best suit. Ha! With the pants so tight I could see everything you have – front and back. You pious little phony! Advertising your charms and denying me access to them. Well, I'll show you. I'll show you. Yes. When I am finished with you, you will know, and the whole world will know, that you are nothing but a
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Sex Slave to a Real Man who puts you to your proper use. Do you know? Can you possibly imagine what I am going to do to you?" "You're going to torture me." "Yes. And what else?" "–kill me?" "Possibly. One of these days. But for now I am going to adorn your creamy white chest with the symbols of my complete mastery over you. You will never again be able to take off your shirt without showing the world that you belong to a man who is stronger than you. Have you not guessed it yet?" "No, no, tell me, what are you going to do to my body?" "I am going to pierce your nipples with a long, sharp needle and insert rings in them. You will wear them for the rest of your life. The perfect slave boy can always be recognized by the rings in his nipples. I shall give you no anesthetic. You shall feel the full pain of the piercing. And the pain shall be like a huge capitol Y that starts at your nipples, joins at your navel, and continues down to your cock. When it pleases me to do so I shall hang you by your nipple rings and whip your nude body as you writhe and twist in your dance of pain. Oh, I have read books – many books – in German – in French – in Swedish – in Spanish – none in English, except for the mild, hypocritical pants-down discipline exercises that deny the sexual thrills even as they describe them. "Books written by bold, honest men who tell us in no uncertain terms how good it makes a Real Man feel to TORTURE NAKED BOYS. To whip them – stretch them on the RACK – brand them on their BUNS – hang them by their COCKS. "Without apology. Without a shred of remorse. Because that is what pretty, mindless, useless boys are for – to give pleasure to men who are their betters. "Those books to which I refer were circulated among the boys in the choir wherein I started my singing career. We read them aloud to one another during the long, boring train trips between engagements. We took our cocks out of our uniform pants and jacked off as we listened to graphic descriptions of how teenaged English and Irish
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pickpockets, and other pretty young scalawags from the soiled ghettos of London, were sent to the penal colonies of Australia. How – when they misbehaved or defied their masters – they were stripped totally naked and strung up in pairs with their cocks bound together – and LASHED! "How they were bent over canons – two or three together at a time – and branded on their bare butts. "How – when they were sold into penal servitude their masters pierced their nipples and inserted rings in them. And hung them by their NIPPLE RINGS to be whipped and fucked. "It was reality. The kind of reality that is sorely missed in today's pious evasion of what men – Real Men! – are made of – and what we men need to fuel our natural masculine aggression. "Yes! Even artists. Most of all, artists. For the delicate filigree of our work tightens the tendons of our brains and demands sexual violence as an antidote – else we would go mad. "And now I shall treat you to a torture more exquisite than anything you have ever imagined. This little canister – look at it. It is so dainty and pretty, this little tin box. So harmless in appearance. One might think it contained a balm for chapped lips. But no. It contains an anjati ointment invented by a German scientist who specialized in ever more refined instruments of torture to be used by the Gestapo on the totally naked bodies of handsome, muscular, extremely well hung, young prisoners-of-war who wouldn't 'talk' – until they were introduced to a torture such as the one I am about to introduce to you. The unctuous adhesive substance in this little tin box is not in itself painful. Indeed, it is used by bold sexual outlaws to enhance their pleasure/pain during sado-masochistic intercourse. When applied to the nipples it causes them to tingle with delightful stimulation. The effect is not unlike having your nipples sucked and licked and gently bitten. An erection is the inevitable result, of course. But the effect most useful to the torturer is the spectacular swelling of the tits. They erect and stand out like two eager little penises, begging to be worked on. Then – Ah! – then – the truly excruciating sexual torture begins. The needle! The piercing! Then the rings!
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"Oh my dear, naked BOY SLAVE, are you not aware that your huge nipples were made by our Savage God for just that purpose?! I knew it the moment I saw you in your outrageous see-through shirt as you sat so demurely in my parlor. And when with such cock-teasing false modesty you declined to take off your shirt so I could better feast my eyes on your satin smooth BOY CHEST with its two gleaming headlights – Ah! – it was at that moment that I vowed revenge. And now, at last, I have you at my mercy – tied up – stark naked – and ready for the serious nipple pain you so sorely need. Later, when your nipples are healed, I shall go to work on your cock. Perhaps with a fish hook. Enough! Let us begin." Using his long, strong athlete's fingers he proceeded to rub the abrasive unguent on my already erect nipples. Immediately I felt the erotic stimulation he had promised with such relish. My cock responded at once. It stretched to its fullest length and stood straight up as if to kiss with its drooling, pulsating head, one after the other, my abnormally distended tits. Already the sexual thrill was enough to bring me to the edge of orgasm. But then my BLOND NAKED GESTAPO TORTURER reached down into the container, fumbled around for a few moments, and withdrew the diabolical object he had been searching for. To my horror I saw that he now held a long, sharp needle. It was at least four inches long. "No. No! Please, no," I begged. For the approaching reality of the torture was fraught with a terror of unbearable agony that my masturbatory fantasies sublimely disregarded. "And now – unfortunately – I shall have to gag you again. For when I pierce your nipples with this needle you will scream. But – screaming into your gag will make its own thrilling music – like a trumpet stopped with a Harmon Mute – or the lightest touch on the nodal point of a string. Later – when we move into our apartment at the Ansonia with its thick soundproof walls – to say nothing about our retreats to my mansion on Long Island – I can enjoy the full throated screams I shall wring from you in the cellar – which – by the way – I am planning to convert into a fully equipped TORTURE CHAMBER.
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"But now – alas! – I see your tits are standing out a full inch from you chest. They are primed and ready for torture." I tried to protest – to beg for mercy. But the gag was in place again and all I could do was steel myself to endure the ordeal. I recalled an article written by a sensitive lad of nineteen who had had his nipples branded with cigarettes repeatedly in a Japanese Prison camp. He wouldn't talk, of course, and he truly felt the ordeal had made a MAN of him! I wondered if something similar might happen to me!!
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CHAPTER XI I bit my tongue as he grasped my left nipple with his powerful fingers. He pulled the large, firm, distended tit far out from my chest. I stiffened every muscle in my body as he put the tip of the needle against the base of the nub. Slowly – oh, so slowly – he began to push. I could feel the flesh stretching – more and more until – Oh, my God! – the flesh tore open as the tip of the needle penetrated the sensitive skin. I screamed into my gag. I couldn't stand it! I needed desperately for him to know I couldn't possibly stand it! But he laughed and thumped the head of my rigid, absolutely perpendicular cock. The message was clear: I couldn't stand it but my cock loved it! We were two separate beings, my cock and I. Even as I screamed into my gag I wanted him to grab my enraged cock and jerk me off! But I received no such mercy. Relentlessly my Nazi Torturer pushed the needle completely through my throbbing nipple as my twisting and gag-muted screaming continued unabated. With the care of an artist – with an artist's all consuming concentration – he adjusted the needle so that equal lengths protruded from both sides of the abnormally enlarged nub. Then – smiling – he took both ends of the needle in his hands and turned it back and forth – left, right, left, right, again and again – as my nude body twisted and shook for his pleasure. I wanted to die. I prayed that I might die. But still my cock was standing up at rigid attention and leaking pre-cum! Nothing I had ever felt or imagined had prepared me for the riverine of pain that ran from my throbbing nipple down to my throbbing cock. My cock! My autonomous cock felt as if it might, at any moment, explode and spray its boiling cum all the way up to the ceiling. I let loose one more muffled gasp and then all went still and silent. I had fainted. But soon I was conscious again, and writhing. Not with pain but with a strange and unlikely pleasure that was struggling up through the pain.
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My God! He was on his knees before me. And I could not believe what he was doing to me to revive me to full awareness. HE WAS SUCKING MY COCK!!!! But – like the Master Sadist he was – he stopped a second before I would have enjoyed the merciful relief of a sexual climax. "Welcome back to the living," he said. "It was very rude of you to fall asleep in the middle of our game. But you should at least thank me for waiting until you regained consciousness before continuing. I shouldn't want you to miss the best part." I looked down to see the needle protruding from my tortured nipple. A thin trickle of blood ran down my chest – past my navel – all the way down – into my pubic hair. I looked up to see the alluring, glamorous fiend approaching me again. A new panic gripped me when I saw that he had another needle in his hand. My body began to shake in the chair to which I was bound. The chair was on the verge of tipping over, so violent was my shaking. He reached out and pinched my right nipple. I prayed to God that I might fall into a deep, permanent sleep. For I was sure I could bear no more torture. But I was wrong. My capacity for taking pain was being extended beyond any normal human limits. He waited – gazing deep into my eyes – pulling the tip of my nipple as far out from my chest as was possible without ripping it off. Then he went to work with the second needle. With horrible slowness he forced it through my right nipple. My chest was an unnatural sight. My firm pectoral muscles sat high on my rib cage. Jutting out from those twin mounds were my distended nipples. The trauma of being pierced by the large needles had caused both nubs to swell to an incredible size. Both were bright red. Once more my torturer searched for something in the container behind him. A moment later he held up two large golden rings. They were thick and heavy in appearance and had an opening in the center.
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When he pulled the needles out of my tits I passed out again. But this time he didn't wait for me to regain consciousness. It was necessary for him to complete the operation before the punctured flesh had an opportunity to close in upon itself. The rings had to be inserted immediately upon the removal of the extra large needles. For the next five minutes I was in and out of consciousness. I remember – I remember – PLIERS! – that squeezed and squeezed until the openings in both rings were closed. I remember – Oh God, such agony! – I remember a blue white flame jutting from a device that looked like a miniature blow torch. The heat! – as the flame fused the ends of the nipple rings together. "Look!" he commanded. "See for yourself what I have done to you." I looked down at his handiwork. It was a bad mistake. I should never have looked. The sight made me sick and crazy. And strangely aroused! But he would not let me pass out again. Ah! – God Damn Him! Once again he sucked my cock to keep me alive and conscious until the pleasure almost equaled the pain. THE RINGS NOW HUNG LIKE DOOR KNOCKERS FROM EACH OF MY TORTURED NIPPLES!! One would think I should have been horrified – revolted by the sight of such supreme molestation of my nipples. But I wasn't. I found the sight and feel of the huge rings suspended from my swollen tits disturbingly erotic. And I knew the pain would pass. I begged – I begged – for the only thing that was left for me to beg for. The only thing worth living for. I begged: "Please – PLEASE! – SIR! – Let me COME!" "Of course, dear boy. You took your pain well and you deserve to be rewarded. You shall spend your sweet boyhood's seed for your pleasure and mine. But you must understand that for a BOY CUNT like yourself pleasure and pain are one and the same. Therefore I shall oblige you by lashing your big, stiff cock until it shoots its pentup cum to the ceiling."
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He produced a whip. Tiny and quite beautiful. "This whip is designed expressly for a young man's big, stiff COCK! It is made of braided camel's hair. Your magnificent penis can sustain hundreds of lashes without permanent damage. Consider each lash a love bite from me to you." At no time throughout the torture had my absolutely rigid cock lost what promised to be its permanent erection. And now – gently at first – then with ever increasing ferocity – he LASHED MY FULLY ERECT COCK – methodically – up and down from base to head and back again – repeatedly – until the happening of the promised eruption was upon me!! And when I passed out that time it was like a dream of blissful surrender. When I was once again conscious my entire world was changed. I could not believe my good fortune. Bobby was back! Not the devil who had assumed his shape – but the real Bobby as I had known and loved him. The voice. The sweetness. The guileless innocence. I didn't care that it was Paul Kleist's superb impersonation of my love that was dead and gone forever. For even a pale ghost of my love was preferable to life without a trace of him. Even knowing his sweet presence was a cruel hoax was better than the HELL reality offered in its stead. And the illusion was sweet indeed! After a period of euphoric dreams in which Bobby and I were together once again with all the understanding and rapport stronger than before, I awakened to find myself immersed in warm, soothing water. I was in the bathroom. In the tub. Bobby was bathing me. So gentle! Like a loving father bathing his baby boy. "Bobby?" I asked. "You bet. Nobody else 'cept me, sweetheart. I'm gonna bathe you real nice and put you to bed. I love you, Les. I've loved you since the first second I laid eyes on you." "Bobby?" "Sure it's me. Open your pretty eyes and see it's me."
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I blinked, three times, and the fog lifted, and there he was – naked – kneeling beside the tub – washing away all the pain and humiliation. When he finished bathing me he lifted me gently out of the tub, dried me off and carried me to my bed. Very gently, he rubbed a soothing ointment on my pierced nipples to prevent infection. "You get a good nap now. Then I'll take you out to dinner. Any place you like. We'll celebrate, Les, just us two together – like it's always been – like it always will be. You gotta know I love you with all my heart and soul." He was speaking in Bobby's voice. And looking at me with Bobby's eyes. He read my thoughts and said: "You see now – I don't lie to you. I'm more Bobby now than Bobby ever was. I'm Bobby. For you. Always. Look. Are these not the hands of your Bobby? Are these not the eyes of your Bobby? Is this not the voice of your Bobby?" "Oh yes! Bobby – my darling! I've waited so long for you!" "Sure you have. Waited for me to be all you've wanted me to be." Then – still in the sweet, gentle tones of my Bobby he said: "We'll have all the kinky, twisted SM sex you ever thought about when you jacked off. And MORE! The nipple rings are only the beginning. I intend to strip you and do things to your naked body you never dared to dream of!" "Oh Bobby! I am your slave for life!" "I knew you would see it my way," he said. Then he crawled in bed beside me and let me cry myself to sleep with my head on his chest.
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CHAPTER XII I spent the following morning packing our things for the big move to the Ansonia. HE who owned me, body and soul, spent the day in the big house on Long Island, selecting the things he wanted for the suite in the city. The limo driver he 'inherited' from his former self drove him out at the crack of dawn. The ice-cold, cutie-pie chauffeur, with his platinum blond, flattop hairdo that looked as if it were made of silver celluloid, would have been the perfect choice for the Youth For Hitler poster boy. In addition to driving 'Herr Hoffmann' he would do some heavy lifting from house to car under his master's supervision. Nor would he receive any help from Martin and Anna who had been given their 'walking papers' when they failed to show proper respect to a twentyfive year old Muscle Boy from Texas who had become their new master upon the 'death' of Paul Kleist. They made it clear that they thought Herr Kleist was out of his mind when he drew up that last minute will leaving everything to 'that overgrown child.' Upon his arrival at the mansion Bobby Paul called me to announce that he would probably return late that night or possibly stay the night and return the next morning. In addition to that message he gave me elaborate instructions to add to the ones he had already given me regarding what to pack and what to throw out. He expressed particular concern for the recordings of Paul Kleist in his prime, all of which were on the old 78 RPM mode, made of wax, and easily broken. He went on and on about how they should be wrapped individually with cardboards placed between them. He spoke as if they were his prized possessions. When I reminded him that they were my records, and that I knew how to protect them from damage in transit, he reminded me that, as his worthless slave, I possessed no personal property whatever. It was then that I discovered an interesting phenomenon: Over the telephone he did not possess the same power over me that he did in person. He seemed uncertain as to whether he should speak like Bobby or Paul. So he switched back and forth from one voice to the
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other, sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Without the visual power of his beauty and sex appeal he came across as little more than the professional phony he had become. "Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Yes Sir," I repeated, like the automaton I had become, while deciding exactly how I would break into little pieces every single one of my Paul Kleist recordings. I thought it might be fun to hurl them into the beyond from the rooftop. Or – perhaps the fire escape. Ah – Yes! – the fire escape would be best. That way I could play each and every one of them on my old portable phonograph one last time as I crawled in and out of the window onto the fire escape. Play, hurl, play, hurl, play, hurl – on and on into the Manhattan hustle and bustle. What about the 46th Street traffic below? Might not a record go flying into the window of a passing car and injure someone? Perhaps with a great show of skill I could sail all the records on thin air directly onto the roof of the tenement across the street. Or – with a great show of physical strength I might succeed in hurling the God Damn Records directly West and into the mighty Hudson River. Yes! – I might succeed – for I had heard that people who go completely insane oft times possess superhuman strength. In any case, I resolved to give the project the very best that was in me. Disc. Discus thrower. Also phonograph disc. Thrower of phonograph discs! I recalled being highly turned on by a track-and-field event I had once attended wherein the competing discus throwers wore only extra brief shorts that were split up the sides. Ah! – the way they posed before the big throw – all that bare MAN FLESH gleaming in the sun! I had the perfect costume for my own one-man-phonograph-discus throwing event on the fire escape. It would go so perfectly well with the door knocker sized rings in my nipples. Yes, to be sure, it was another 'gift' from my fascist sweetheart.
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Before he left that morning on his journey through the Valley of Ashes to the House of Many Mansions he had thrown to me the garment he insisted that I should wear until his return. He had warned me of the dire consequences should I take it off for a single moment. "All I shall have to do is gaze into your eyes. I will know from your eyes if you are lying. Your eyes will betray you if you have disobeyed. And your voice as well. I shall know your guilty secret from the inflections of your voice." Ah! – Yes! – He would be standing before me when he questioned me. That was a different matter altogether. My little game of token rebellion would end the moment he was in my presence. So I had to wear the TORTURE PANTS until he gave me permission to remove them. I would have to wear the TORTURE PANTS on the fire escape for all of HELLS KITCHEN to see! The TORTURE PANTS that 'went so well with the rings in my nipples,' he said – he said – HE SAID!!! The garment was so bizarre – so barbaric – a masterpiece of kink. It was an exceptionally brief thong made of tanned hide. At first sight I doubted it would be possible to put it on. Surely it was much too small, I thought. But the look, the feel, the smell of the thing possessed an overpowering fetishistic appeal. It was blatantly sexual. It would leave me almost totally exposed. It was so brief and tight that my balls and my oversized prick would be crushed with every move I made. And my prick began to stiffen at the very thought of wearing the thing. Wearing it with nothing else on, of course! The damned leather thong was intended to arouse and humiliate me. To enhance my humiliation he made me strip naked and put the diabolical garment on in front of the Youth For Hitler poster boy. It was eight o'clock in the morning and I would have to wear my TORTURE THONG throughout the entire day – and, possibly, all night, should he decide to sleep over on Long Island. I had to strain mightily to pull the God Damned thing over my knees. I had to bend forward and tug hard to bring it up to my groin. That's as far as it would go. I could not bring it up high enough to
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cover my pubic hair completely. There was no room for my cock and balls. My miserable cock – so painfully oversized – was jutting up, stiff and pulsating. It took all of my strength to get it contained in the much-too-small leather pouch. Even so, the head stuck out at the top, pressed flat against my stomach, a good two inches above my navel. And that was what I was wearing when the men – the big, butch, rough, tough men! – came to take my piano out the window and down to their moving van. They saw me almost naked in that leather thong. They saw the rings in my nipples. They said not a word, but I could feel their disgust and their scorn like blows from a hammer. And yet – a dark, sneaky little part of me deep down inside thrilled to my blatant exhibition of indecent exposure. I felt – I felt – somehow – more than naked. Had I been completely naked the men would not have been compelled to stare at my BIG DICK. But in that impossible leather thong they could not not stare at it. I would have preferred to wait until nightfall to present myself on the fire escape in my phonograph disc throwing costume but I knew not when Bobby Paul might return. Surely, I did not want my athletic event interrupted. If it was doomed to be interrupted I should have preferred it be by the police – come to arrest me for indecent exposure and performing a lewd act in public. Would they place me under arrest? Would they put me in handcuffs? Would they shove me into their – what is it called? – 'squad car?' – would they put me in the squad car as I was?! In my near naked condition?! Would the uniformed brutes want to abuse my tender white body? – Oh, I hoped so! I didn't give a damn about the consequences. I was – BY GOD! – the mad discus thrower of 46th Street! And I did it. I played the first Paul Kleist record I laid my hands on: In fernen Land, Unnahber euren Schritten,
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– and sailed it across the street where it smashed against a lamp post. I played another record: Morgenlich leuchtend In rosigem schein – and a cute, teenaged boy caught it and ran with it and tossed it faster, higher, farther than ever I could. Ah! I had an accomplice! I played another record: Wintersturme wichen Dem Wonnemond – and a crowd began to gather below – people of every conceivable size, shape, age, sex, race and attitude. Soon they were joined by a cop. Then the cop became two cops and the two cops split and multiplied into four – or eight – (I was never good at arithmetic!) But I knew my fantasy of being arrested, put in handcuffs, hauled off to the precinct, and generally roughed up by big, butch, rough, tough COPS was coming closer to reality with every breath I took. And by that time I had learned that fantasies that turn into realities can be living nightmares. And my nightmare in the daytime started at once as a whole gang of cops and outraged citizens entered my building and stomped up the stairs. I thought I heard someone shout: 'We're comin' to get you!' – but I couldn't be sure. In fact, I cannot to this day be sure that the entire episode was not a paranoid hallucination. I know only that I ran blindly up the final flight of stairs and hid on the roof until Bobby Paul returned right at dusk. I saw the big limo stop in front of the building. I saw Bobby Paul emerge. I ran down to Bobby Paul and confessed all. Bobby Paul told me I was indeed a very bad boy and had to be punished. But my punishment would have to be postponed until we finished moving. That was nice – very nice – It meant I had something to look forward to beside the Opera. THE OPERA!
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I had almost forgotten that we were to join Dr. Anselmo for a revival of Tristan und Isolde at the Metropolitan.
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CHAPTER XIII It was important that Anselmo, as House Physician, should occupy a seat on the aisle so that he would be accessible in the event of a medical emergency. Next to him sat Bobby. Then me. Then a heavily intoxicated priest who was already nodding off and snoring before the prelude began. The alcoholic fumes he emitted with each rasping exhalation were making me slightly dizzy, as if I too were getting drunk from smelling his breath. The three of us had dined in the elegant restaurant on the Grand Tier. But we abstained from cocktails and wine. For once, we three were in perfect agreement: One should never take a drink before sitting through all four and a half hours of Wagner's Tristan und Isolde. The work in itself is an out-of-body experience that requires no mood altering substance for its nihilistic effect on the susceptible listener. Indeed, alcohol is likely to nullify the effect in much the same way that a person who has been drinking cannot be hypnotized because of his diminished capacity for intense concentration. Throughout dinner there had been between my two companions fragments of cryptic exchanges that I made little effort to decipher. After all – they were Paul and Theo – Theo and Paul – those boys! – always up to something secretive. And criminal, no doubt. "When?" "Second Act." "Why not the first?" "Give them time to – listen – and compare. That way the contrast will be all the more startling." "How?" "Leave that to me." "No! I want to know how. I insist you tell me." "I make my rounds between the acts, as well you know." "Yes." "To see how the principals are getting on." "Yes."
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"A cup of tea – a shot of whiskey – whatever is restful to the nerves – soothing to the throat–" "Yes." "A mixture. My own of course. Not much. A tiny pinch. Tasteless. Odorless. Undetectable. No permanent harm." "Unconsciousness?" "No. Abdominal cramps." "Severe?" "But of course." "Where is it?" "In my pocket." It had been a long day for me. I was tired, and the heavy dinner I had eaten made me groggy. We had finished moving into our suite in the Ansonia late that afternoon. So, at last, there I sat, in a choice orchestra seat – already exhausted before the first note was played. Really! One needs to be rested and fresh for a Wagner opera. Waiting. Waiting for the houselights to dim – for the conductor to appear – for the prelude to begin – hoping the alcoholic priest so totally passed out beside me wouldn't use my shoulder for a pillow. At last! Those three notes sinking into the famous 'Tristan Chord' – and the haunting prelude, like the tug and pull of the ocean's undertow, began. During the final measures of the prelude the curtain rose and the face of Alma Angstrom – (only her face) – was seen in the light of a pin-spot. Her striking Nordic face – like a tragic mask – was surrounded by darkness. Then – the sailor's voice from high up above the proscenium: "Westwarts schweift der Blick Ostwarts Streicht das Schiff." And the full stage lights rose to reveal the deck of Tristan's ship with the sailor's voice heard as if from the masthead: "Frisch weht der Wind
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der Heimath zu– mein Irishe Kind, wo weilest du?" Even before she sang her first note it was obvious that Alma Angstrom had inhabited the role of Isolde. Her riveting stage presence – the way she used almost catatonic stillness to convey Isolde's deep depression turning to rage from the implied insult contained in the words of the sailor's song. Then rage broke through and she launched into the fiendishly difficult narrative culminating in 'Isolde's Curse' in which she tells of Tristan's betrayal and vows to kill him and then herself. We in the audience now knew why the opera was being performed without a credible heldentenor in the role of Tristan. The reason was Alma Angstrom! Never had I heard a soprano voice so powerful as, without a trace of strain, she delivered the climactic phrase of the 'curse' motive that makes or breaks any singer who attempts the role: Fluch dir, Verruchter! Fluch deinem Haupt! Rache, Tod! Tod uns Beiden! But that was the last exciting moment we would experience in Act One, which was not yet half over. When Felix Anthony, as Tristan, made his entrance it was downhill all the way. He sang all the notes correctly but it wasn't nearly enough. He was hopelessly miscast, both as singer and actor. Angstrom had a difficult choice to make: Either she could continue full steam and totally overwhelm her partner, or tone her intensity all the way down to his level and weaken her own performance. She courteously chose the latter to avoid humiliating her colleague. In turn, the conductor was obliged to drastically reduce the volume of the orchestra. The result was disastrous. The great 'confrontation scene' between the two principals, which is supposed to build to a shattering climax with the drinking of the love potion and the two erstwhile enemies in each other's arms
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pouring out their undying passion, died on its feet, and the curtain fell to tepid applause. During the curtain calls in which Angstrom was warmly applauded and Anthony was booed, Dr. Anselmo rose from his seat and hurried off to attend his duties backstage. I turned to Bobby Paul and said: "It's going to be a long intermission. We might as well step out for a smoke." "No. I am not smoking today. Have you not noticed?" "Frankly, no. I've been too busy. But I'd like a cigarette. So, if you'll excuse me..." "No. Remain seated. When I am not smoking then you are not either." "Don't you want to stretch your legs, at least? Act Two is very long." "Do you think I am unaware of the length of the second act of Tristan?" We fell silent as the patrons around us retreated to the outer lobby – to smoke – to order drinks from the bar – to go to the bathrooms. Five minutes went by without our speaking a word to each other. Then Bobby put his hand tenderly on my leg and spoke to me in his old voice – in his old way – Texas accent and all: "I need you, Les. Right here with me. I'm nervous. I know I don't show it, but I am. Awful. I shouldn't have eaten a full dinner. I knew better but I went ahead and did it. Every time I stop smoking I get so darn hungry. Now I'm too full of food. Afraid I might get the cramps. It's the other guy suppose to get cramps. Not me. Wow." "Bobby, I wish I knew exactly what you're talking about." "Oh, it don't matter, Les. I just need to talk and you to listen. Like you always do. I don't think I could go on without you – being here – always by my side. I'll be nicer. Really I will. My nerves – I've been working so hard to be ready for this night." "This night? If this performance of Tristan is so special then why, I wonder, didn't we wait until next week to move? A few more days wouldn't have mattered."
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"No, Les, baby, you don't understand. Tomorrow morning we're gonna be invaded by the press – every paper in town – to say nothing of radio and T.V. – photographers – interviewers – I'm gonna be an instant celebrity. We can't have that army coming to that dump we moved out of. We gotta have classy surroundings – and plenty of space. Too bad the move took so long but – hey – we made it. We're here and I'm ready." "Ready for your unscheduled comeback?" "Don't call it that. It's my debut. I'm Robert Hoffmann." "With two N's." "Right. I'm a protege of the late Paul Kleist. Always remember that. I've earned my right to sing his roles. And right the wrong that was done to him. The strain! – It's got on my nerves. But that's not bad. It's just stage fright. And when the old adrenaline starts to pump I'll go with it. Boy! I'm feelin' better already. It's been so long. I forgot that stage fright can be a friend in disguise if you let it. But, oh, Les, baby, don't never leave me." He went on and on like that. One moment he was my Bobby. The next moment he was – the OTHER. But that voice! That mesmerizing voice poured over me like black molasses. And I lapped up every drop. I didn't listen to what he was saying. I was straining to convince myself that Paul Kleist was not there. It was Bobby and only Bobby, there beside me. I thought, if I tried hard enough I could convince myself that it was not an impersonation – that the possession was not total – that there were times when Paul Kleist went to sleep and the real Bobby came out to tell me how much he needed me, and to hear me reassure him once again that I would never leave him – even though I would have to endure the OTHER who cohabited with him – or, rather, endure that perverse part of myself that compelled me to submit to the domination of the OTHER. But it was folly to deceive myself. How easy it was to fall prey to the man's powers of seduction. For all his soothing words and soft, gentle eyes there was at that moment a part of him that could only be Paul Kleist. And that part was his hand – on my leg – touching me the way Bobby never would – never could–
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It was then – at that moment – that I began to understand the exact nature of the creature seated beside me with his hand on my leg and his magical voice casting its spell on my soul. No – he was not sometimes Bobby and sometimes Paul Kleist. He was entirely, at all times, Paul Kleist. But he needed to convince himself that he had died and been reborn as the man he had always wanted to be – the man who had it all: the voice, the looks, the youth, the health. And my importance to him went beyond our sexual relationship. He needed me to reinforce his delusion that he was in fact, Paul Kleist's perfectly trained protege and logical successor – aged 25! But he was not comfortable in his impersonation of Bobby. Bobby's personality was too limited. There was no room in Bobby's sweet, simple soul for the Nazi Opera Star's flamboyant temperament. And when he was with Anselmo he made no effort to be Bobby at all. Only with me could he sustain his pitiful delusion to any extent. And even with me the scars and passions of seventy-three years of living broke out periodically. At last, the intermission was over and Theodore Anselmo, the Met's new 'House Physician,' returned to his seat on the aisle. And Bobby's speech instantly reverted to Paul Kleist's overly precise British diction: "Is it time, now, Theo?" "No, not yet. You will be notified." "But – damn you, Theo, I cannot just sit here. I am going crazy!" "You must be patient, Robert." "But the second act is about to begin." "Keep your voice down. People are returning to their seats." "Of course they are. The curtain is about to go up." "Exactly as I have planned. Isolde will sing her duet with Brangaena. She will extinguish the torch. She will wave her veil. Tristan will enter." His voice dropped to a mere whisper as he leaned over to say: "Shortly after – very shortly after – the curtain will come down. There may or may not be an announcement. That is out of my hands. It is up to the management. But I dare say the curtain will go up
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again. Otherwise they will lose a great deal of money. It's a full house. And all the major critics are here. They dare not cancel. They will listen to me. They will have to trust my judgment. They will have no choice under the circumstances. You will be notified by the head usher or an assistant manager who will escort you backstage. A makeup artist and someone from wardrobe will be standing by to have you ready by the time you've taken three deep breaths. I have seen how fast they can work. Very shortly the curtain will go up again. Isolde will have to extinguish the torch and wave her veil a second time because those actions are synchronized to Tristan's entrance music." "I see. Very good, Theo. Tristan will enter – again – and the rest will be history." "Do shut up, Robert, your voice carries even when you are whispering. You should know that by now." "Why should I know it? It has been my voice for only a few short weeks." "Is that the kind of idiotic statement you're going to come out with when you are interviewed by the press?" "Of course not. Why can't you trust me, Theo?" "Because you are unstable, Paul." "Indeed! And is that the name you are going to call me in front of the gentlemen of the press? And you dare to call me unstable!" "It just slipped out. Damn you, I've as much right to be nervous as you. I am risking my reputation as well as my very life on your behalf. I should think a little gratitude is in order." "Oh I assure you, Theo, I am positively wallowing in gratitude. But let me remind you that you are charging me far more than gratitude." "Why are you so angry?" "Because you called me 'unstable.'" "You are. All the more so since – since your wish came true. And frankly, I am starting to resent my role as your 'Fairy Godmother.'" "It is a bit late for that, I should think. What is done cannot be undone."
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"I dare say you'll undo it yourself." "Oh, will you both shut up?!" I said, in a desperate whisper. It worked. They, both of them, realized people around us could hear every word they were saying. Not that any sane person could fathom what any of it meant. Unless there were any old witches in the audience other than dear Theo. At last! The houselights dimmed and the conductor appeared to mild applause. "Don't you have to go backstage?" asked Bobby Paul, considerably calmer than before. Equally subdued, Anselmo replied: "No. Not until I know I am needed. And if you don't want to spoil all I have done for you, you will keep quiet." I could not focus my attention on the opening of Act Two. I knew what was going to happen. I was terrified. I wanted to leave. Not just the Opera house. I wanted to get the hell out of town and never come back. Go anywhere. Get a job playing piano in some hotel bar in some small town. Maybe even change my name. A very loud high note from Alma Angstrom snapped me out of my escape fantasy. With the big-voiced mezzo singing Brangaena, maidin-waiting to Isolde, Angstrom could sing full voice again as she had in the opening scene of Act one. She was reminding the audience of just-who-by-God-she-was before she would have to scale her huge voice down again for the love duet with her pipsqueak costar. When she lifted the torch to extinguish it as a signal for her lover to come to her, she flung it across the stage with such wild, over-the-top vehemence that it bounced in a shower of sparks and nearly fell into the orchestra pit. And when she whipped off her long white scarf and waved it with what is traditionally supposed to be passionate impatience, the gesture appeared to be something closer to desperate surrender. Enter Tristan. And as Mr. Anthony reached for the high note on the second syllable of his lover's fair name: "I – SOL – de!" His voice cracked.
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A second later came his next utterance: "Ge – LIEB – te!" With an even higher note on the second syllable. But instead of cracking on the note, he let out a perfectly gruesome sound like the squeal of a stuck pig. Then he clutched his stomach with both hands and fell to the floor – screaming! He was still screaming as the curtain fell with a short, sharp THUD. The audience sat in stunned silence. Bobby Paul grabbed my leg and squeezed it with all the power in his huge hand. In a desperate whisper I pleaded: "You're hurting me!" At that same moment the alcoholic priest's head fell onto my shoulder. Worse still, he began to snore louder than before. I was afraid I was going to lose control of myself and scream. The moment passed when I saw the General Manager of the Metropolitan Opera step before the curtain. He was visibly shaken. He begged our indulgence. He informed us that Mr. Anthony had been taken ill – as if we needed to be told! – He assured us that Mr. Anthony was receiving medical attention to ascertain whether he would be able to continue. It was then that I noticed that the doctor's seat was unoccupied. He must have dashed out the moment the curtain came down. The Manager concluded his announcement by requesting that we remain seated. And the house remained dark to encourage us to comply with his request. Now the deadly silence gave way to restless, anxious murmuring among the spectators surrounding us. Bobby Paul released his painful grip on my leg and whispered: "Alright – Les – dear boy – this is the first and last chance you will have to see me from the house. After tonight you will be backstage to assist me." A man with a flashlight came down the aisle, glancing quickly at the seat numbers. He stopped beside Bobby and asked:
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"Mr. Hoffmann?" "Yes, I am Robert Hoffmann." "Would you come with me, please." "Of course." As he rose he said to me: "Come back. After." Then he followed the man with the flashlight up the aisle. The priest, asleep on my shoulder, snored louder. "Excuse me, Father," I said, as I moved over – all the way over – to the seat on the aisle that Anselmo had vacated. With a loud snort, the good Father righted himself, opened his eyes for two seconds, then passed out again. The wait did not exceed ten minutes, at most. I have never been able to comprehend how the maneuver was brought off so swiftly and adroitly. Once again the General Manager stepped before the curtain, thanked the audience for their patience, informed us that Mr. Anthony was indisposed, and the performance would continue with MR. ROBERT HOFFMANN singing the role of Tristan. His demeanor was a masterpiece of public relations. He worded and uttered his announcement as if nothing unusual or unprecedented was occurring. Oft times a singer lost his voice in mid performance and a substitute took over. Even the way he spoke the name of 'Mr. Robert Hoffmann' conveyed the impression that the singer was a regular member of the company who had been contracted to 'cover' for poor Mr. Anthony. And before the audience had a second to wonder 'who' or 'what,' or consult the roster in their programs that listed the names of all the soloists under contract to the company, the orchestra launched into Tristan's entrance music, the manager disappeared into the wings, the curtain rose with the speed of a bullet, and Isolde threw her torch across the full length of the stage. But the super cool demeanor of the manager was in marked contrast to the obvious nervousness of Alma Angstrom. The Soprano was somewhat out of character. It was her own anxiety coming across, rather than the ecstatic anticipation of the character she was
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portraying. Her waving of the scarf was a distracted, uncoordinated symptom of her all-too-real emotional distress. And no wonder! She was shortly going to sing – or attempt to sing – the longest love duet in all of Opera with a man she had never laid eyes on in her life! She could not have been blamed had she refused to continue under such seemingly impossible circumstances. No doubt she had seen him – that 'mere boy!' – dressed in a hastily improvised costume. She, of all people, must have known that nobody had ever heard of a tenor by the name of Robert Hoffmann – whether his name was spelled with two N's or not!! I seriously doubt whether her being informed that he was a protege of the late Paul Kleist would have made any difference whatever in those hysterical moments in which she had to make the decision to risk her reputation by agreeing to continue. But the curtain was up, the orchestra was playing, and all she could do now was wave that damned scarf as if she were summoning the fire department and hope she could survive the worst. And there he was! – a golden apparition in the stage moonlight – rushing toward her with open arms: "I – SOL – de!" Isolde is supposed to answer immediately: "TRIS – tan!" But she didn't. She missed her cue. She stood – open-mouthed – frozen in wonderment at the clarion sound that came from the throat of that total stranger rushing at her. She missed her second cue also, which is: "Ge – LIEB – te!" Sung in harmony with Tristan – her top note rising to a high B-flat which was not heard as she stood voiceless with awe at the sound that came from her Tristan's throat on a high G – like a hundred trumpets in unison! Despite her professionalism Angstrom was evidently as startled as those of us in the audience. But – great artist that she was – she overcame her shock in a matter of seconds and their voices soared over the orchestra as they
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embraced and poured out their ecstasy in perfectly matched vocal sounds that issued forth like ocean waves crashing against rocks: "Mein! Tristan mein!" "Ewig! Isolde mein!" No! – Alma Angstrom's Tristan in Act Two did not have an intonation problem or a rhythm problem or any other problem. As all the major music critics in New York would declare in their reviews, it was almost impossible for us to believe the evidence of our eyes and ears. Here was a golden-haired, heroic beauty of a man in his mid-twenties who sang and acted with all the limitless abandon of youth – but with the interpretive powers that can only be acquired from many years of experience. An impossible combination! But there it was. All of it. The subtleties in addition to the stentorian vocal fireworks. When Tristan drew Isolde down beside him on a flowery bank, rested his head on her arm, and sang the famous, achingly tender– "O sink hernieder, Nacht der Lieber," –his voice sank to a ravishing pianissimo like a far distant cello. And yet – every note caressed the listeners like a lover's hands exploring the most intimate places on the beloved's body. Sighs of rapture were audible from the audience – men as well as women! We, none of us, had ever heard anything like it – in Tristan or any other opera. Throughout the duet, Alma Angstrom clung to her incredible, new found Tristan with an erotic rapture that would cause the critics to proclaim that she had exceeded even herself, if possible! There was the deliciously disturbing impression that the love of Isolde for Tristan was bursting through the scenic proscriptions of the libretto – that the famous Soprano was, in fact, falling madly in love with her magical co-star! Never before in the history of performances of Wagner's paean to heterosexual love had the overpowering eroticism of the work been so palpably realized. During the sequence known as 'Brangaena's Warning' in which Isolde's maid-in-waiting, stationed high above in
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the watchtower, sings of the inevitable destruction of wondrous night by intrusive dawn, the oblivious lovers sank to the ground in a passionate embrace and actually appeared to be tearing at each other's clothing as the lights dimmed – not a second too soon! – to allow the orchestra to describe their intercourse in purely musical terms. But it was the final, violent climax of Act Two that revealed to the audience Robert Hoffmann's powers as an actor. Traditionally, Tristan duels briefly with the treacherous Melot and deliberately lets his sword fall to receive the fatal thrust. But this Tristan came up with a variation that caused the entire audience to utter a gasp of shock. This Tristan drew his sword as if to attack. Then – when Melot drew his sword in response – Tristan threw his sword to the ground and, rushing toward his foe's poised weapon, impaled himself upon it as an act of suicide. But that was not the end of the profoundly shocking moment. When it appeared that the sword had run him completely through, Tristan grabbed Melot in a violent embrace and kissed him full on the mouth before he fell – mortally wounded. The meaning was unmistakable: He was thanking his erstwhile friend turned mortal enemy for delivering him from an existence that could bring only calamity to himself and the woman he loved. A moment after Isolde threw herself upon Tristan's fallen body the curtain fell to tumultuous applause. I did not remain for the curtain calls. I fled to the lobby and directly to the bar where I proceeded to down one martini after another in quick succession.
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CHAPTER XIV I wanted to kill my mind. I wanted to stop what was happening to me. I thought, if I got drunk enough I might be able to get through the third act without losing my soul. How many fools have sought salvation in alcohol only to find damnation? Could I get drunk enough to shield what was left of my humanity from what I now knew Paul Kleist could and would do with the third act of Tristan? Using Bobby's voice! In the late nineteenth century there were incidents – several of them – in which young men listened together to Act Three of Tristan before committing mass suicide. That is the kind of effect the third act of Tristan can have on super-sensitive, neurotic young men who embrace death as the ultimate orgasm to end all orgasms! As I stood at the bar seeing just how drunk I could get, I made my plans: I would let the devil sing his dark heart out and die magnificently in Isolde's arms. Then I would take him home to our lavish suite and give him Tristan's death for real! Then I would join him. And good riddance! For I was falling in love with Paul Kleist's demonic talent! Perhaps I would have sex with him first. What did it matter, now that sex and death were the same? I was an accomplice to murder and didn't deserve to live. I was the lover of the man who had murdered my lover! My wet dream of Bobby transmogrified had come true – at the price of my immortal soul. For surely I would go to HELL locked in an eternal embrace with the rotting corpse of an old Nazi who had shed his skin like a snake to rejuvenate his vile existence at the expense of an innocent youth who had given him his trust and devotion. And I had become the monster's willing accomplice! We belonged in HELL, the two of us.
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What would I use to kill him? A knife of course, I would slit his throat while he slept. I would rip his voice out and leave nothing but his fraudulent shell. Then use the same knife on myself. Of a sudden I became aware of a man standing close beside me at the bar. He nodded and smiled in an amiably tipsy sort of way and I recognized him by his clerical collar and his breath as the priest I thought I had left behind me when I fled to the bar. "That was a wake up call, wasn't it?" he said. When he realized I was slow to comprehend the remark he added: "That boy! That blond Adonis! The moment that awesome voice struck my benumbed senses I was wide awake. I've had too much to drink, I'm afraid, and now I must drink myself sober to hear and see what he's going to do with Tristan's delirium – hallucinations – death longing – madness – transfiguration – all the good stuff that music can do better than words or pictures. Are you following me, my good man?" "Only too well, Father. But I should confess – I'm not a Catholic." "So what? Who needs to be a Catholic to be destroyed by great art? All you need is to be too intelligent for your own good – and terminally tuned in to the truth. Wagner says it all in this Opera we are enduring tonight. It is those very lies of the day that the lovers deplore that keep normal human beings going – going – going – busy all over the place. When night falls – when night falls – I say – another please, bartender. Do have another on me, my good sir, and put up with my prattle until intermission is over because a man like me needs a gentle drinking companion when he's lost his faith – especially if he happens to be a priest who is falling – I say – falling – for the truth that only night can bring." "But, Father – after one enters the night and learns the truth – what then?" "Why then – there is nothing. Do you think we'll have enough time for one more round before the third act?" "Father – I think it's very important that we make time for one more round even if we're a little late getting to our seats. Bartender, two more here, please. And these are on me. Father – I've tried very hard
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to get smashed but I must confess I've never felt more sober in my life." "Likewise, I'm sure." "I wish I were a Catholic so that you could give me the Last Rites." "Extreme Unction. Or is it merely unctuousness? But why? You are young and healthy. Or so it would appear. And a non-believer – or so I gather. But I can see that you are not in the least being facetious. Tell me why you think you've any need for the Last Rites." "Because I'm going to kill a man tonight. And after I see that he is dead I'm going to kill myself." "I see. And do you intend to tell me – in sacred confidence of course – whom you intend to kill?" "Tristan." "Oh, I get it: Something symbolic." "No. I mean literally. I'm going to kill the man who is singing the role of Tristan tonight." "You know him?!" "I live with him. He is a spawn of the devil." "You're sure about that?" "Quite." "Spawn of the devil, is he? Well that would explain it." "Explain what?" "His perfectly inhuman vocal prowess. When God bestows upon us a gift – it is never perfect. There is always a perfectly human flaw – or limitation. What that boy is doing tonight on that stage is not humanly possible. But a gift from the devil can be flawless and unlimited – for a time – in exchange for you know what." "Yes. I know. And I'll gladly forfeit my own soul to bring him down with me." "He's got the voice of an angel, you must admit." "Yes. His voice did indeed belong to an angel. He stole it – that voice – and the heavenly body that contained it. And I let it happen. I could have stopped it and I didn't. Because I desired that heavenly body. And I got what I desired. Now – now – I'm sick of both of us." "I understand."
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"Do you? Really?!" "All too well. But we are, I hope, going to go back and hear the third act, are we not?" "I'm certain we are, both of us, doomed to hear it." "There's the bell. Let's drink up and go." We held hands, my priest and I, and allowed our souls to be annihilated as the curtain rose on Tristan, hovering between life and death beneath a lime tree in the ruined garden of his ancestral home. We did not hold hands as lovers do. We held hands as people in a burning skyscraper do when they agree to leap to their deaths rather than suffer the more grisly, lingering death by fire. The man on the stage, tearing his guts out in a delirium of prenatal recall, was a total stranger to me even as he compelled me to join him in his final descent into madness and death. He was neither Paul Kleist nor Robert Hoffmann. He was Tristan, immortalized in text that defies translation into English – and music that needs no text to pierce you with the same wound that Melot bestowed upon his childhood's friend at the crack of detestable dawn. I had listened to Paul Kleist's famous 1939 recording many times, thinking it had to be unsurpassable. Now I knew it was only a sketch – an outline – a proposal for the ultimate rendering that would require nothing less than supernatural intervention for its fruition. For the accumulated philosophical powers that compensated an elderly genius for his declining physique had reached back in time to reclaim the stamina of his youth. No! Not his youth! The youth of a man far stronger and more splendidly endowed than he had been in his prime. The result was Faustian! And that Faust, together with his cringing spineless slave, so sick with self-loathing, had to die and go to the devil. Murdering that obscene creature would be the purest and cleanest thing I had ever done! But now he was singing so softly – so filled with unspoken and unspeakable longing.
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So sweet his voice as he asks with the innocence of a child why his mother abandoned him after she vomited him from the night of her womb to languish in the scorching sun. Only Isolde can put out the light – extinguish the torch that shines upon the obscenity of being alive. But then – near the end – came the one moment of physical violence in Act Three – the moment when Tristan and the audience hear Isolde's voice from offstage, calling her lover's name. It is a moment usually lost in performance due to the tenor's reluctance to expose his body. Understandable, due to the poor, unsightly bodies of most tenors who attempt the role. Robert Hoffmann, as Tristan, heard the voice of his beloved, come to deliver him at last, and stood with a rush of final, brief, adrenergic liberation. He ripped off his tunic to reveal his beautiful body clad only in the briefest of loincloths. Then – tearing at the bandage that covered his 'Melot Wound' he sang out, at the top of his incredible voice: "Hahei! Mein Blut, lustig nun fliesse!" And it appeared that blood gushed from the reopened wound. It was a brilliantly timed bit of stagecraft. He had, in fact, pressed a gelatin capsule containing stage blood against his side. Then he opened his arms wide to show the audience his crimson palms. Holding this shocking evocation of Christ Crucified, the nearly naked hero exults in the flowing of his life's blood and ecstatically proclaims that his deliverer has arrived to extinguish the torch once and for all. Holding the stentorian high note at the climax of the phrase– "Die Leuchte – ha! Die leuchte verlischt! Zu ihr! Zu Ihr!" He rushes to the death he has been courting from the beginning. Alma Angstrom made one more wise choice for the evening: Before kissing Tristan's dead lips and singing her sublime Liebestod over his body she discreetly covered his near nudity with her cloak.
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But five thousand Opera lovers had seen Robert Hoffmann's gorgeous body and never could the sight be forgotten. When the curtain closed on the final tableau there was an interval of profound silence during which I whispered to my newfound companion of whom I had grown rather fond: "Would you like to commit suicide with me?" Immediately he replied: "Good idea. That sort of thing is best done with an amiable companion. But could you give me a rain check? I have to do Mass in the morning." He said 'Do Mass' the way some people say 'Do lunch.' "If you can't commit suicide with me tonight then I'm afraid I must go backstage and assume my new role as the Devil's Dresser." "Don't let me detain you, my good man. We must, all of us, do our duty." Then the silence was broken by wild applause and screams of "BRAVO!" I could not get through the crowd that filled his dressing room and spilled out into the corridor. Flashbulbs blinded me! Pandemonium! Even Alma Angstrom herself, still in full makeup and costume, was struggling to get through the crush of bodies to make contact with the new sensation. And the new sensation sat before his mirror wearing only the string bikini he had put on under his midnight blue silk suit. He saw me in the crowd. And by way of summons he extended toward me a jar of cold cream which was his way of indicating that it was now my duty to remove his makeup while he absorbed the adulation of the multitudes. I fought my way through the hysterical throng to assume my duties as the great Robert Hoffmann's dresser. I had to tune it out – all of it – to smear cold cream on that classic profile. And erase Tristan's tragic mask.
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"Tomorrow – tomorrow," sighed the overnight sensation as he waved his adulators aside. "I am available to the press in my suite at the Ansonia at eleven A.M. tomorrow. I shall be prepared to answer all your questions at that time. For now, I must have peace and rest. I am sure you understand that I am exhausted. Please take your leave of me until tomorrow – tomorrow – Ah! My incomparable Isolde! Let me kiss you!" He had the political tact to kiss his renowned costar and tell her how honored he was to sing Wagner's noble work with her on this extraordinary occasion. And as the throng slowly thinned out there was the general manager, falling all over himself, offering Mr. Hoffmann the entire Wagnerian repertoire for all the seasons to come, including any other heroic tenor roles the artist would be willing to sing. "Tomorrow – tomorrow – for now I am like the deep sea diver who must enter the decompression chamber and remain for a spell until he can safely rise to the surface again." "I quite understand. Tomorrow then. But we must talk. We must plan your engagements. You are the greatest Heldentenor since the prime of Paul Kleist. Out! Out everybody! Give Mr. Hoffmann space to – how did you put it? – decompress?" "It is only a metaphor." "Goodnight and farewell until tomorrow."
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CHAPTER XV His second career had numbered days. He remained in great form through one full season, topping himself with each appearance. It was on the Spring tour that he began to dissipate. He acquired one of those underground booklets that listed most of the gay bars in the major cities across the country. Night after night in city after city he drank too much, smoked too much, and fucked too much. When I tried to caution him he laughed and declared that he was making up for lost time. He seemed oblivious if not indifferent to the fact that time was running out. I understood and identified with his compulsion even as I held him in contempt for it: Drinking, smoking, and fucking had become more important to him than his singing. One night in Memphis while singing Tristan he cracked on a high note. It should have been a warning sign. But he continued his excesses unabatedly. It was unfortunate that Dr. Anselmo could not come with us on the tour for he was the one man who might have kept his creation under control. He began to put on weight and each additional pound rendered him less attractive. By the time we got to Dallas his deterioration was alarming. The music critic for the Dallas Times Herald wrote that he looked and sounded like Paul Kleist in his decline! His sexual interest in me began to wane as he partook of the smorgasbord of available young men in bar after bar in city after city. He took perverse pride in his ability to introduce his transient partners to the dark thrills of sado-masochism. By the time we got to New Orleans I had become his procurer. He never approached a man in a bar. They always approached him. He would sit surrounded by admirers who had attended his performance. But his attention would fix on some darkly handsome holdout across the room. Then it would be my duty to approach the stranger and say
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to him: "My friend, the great Robert Hoffmann, would like to buy you a drink." At first he took his tricks back to our hotel. But after a time he wanted to see how many he could turn in one night. So it was sex in the men's room or sex in the alley way behind the bar. Or both! He liked to have me watch. To make me jealous. But he couldn't make me jealous because I had fallen out of love with him. And I told him so during one of our increasingly violent quarrels: "I loved you twice," I said. "I loved you when you were Bobby. And I loved you again when you were singing like an angel. But now there is nothing left of you to love. Look at yourself. You're a mess. And your voice is in shreds." That statement cost me two of my front teeth. SM sex was one thing. Being punched in the face was something else. I vowed to leave him. Time and again. But I couldn't leave him as long as he was alive. Nor could I kill him. Nor could I kill myself. I simply didn't have it in me. Nor could I hate him. For hate is too close to love. I wanted him to die. I wanted to watch him die, knowing as I did that there was nothing left of me except my cold, dead, dreadful attachment to him. Finally, there came the night he took the wrong guy up the alley. It was all so quick and anti-climactic. The guy was one of those homophobic psychos who let themselves be picked up by gays just for the opportunity to murder them. Bobby Paul died from getting his throat cut from ear to ear. All of this happened over four decades ago. In all that time I have not been able to free myself from feelings of despair and hopelessness. Most people feel that human beings cannot live without hope. I have survived to tell you that some people manage. THE END
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