Posting for Thursday, October 21, 2010
Kurt, who has killed a fellow bath house goer in a moment of rage, is now on the run, hoping he can flee Seattle and get back to New York undetected.
Kurt kept looking behind his shoulder in the security line at the airport the next morning, tossed and turned on the four hour flight back, thanking God he had no Chatty Cathy next to him, and was still wary when he arrived at La Guardia. He took some over-the-counter sleep stuff to get through the night, and the next day at work when people asked him what had happened to his face, he replied with a grin, “Walked into a door, and no, I was sober at the time.” He wore his reading glasses all day. They were great at covering things up.
That stupid, worthless queen had had every right to kick him in the face. He had crossed the line. He knew that. Now what?
That night, Mickey called – “so what’s the cock count for this trip?” – but Kurt let the machine take it. He waited until the next morning to call Mickey so he could just leave a message that he was back and O.K. without having to talk. He didn’t want to talk.
At work that day, when the girls were out for lunch, Kurt combed the Seattle paper websites, straight and gay. “The Bathhouse Murder” had made front page news – the guy had been a 26 year old flight attendant who worked for American Airlines – but it didn’t sound like they had much to go on.
Feeling a bit better, he gave a quick call to Mickey at work and offered a three minute, censored rundown of the weekend. They’d talk more next week when they met for dinner.
It wasn’t until Kurt got home that night from an eternity day that he realized something was different. That bum who had been his best buddy for weeks was gone.
“Oh, it happened while you were away,” explained some unnamed neighbor from the first floor whom he ran into that weekend. “A bunch of kids ganged up on him in the alley – beat the hell out of him. Think they took him to Bellevue – you know – no money.”
It took awhile to find the guy at the hospital but Kurt’s ID from Manhattan Central gave him entrée to records and people the average person wouldn’t have and finally he found him – Joseph Waslo – on a general floor, with two broken arms and a dislocated shoulder. They had cleaned him up – haircut, shave – and Kurt’s immediate reaction as he saw him lying there so helpless in that bed was a twitch in his dick.
“What are you doing here?” said the guy defensively.
“Well, if you can be in my face every morning and night,” joked Kurt, “I can be in yours.”
He could see this handsome guy with the dimpled chin was tearing up.
“So, when are they kicking you out?” said Kurt, trying to change the subject.
“Soon – they’re sending me to one of those shelters. I – I was in one of them once,” stammered Joe. “I - I can’t deal with it –“
“Well, then you’re coming home with me,” said Kurt confidently.
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Just til you’re back on your feet. Then, whether you like it or not, I’m going to find you a job. Enough with the street already.”
“By the way, what happened to you?” said Joe, staring at his black-eye. “Looks like you walked into a brick wall.”
“You might say that,” said Kurt.
The next night, they had tuna casserole and Kurt fed Joe like a baby. He liked the way he was helpless, so dependent on him just to eat or even take a piss. And he had a nice, veiny, uncut dick.
“You know, I was like you once,” said Joe as Kurt cleared the table.
“What do you mean?”
“I used to live in Bay Ridge. Had a nice job – a Park Avenue accountant for a big law firm – pretty wife, little girl.” Just reminiscing brought a slight smile to his face.
“So what happened?” said Kurt, taken back by the guy’s candor.
“We were the typical American family – the up-to-your-ass-in-debt generation. $27,000 to be exact. So I started stealing from the cookie jar – the corporate cookie jar – you know, us accountants know all the tricks. Til one day they caught me. Lost my job, ended up in prison for a year and a half.” His smile was gone. “My wife left me – never saw my girl again. And after I got out, no one wanted to hire me. Would you hire a thief? That’s when the street started looking mighty attractive.”
Kurt sat down and gave Joe a sip of his beer.
“Funny how your life can change in a blink,” said Joe.
“Yea,” said Kurt, “funny.”
“Mind giving me a bath? After the hospital, I started getting used to actually wanting to feel clean again.”
Kurt tried to hide his erection under his baggy shorts as he soaped up Joe’s lean, tight body in the tub, but sensed Joe had caught sight of his bulging crotch.
“Look, I gotta be honest with you,” stammered Kurt. “Please, it’s not why I took you in – it’s just that …”
“You like guys,” said Joe with a grin.
“How – how did –“
“Oh, I saw you bring a few guys back with you on weekends – good lookers, I have to admit – never any girls.”
Kurt said nothing but continued lathering up Joe’s back.
“So why did you take me in?” said Joe casually. “After all, up to last week, you treated me like shit, just like everybody else.”
“Consider it my civic duty. End of story.”
Suddenly, Joe stood up, facing Kurt. Kurt was surprised to see he had gotten aroused too.
“It ain’t what you think,” said Joe all flustered. “It’s just that it’s been awhile and –”
“You know, “said Kurt, unable to turn away, “I’ve never blown a straight guy before – at least I don’t think I have.”
“Well,” said Joe, “there’s a first time for everything and sure as shit I can’t jack myself off with these two phone poles,” gesturing to his arms in casts. “Consider it only common courtesy.”
Kurt was surprised himself how much he enjoyed Joe’s dick, first in his hand, then in his mouth – it seemed like an eternity since he had enjoyed – really enjoyed – a guy’s manhood in his face. And it didn’t take Joe long to come. He tried to pull away but Kurt kept going, swallowing every drop.
That night, they slept in the same bed in their boxer shorts, and while Joe just lay there, he didn’t push Kurt away when he snuggled next to him for awhile until they both turned away and fell asleep.
They were there when Kurt came home from work the next day. Two detectives talking to Joe.
Are you Kurtis Malvin?” said the older of the pair.
“Yes.” Kurt sat down at the kitchen table, dazed and quiet. Joe looked puzzled.
“According to our investigations, you were in Seattle on October 9. You stayed at the Manor House on Broadway East.”
Kurt nodded his head.
“And that night you visited Men’s Den, a bath house frequented by homosexuals.”
“Kurt, what – what’s this all about?” said Joe blindly.
“Is this your – your partner?” interjected the younger detective.
“No, man, a friend. He’s straight,” said Kurt.
The old guy continued.
“One of the patrons that night – the same night you were there – was brutally murdered in his room. His spinal cord was severed, apparently in some kind of struggle.”
Kurt said nothing.
“Where did you get that injury to your face?” asked the young one. “It looks rather recent.”
“Walked into a brick wall,” replied Kirk in a monotone.
“Mr. Malvin, we’ve checked out most of men who were there that night at this Men’s Den,” continued the old one. “You were the only one from outside Seattle. And the only one who left minutes after the incident. There was blood on the floor of the room and also on the victim but it didn’t belong to the deceased and, so far, none of the other patrons that night who we investigated match.”
Kurt said nothing.
“You need to come with us – we’ll need a sample of your blood for DNA analysis – ”
“And if he refuses?” said Joe protectively.
“Oh, he can contact his attorney if he likes. But it looks like the Seattle police will be charging him with first degree manslaughter at this point.”
Kurt threw the house keys on the table. Then, expressionless, he looked Joe in the eye.
“Have one of the neighbors call my hospital for you tomorrow. Ask for Social Work. Susan Teller – say I told you to call – she’ll arrange for a nurses aide to come in and see you’re O.K. And if I don’t come back right away, the mortgage and maintenance on this place is paid up for the next three months, so stay here as long as you like.”
“Shit, don’t worry about me right now,” said Joe, dumbfounded. “What about you?”
Kurt laughed.
“This is what happens when you go searching for bad cock.”
Then he nodded to the detectives that he was ready to leave.
Tomorrow: The Beginning of a three part series, “The U.S. Leather Scene: On Life Support?”
