Kevin Connery waved good-bye to the other members of the group and swaggered up West End Avenue. He was a big man, burly almost, and his solid figure cut an easy swath through the strengthening wind. His red hair picked up the beginning drops of the light drizzle and glistened in the night like a bobbling lamp seeking companionship.
And it was indeed companionship that Kevin was seeking. That, and something more. For although he hadn’t shown it during the session, Kevin had been much affected by Lisa’s vivid description of her dream. The image of the giant male organ she had described burned in Kevin’s brain. From it came a tightness in his groin and his skin tingled with a hungry heat. He knew there would be no sleep for him this night until he found satisfaction. And so Kevin went on the prowl.
Not haphazardly, however. Kevin knew exactly where to go to find what he wanted. He took the cross-town bus at Ninety-sixth Street and rode it all the way over to the end of the line at the East River Drive. Here he strode slowly through the gloom under the overpass of the Drive and searched patiently.
His sharp eyes missed nothing as he investigated the area. Here was an old pansy propped against a pillar, his hands moving lazily over the half-buttoned fly of his pants, his sunken eyes sizing Kevin up and gleaming with an invitation. There was a fat fruit, rouged and lipsticked, hands propped under breasts that belonged on a woman and jiggling them, his smile a garish coquetry aimed at Kevin. Over there was a slender young tough, standing half in the pool of light thrown by the streetlamp, hips and buttocks round and plump under ultra-tight chinos, his willingness communicated by turning away and rotating his lower body suggestively. And still farther along, deep in the shadows, a well-dressed, middle-aged man lying side-by-side with a curly-haired pretty boy and caressing him; a grizzled, hard-bitten merchant seaman pushing the head of a college boy wearing a fraternity sweater toward his lap; a hoarsely breathing man with a crewcut, horn-rimmed glasses and a London Fog raincoat over his Brooks Brothers suit pressing eager lips against the mouth of a very young sailor as if trying to suck the very youth from him.
This was the meeting place for knowing homosexuals — this week. Next week it might be changed. And as if by magic these men of the half-world would know of the change and go to the new trysting spot.
Finally, Kevin saw something which appealed to him. Seated on a park bench just under the overpass and looking out over the river was a clean-cut boy in a zelan jacket. He had fine, sensitive features and his curly hair was cropped short. Kevin sat down next to him, and the boy kept staring out toward Welfare Island, ignoring him.
Kevin smiled to himself. He didn’t like the obvious ones, the over-eager ones. Aside from anything else, they were the ones most likely to try to roll you. Jack- rolling fairies was a way of life for some young hoodlums, and no matter what homosexual acts they committed, the fact that they did it with an eye toward’s stealing a fairy’s money was their justification, the balm they spread over their conscience to prove they hadn’t really enjoyed it, the proof they offered themselves that they weren’t really queer. Experience had taught Kevin to spot this type and avoid them. But this lad beside him on the park bench now seemed a different sort.
Kevin bided his time, letting his presence establish itself. When it seemed taken for granted that neither of them was going to move, he spoke. “Sure it’s after bein’ a miserable night, isn’t it?” he said.
The boy turned, obviously attracted by Kevin’s Irish accent. “Yes, and it looks like it’s getting worse,” he agreed.
“I’d think a young lad like yourself would be home in bed instead o’ out here bravin’ the elements,” Kevin observed.
“My roommate and I got bored. So we decided to come out for a walk.”
“Oh, so you have a roommate, do you?” Kevin looked around. “But where would he be?”
“He-—met someone. They got to talking about African sculpture, and my roommate took him back to our place to show him some pieces we have there.”
“Met someone, did he? Well, ’twas no doubt an old friend,” Kevin said teasingly.
“I don’t know.” The boy shrugged. “What difference does it make?” His eyes stared wide and innocently at Kevin.
Chuckling to himself, Kevin moved closer to him on the bench. “Why, none at all, of course,” he said softly. “Sure, an’ it’s nobody’s business if two gentlemen wish to discuss works o’ art in the privacy of the digs o’ one of them. Still, it does seem a shame that you’re left out here in the cold whilst they’re all snug an’ warm in your quarters.”
“I don’t mind. I would only have been in the way,” he told Kevin frankly. “You know, two’s company an’ —“
“Three’s a crowd, to be sure. But four’s a party often enough, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well then—?” Kevin let the hint hang in the air.
“Are you interested in African sculpture?” the boy asked after considering a moment.
“Sure an’ it’s been me lifetme passion.”
“Then perhaps you’d like to—?”
“Now, lad, that’s rightly kind o’ you. An’ it’s glad I’ll be to be gettin’ out o’ this wet night, too."
The boy got up, and Kevin threw a comradely arm about his shoulders as they emerged from under the Drive and started crosstown. He turned south when they reached Park Avenue and led Kevin up to an imposing-looking building. “This is it,” he said.
“Well, now.” Kevin gave a low whistle. “Isn’t this a fancy. What would your name be anyway, lad? Rockefeller?”
“No.” The boy smiled. “It’s Bruce. Bruce Adams.”
“Well, Bruce Adams, I like the style o’ your habitat.”
“Thanks. Come on in.” He led Kevin past a doorman who tipped his cap to him and through an ornate lobby to a bank of elevators. “Hello, Albert,” he greeted the elevator operator, and they were whisked up to the eighth floor. The door was open, and the boy ushered Kevin inside.
Kevin stood in the foyer for a moment and admired the expanse of sunken living room before him. The furniture and draperies were quietly expensive, and the paintings and sculptures around the room were modern and in quiet good taste. Kevin peered at a Buffet seascape on the wall beside him and noted that it was an original.
“What will you have to drink?” The boy had crossed the room to a pine-paneled bar.
“Good Irish whiskey, of course. What else? That is if you have any.”
“We have it. On the rocks?”
“If you please.”
“Here you are.”
Kevin took the drink handed him and sipped at it appreciatively. “Ahh, ’tis like a breath o’ the auld sod.”
“Don’t you think you’re overdoing the blarney bit?” Bruce asked pleasantly enough.
“Now don’t be a skeptic. It’s not that I’m puttin’ you on. Bein’ Irish is part o’ me nature.”
“Do you really come from Ireland?” Bruce sat down beside him on the couch.
“Straight from Dublin, cross my heart. An’ it’s sorry I am if me brogue upsets you.”
“It doesn’t. I like it. I just thought you might be playing tricks on me. But I can see I was wrong.”
“That you were.” Kevin grew conscious of the heat of the boy’s leg pressed against his on the couch. He returned the pressure. “Where’s this roommate o’ yours an’ his new-found friend?” he asked, taking it slowly. “Do you suppose they went out again?”
“No. They’re probably in the bedroom,” Bruce answered matter of factly.
“Oh. Well then, we won’t want to be disturbin’ them, will we?”
“No,” Bruce said very softly, turning his face to Kevin. “We won’t.”
Kevin leaned over and kissed the boy. Bruce’s lips were soft, warm and eager, a girl’s lips parting to a man’s searching tongue. The boy’s arms slid around Kevin’s husky shoulders, the fingers seeking out the muscles under the shirt and kneading them. Kevin stroked the boy’s hips and flanks, admiring their slender sleekness.