Kevin insisted they go up to the hot-tarred roof of their brownstone to “lay out,” as he put it. While there, they fraternized with a friendly young couple of chubs, Mr. and Mrs. Something Polish to whom Guy had rented out the top floor. They were newlyweds and so much in love they couldn’t keep their paws off each other. He was in pest control, he said, and she was a baker, which meant she had to get up at four in the morning. She worked for the French baker down the street and brought home very American carrot cupcakes onto which she had piped orange and green frosting.
They were always leaving a baguette on Guy’s doorstep or a cherry cheesecake, once she’d discovered that was Kevin’s favorite. With the coldhearted discipline of a farmer drowning kittens, Guy systematically sprayed the baked goods with detergent so they’d be inedible. “You’re incredibly sweet, Dorothy,” Guy overheard Kevin say on the landing, “but we’re models and we can’t indulge,” he wailed. Guy would never have said anything: He didn’t want people to think of them as Martians.
Pierre-Georges came by and treated Kevin frostily. He kept speaking to Guy in French, using the most difficult argot (pieu for “bed” and tignasse for “hair”) just in case Kevin had picked up ordinary French in school.
“Speak in English,” Guy said.
“Honestly, I don’t mind, you guys can knock yourselves out with your French. Honestly. I’ll just read a magazine.”
Guy knew that Pierre-Georges would take Kevin’s politeness as a form of wimpiness (mièverie). Pierre-Georges had been warned not to say anything that would give away Guy’s real age.
That night in bed Kevin confessed that when he was twelve he’d gotten his hands on a copy of Blueboy. And he’d jerked off to a guy named Ralph. “And he looked just like you, but of course he couldn’t have been, because that was seven years ago. But I swear he looked just like you! It’s weird! Same little jug ears, same eyes exactly the same shape, same small hands, same …”—here he lowered his voice—“dick.”
Oh, no, Guy thought, of all the pictures that might have surfaced and imprinted him, it had to be mine, the one that sneaky American photographer talked me into and swore never to show anyone.
“But it looks just the way you do now,” and Kevin sheepishly brought out from under the mattress a dog-eared copy of Blueboy, the pages limp from use and stiff with semen. “Doesn’t it?” And he held the picture up and thrust it into Guy’s face. “Or am I crazy or what?”
“There is a resemblance.”
“If you only knew how much cum that photo cost me! Gallons and gallons.”
Kevin blushed, not one of his deep, cranberry blushes, but a hawthorn-pink one. “I used to fantasize I’d call up the Blueboy offices in Miami and I’d ask for the art director, his name is printed here, Gabriel Sanchez, and I’d say I was calling on behalf of Ralph’s mother who was dying, and I had to have Ralph’s telephone number immediately. But then I thought that probably wasn’t even his real name. And maybe Blueboy didn’t even deal with him directly. The photo is credited to Big One Studio. They probably just sold it to Blueboy.”
Kevin lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. In the slanting evening light coming through the window and against the crisp white pillowcase he looked even more tanned. Suddenly his eyes snapped open. “And go figure, now I have a Ralph all of my own, my very own Ralph.”
Guy smiled. “You make me sound like a Ralph Doll.”
Kevin laughed. “You’re my little Ralph Doll.” He unbuttoned Guy’s shirt. “And I can dress you in any outfit I like or undress you completely.” His small fingers undid the buttons of Guy’s 501s and he tugged his jeans down. “And I can bend my Ralph Doll in any position I like.” He rolled Guy over onto his side, folded the upper knee up, and straightened the lower leg, pushed his upper shoulder to the mattress, and then wriggled out of his own underpants, releasing his hard cock. A moment later he was fucking Guy, holding him by the sharp pelvis bones and pulling him back onto his dick. “Do you like that, Ralph?”
“Yes. I. Do,” Guy said in a robot voice. “Very. Much,” he said in staccato bursts.
“This is too weird, but I like it,” Kevin said. The heat of the afternoon made him sweat, which matted his hair down on his forehead, as Guy noticed when he looked back. Guy wondered if he could tell Kevin to thrust a bit more, but no, that would sap his confidence. Better show him how it was done when it was Guy’s turn. The boy just rocked like a Roto-Rooter and came with a terrible war whoop.
“My little Ralph,” Kevin whispered into Guy’s ear. It was the first time he was amorous after he came, and Guy took that as progress. Nor did Kevin go, “Ew-w,” when he pulled his penis out and it was brown and smelly, and that, too, Guy considered a rite de passage.
Guy invited Kevin to the Spanish restaurant on the corner. The baron was there with a big muscular German named Hans whose head was shaved and who had a silver stud through his right eyebrow. He was wearing black Doc Martens and skinny jeans and a bicycle chain instead of a belt. “I thought I might see you here, Guy, in our old neighborhood. What a lovely companion you have — Kevin? So honored to meet you. This is Hans — he’s East German, so his English isn’t very good. But he’s good at lots of other things.”
Guy felt intensely uncomfortable standing there. He thought, If I shouted “Fire!” and pulled Kevin away, I might save the day, but that won’t happen. Guy felt he was walking toward a fatal accident.
“I hear our old friend died and left you yet another house.” He looked at Guy from head to toe. “How do you do it? You don’t look a day older than you did all those years ago. Gene therapy? The sperm of infant lads?” (And his glance took in Kevin.) “And don’t tell me you got rid of that virile Colombian.”
“He’s in prison — for forgery.”
“Poor thing.” Édouard didn’t want to know any more about what was unpleasant. Once more a complete survey of Guy’s person. “They really should exhibit you at the Smithsonian as one of the wonders of the age. How many years ago did I meet you?”
“I rarely think about the past,” Guy said coldly.
“Quite right, too, when you have such a promising present,” and this with another head-to-toe look at Kevin. “Guy, you look just as fresh as the day I met you.”
“Thank you,” Guy said. Guy was looking at Hans’s big, lumpy crotch; everything about him — his wide stance, his direct stare, his bald, missile-shaped head — spelled Big Cock.
“And how is our house? Comfortable?”
“Yes. As always. You and Hans must come by someday for drinks.”
“Definitely,” piped Kevin politely. “You’re always welcome.”
“What a dear child,” the baron said with a mocking smile, and he actually patted Kevin on the cheek with his gem-studded, age-spotted hand. “Don’t let him lead you astray, my child. He’s such a wicked man, woof!” and the baron pretended to shiver with delight.
After they sat down they both studied their menus, and finally Guy said, “You don’t even want to know.”
“I feel I don’t know you at all.”
“Don’t you think what we have is real and solid?”
Kevin looked at him with tears in his eyes. “I want to believe that. Jesus, I want to. But how can I trust you? I don’t know what to think now.”
This was the first time Guy had heard Kevin say “Jesus” and the way he said it sounded like a genuine cry from the heart. Guy thought that if he lost Kevin, at least he’d have had one perfect month from him, and what did you ever have with another person anyway? Certainly not much more. And breaking up with him would simplify his life. He wouldn’t have to lie anymore to Andrés.