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INTRODUCTION:

Several years ago, I sent a copy of my autobiography, Pissing In The Ocean, to Edmund Miller, who wrote Erotica and Pornography, the article in The Gay and Lesbian Literary Heritage which mentions me. He kindly opined that my opus was as not ready for publication, but suggested that I should incorporate bits and pieces of my life into a work of fiction:

Thank you, Edmund. ALL OF ME is the result.

It is still a work-in-progress, so I will post each chapter when it's honed and polished. At a certain point, I will offer either PDF downloads or CDs of the entire novel for a nominal price. Meanwhile, let me know what you think. dirk@dirkvanden.net

presents

ALL OF ME

The Dirty Book Murders
A Gay Romance

by Dirk Vanden

All I can give you is me.
I’m all I’ve got.

Chapter 1 - The Letter

IT ARRIVED IN THE MAIL that morning, the first Monday of June, my birthday, along with several envelopes that looked like greeting cards, plus the usual advertising brochures. An innocent-looking, plain white 9x12 envelope, like they sell in office-supply stores, like millions of people send each other in the mail every day. I started to put it aside, to open a bill, but then I noticed it had my own return address on a computer-printed label, up in the left-hand corner. A matching label was almost perfectly centered on the front of the envelope.

Richard Vernor
a.k.a. Jake Vance
a.k.a. Hank O’Toole
5555 Winding Way,
Fair Oaks, CA 95628

I put it on the kitchen table, then sat and studied it for several minutes, with all sorts of wild ideas bubbling up in my head. I was quite sure I hadn’t sent it to myself – unless I was going crazy! That didn’t seem likely – although I wasn’t sure I’d know I was crazy if I was crazy. Could it be some kind of Terrorist thing? When I tried to think of some logical reason why anyone like me would be getting a mail-bomb or Anthrax, I decided I was being far too paranoid. I laughed and opened the envelope -- very carefully, I’ll admit. But no explosion, no white powder. Worse! My heart started pounding the instant I realized what the envelope contained.

Spread out on the table were 24 torn pieces of a page ripped from one of my novels. I recognized the page almost immediately, even though I hadn’t seen it in, what, 20 years? It was simple to put it together, like a jigsaw puzzle. Page 29/30 of TOO BIG, my third published novel, written thirty-some-odd years ago, and long-since out of print — as far as I knew. Page 30 was the last few lines of Chapter 1:

I began to wonder what would happen if he didn’t pull his enormous piece of meat out of my throat and let me breathe?

Suddenly he swallowed my cock all the way down and plunged his own cock up to its hairy hilt and made a sound like a strangled bull, as his huge prick pulsed and I could feel his hot cum squirting down my throat as my own cock exploded into him!

Cumming I wondered if you could cum in the afterlife?

? ? ?

ITS TIME TO FIND OUT!
PREPARE FOR JUDGMENT!!
JESUS HATES COCKSUCKERS!!!

Too Big had been the third in a series of novels, published in the late sixties and early seventies, about Gay Mystery Sleuth “Hank O’Toole, Private Dick!” Every novel began with the same first paragraph: “My name is Henry, which is long for Hank, and I‘m a Private Detective, hence the moniker ‘Private Dick!’ on my business cards. And, yes, I always use the exclamation mark! Damn right!”
The New York Native reviewer wrote: “Hank’s initials spell H.0.T. and HOT he is! Hank O’Toole is a dream come true for some of us who are queer for men, not queens! Hank O’Toole definitely is not a queen. Although he deigns to bed one or two, now and then, here and there, in his endless search for Truth and Right! ‘Hey,’ Hank says, ‘to each his own. There’s room on the planet for all kinds of us.’ Ah-men, Hank! Ah-men!”

Too Big, Hank’s third sleuthing job, had him tracking down a serial-killer of Gay men, who was going around San Francisco, murdering cocksuckers by choking them to death with his very big cock down their throats. As Hank put it: “So, I boned-up on deep-throating – practiced on Dobbin – and found, to my pleasant surprise – and his! – that I could actually go all the way down and still breathe around one of the biggest! ‘What can I say? I’m a big guy. Big throat too, I guess. Okay?’”

The book had been written as part of an explosion of Gay porn, back in the late 60's and early 70's. I’d had seven books published by a company in San Diego called Figleaf Classics: Too Bad, Too Good, Too Big, Too Much, Too Soon, Too Hot and Too Late, in what Figleaf cleverly called “The TOO Saga.” All with Hank O’Toole looking for a different Gay murderer, or murderer of Gays, seducing every suspect until he finds the bad guy in the last chapter.

“Total jackoff, from beginning to end. Each chapter a gusher!” So said The Advocate. “No prize-winning prose here, but the TOO books are all very well-written. If you know what I mean.”

“Fag-Hot Sex” was what the publisher wanted – insisted upon – nothing deep, except the penetrations - and that's what I gave them: Gay porn, A.K.A. "Homo-Erotica." That’s all it was at the time. That’s all it had been for 30 years. Until now.

All of those memories went racing through my mind as I contemplated the jigsaw puzzle on the table, and tried to fathom what it might mean. I kept looking at those three blood-red sentences.

ITS TIME TO FIND OUT!
PREPARE FOR JUDGMENT!!
JESUS HATES COCKSUCKERS!!!

Someone was very angry at me for writing that book and was trying to scare me. Okay! Mission accomplished! I was scared! Someone who didn’t like me had my home address, my real name and my old Gay pseudonym and had somehow confused me with my main character. It had to be a man, a woman would never do such a thing. A woman would never read the book in the first place. Some "Ex-Gay” Born-Again Christian had somehow found one of my out-of-print books, and decided he didn’t like it. It or me.

I started wondering if I should call the police. Who would I call? What would I say? “Hi, there. Someone just sent me a page from one of my own books, all torn up. With a threatening note at the bottom”

“I see. . . And what sort of book was this, Mr. . . . ? What did you say your name was?”

Surely they had caller-ID, they’d know what my name was! I did not want to get the police involved in this. I had a local reputation that could be smeared by the wrong people.

As I was trying to decide how worried to get, the phone warbled. My answering machine picked it up: “You have reached the Vernor residence, please leave a message.” Beep!

“Oh ...uh, hi! I’m sorry,” stammered a young male voice. “I was, uh, hoping to catch you ... I called your office, but they said you were probably home. Look, I need to talk to you ...about this...I mean, I just got....” He hesitated for a long moment. “Oh, look, maybe you better call me when you get back. Please call back, this could be very important.” He left a number which compared with the one on my own Caller-ID, which identified the place he was calling from: THE RIVER CITY GAYZETTE, “The Voice of Gay Sacramento”. I run one of the ads for my Real Estate Company in each weekly edition:

“VERNOR ESTATES –
You’re Almost Home!
Let us help you find it.
We understand your special needs.”

This was surely about my ad, and I was in no mood to talk about advertising at the moment. I was much too absorbed in and worried about the mystery in front of me. I’d call him back later.
I’d just started my second cup of coffee when the telephone warbled again, and the same male voice said “Listen, it’s me again. I have reason to think we both may be in serious danger, so this could be really important, Okay? So Please, please call me as soon as.....”

I grabbed the phone. “Hang on, I’m here. Who is this?”

“Oh!” He gave a dramatic sigh of relief. “I am so glad you’re there! This is so scary. Okay, hi, my name is David Allen and I write stuff for The Gayzette...the voice of Gay...but you know that! We run your ads.” He made a noise like a small wounded animal. “I just found that out! You know? I mean all this time, I’ve seen Vernor Estates, you know, your ad, and your signs out there hanging on all those white lopsided crucifixes, and you’re Rick Vernor, and it turns out we’ve actually met, but I had no idea who you really were until this really scary letter arrived...this morning...here at work.”
It took a moment to process all that he’d just said. When it made sense, I said “Oh, shit!"

“Do you know about the letter?”

“I got one, too. This morning”

“Oh, shit!” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay, tell me about your letter.”

“Well, it was just this big white, you know, business-size envelope, but it had your name on the return address label, Rick Vernor, and I recognized it. But under that it said ‘a.k.a. Jake Vance.’ And then under that, it said ‘Hank O’Toole!’ Blew my mind! I mean, that’s the first time I made the connection. You’re Jake Vance!” He paused for a moment, then demanded: “You are, aren’t you?”

I laughed and said “Yes. I’m Jake Vance. Or I was...”

“Good! Anyway, inside was just this single page torn out of one of your books, the fourth one, I think, Too Big, with some very scary stuff written in the margins. At first I thought it was some kind of publicity thing, you know, like you’d just published your new book and you were sending notes like these to every Gay newspaper. And then I wondered, maybe you really were going to murder me for some reason and this was your way of warning me. But that’s crazy! Isn’t it? And it wasn’t you who sent it, was it?”

“No,” I said. “I got one, too. Besides, why would I want to kill you? I don’t even know you!”
“I know,” he said. “I mean, you do but you don’t! Know me, I mean!” He laughed uncomfortably. “I thought, maybe he’s crazy, going around murdering Gay newspaper reporters. I mean, some of them need to be, you know? But seriously, could we get together about this? Not on the phone?”

“Yes,” I told him. “As soon as you want to.”

“Now,” he said quickly. “I’m not doing anything here.”

“Fine with me. It’s my day off.” It was Monday morning, the beginning of the “Realtor’s Weekend” (Mondays and Tuesdays are our Saturdays and Sundays). “You know where I live?”

He chuckled. “Your address is right here on my envelope, on Winding Way in Fair Oaks, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ve always wanted to live on Winding Way,” he said, almost wistfully. “It always seemed so...ou know, appropriate?”

I laughed. “Well, maybe it is. Come out and see. You know how to get here?”

He laughed. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I was born and raised right here in River City. I’m a gen-u-ine native! No, really, I’ve been up and down on Winding Way more times than I can count! And that’s not just a pun. Anyway, we had a fund-raiser party for the paper there – at your house – last summer. The Gayzette. Didn’t we?”

“Oh....yes,” I said, remembering the event, a year ago, that Kat, my office manager, had arranged as good public relations for us, with both the Gay community and "da Fuz" as Kat calls the police. "Yes we did, I remember. I hosted a reception for your editor, Whatshername? Judith....”

“Judy Shapiro.”

“Shapiro, yes.. She got some kind of award, didn’t she?”

“It was a ‘Good Citizen’ thingy from the cops. A plaque she still has on her office wall. Presented by Officer Smiley himself." He made a soft humming sound. "For a series of editorials saying basically that Gays and Cops have got to get along. Duh! The money we raised went to fight Lesbian Brest Cancer. Anyway, that’s where I met you.” He laughed. “Except I had no idea who you were! I mean, besides this real-estate-dude who had a really cool house on the street I’d always wanted to live on. I had no idea you were really Jake Vance! Listen, one thing, I gotta tell you: I am your number one fan! No, really! I’ve got every one of your books! Hey, would you autograph ..? Oh, shit! I won’t have them with me, will I? Would you, sometime, you know, autograph them for me?”

“Of course. Hey, You wouldn’t happen to be ‘D. Litel,’ would you?”
“Who?”

“Dee ‘Lye-tel’ or ‘Little.’ I’m not sure which. L-I-T-E-L.”

“Delight-ul?”

“Initial D. D, like David. Your name.”

“Why would I be him?”

“He claimed to be my ‘number one fan.’ His name could have been David. Never mind. It was years ago. I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in about twenty minutes, more or less, depending on traffic.”

“Okay.”

“Hey!” I called into the phone. “It was the third, not the fourth.”

“What?”

“Book.”

“What?”

“Too Big was my third book.”

“Oh,” he muttered. “Right.” After a brief silence, he said “Oh! Right! Okay, see you soon.”

“Okay.”

As I was hanging up, I heard him shout: “Ooh-kay! ”

***

Chapter 2 - David

I showered quickly, decided against shaving, then dressed in my well-worn, gardening Levi's and a faded blue sweat shirt. As I started out the door, I saw myself in the mirror, and laughed. Without thinking, I had dressed in my old "cruising outfit." I started out again, then stopped and stepped back in front of the mirror. “Happy Birthday!” I told myself. "You don't look at all bad for 60! Little bit of a belly there, but if you stand up straight and sucked in...." I laughed again and let my belly sag, and told my image "That phase of your life is over, old man!" My image sagged sadly. “Happy Birthday anyway.”

In the kitchen, I started fixing coffee, trusting that a real newspaper man would drink coffee by the gallon, even if that paper was Gay. The beans had just finished grinding when I heard the crunch of tires in gravel, from the turnaround in front of our house.

David Allen was not quite what I expected. I'd envisioned a young, enthusiastic, dedicated Gay-Journalism-Major from American River College or Sac State or some such. For a few moments I had even entertained the fantasy of a cheerleader type with pompoms sticking out of his skin-tight back pockets. Collegiate, at any rate. It was not to be.

He was closer to 30 than 20. Probably this side of that. He could have been rah-rah ten years ago. In fact, he probably could have played basketball or baseball ten years ago. Probably still could, for that matter. Slim and trim, fairly sexy. I always check out men's crotches upon first meeting; it's an old habit, dating from high school, and although I often deliberately try to not look, I usually do. I rarely see anything interesting, but occasionally I spy something worth fantasizing about - even though I long ago stopped actually doing what I fantasized about. David Allen was showing no basket, but had very large hands, and beautifully-sculpted thumbs. Six foot something - about my height - light brown hair, cut short to match his neatly-trimmed beard, which accentuated his jaw line, the beard more auburn than brown. And blue eyes! Lapis blue! There were even golden specks in his irises. He reminded me of someone - someone on television or in the movies, but I couldn't think who. Not exactly handsome - rugged - outdoorsy, like a hiker or mountain climber - certainly very attractive! I was sure he had no trouble scoring in the bars. An artist would have painted him naked. He wore tan cargo pants, and a faded blue t-shirt that proclaimed "I AM, THEREFORE I THINK!” above a drawing of Rodin's statue "The Thinker." Under that in smaller type, it read "Right now, I'm trying to think where I left my clothes last night."

His eyes met mine and he smiled broadly. "Hi, I'm David. Remember? We've already met. " He offered his hand and I shook it. He had a very firm handshake, and held my hand a tad longer than he needed to. Not that I objected. He grinned like a schoolboy up to mischief, then pulled his hand back. I backed away, put my hands behind me, and invited him in.

I had switched on the background music system earlier, and Rodrigo's Concerto de Aranjuez was playing. "Would you prefer some other music? Rock? Jazz?" I asked.

"Oh, no! I love this! Whatsisname? Romero, right? Pepe, right? No, I heard this years ago. He was the guy from that family of guitar players...Los Romeros...my mother had all their records. And Segovia's. And some other guy's. Back in the days of vinyl! Probably still has them, up in the attic. She loved the guitar. Played one herself, as a child. She used to make me copies on tapes I could play in my car. Or on my stereo in college. Mom's 'background music for my life.' I probably still have this on tape, somewhere. No, no, this takes me back! "

Walking through the front room, he paused and looked around. "Yeah, I remember this place. I told Jason I'd love to live here."

"Jason?"

"Jason...my..." he paused and shrugged, "my Significant Other. Isn't that a stupid name for it? My partner. My better half."

"Ah!" I said sympathetically. I couldn't help noticing that he hadn't called Jason his "lover." I was starting to remember David from the newspaper shindig, last year, but I couldn't remember anyone named Jason.

He turned away to study the titles in a bookcase and I studied his profile. He looked back and grinned. "What?"

"Sorry. I was just... Just trying to think who you look like?"

"Billy Bean."

"Who?"

"Mom thinks I look like 'Billy Beaner,' she calls him. Gay baseball player."

I shook my head. "I was thinking Farley Granger?"

"Who?"

"Strangers on a Train? Or what's his name in West Side Story?"

"Jason thinks I look like Hugh Grant, only he calls him 'Huge' Grant. Wishful thinking. I've decided that's who he fantasizes fucking him."

"Who's Hugh Grant?"

He tilted his head and made that wounded-animal sound. His expression clearly said “Old Man, you’re out of touch with reality! What rock did you crawl out from under? ”

"Actually, I think I look more like me than anyone else."

"I'm sorry, of course you do." Nothing wrong with that - I thought - but you know it, don't you?

I led him into the kitchen, which is for me the all-purpose room in any house. The kitchen was where you took care of Real Estate business and this kind of business.

He took an large white envelope from a backpack which he carried over one shoulder, dropped the pack beside his chair and put the envelope on the table. Big and white, with computer-printed labels, just like mine. Except that this one had his name in the address label: David Allen c/o The River City Gayzette. The return address, up in the left hand corner, was identical to the address label on my envelope. They'd obviously been printed at the same time.

"But why?" I asked him. "Why would he send the letter to you? I mean, I can see why he would send it to me. Or, at least, why I he's pissed off at me. He read the book and didn't like it! I have no idea at all what his 'reasons' are. I can guess, but I don't know. But why you? Why the Gay newspaper?"

"Maybe he wants publicity."

"For what?"

He shrugged. "For whatever he's planning to do. You haven't seen what he wrote." He
opened the envelope and withdrew the single page. 169/170. In one margin, in big red felt-tip ink it read:

DEATH TO COCKSUCKERS!
YOU ARE ABOMINATIONS!

IT IS THE LAW!

"Oh, shit!"

"Yeah!" He turned the page over. On the opposite side, in the same angry red printing:

REPENT AND YOU MAY YET BE SAVED.

I took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. "Just what I need!"

"What?" David asked. "To be saved?"

"No. To have some religious nut on my back for writing Gay fuck-books 30 years ago!"

He laughed. "Have you pissed off any Jehovah's Witnesses lately? Or Mormon Missionaries?"

I had started to measure the freshly-ground coffee. I laughed and almost spilled it.

"What?" he asked.

"I almost was a Mormon missionary."

"Oh, I know! I mean, I sort of figured that out from Too Good To be True. 'Come, come, ye Saints!' Was that a hoot? In that dirty old steam bath in Salt Lake City?" He hummed the beginning from Jaws. "Was it suicide or murder? Did the Bishop do it? Or his son, the missionary, or his son’s best friend, his mission-companion?"

I cringed, remembering the audacity of it. "I was pissed at Mormons' when I wrote that."

He laughed. "No shit?! I never would have guessed!"

I studied him for a moment, slightly dazed by his memory of my books. I'd never met anyone who knew them like he did. "Anyway, it was a really big deal for me, because that book ended up getting me officially kicked out of The Church."

"Really? Far Out! What happened?"

I finished measuring the coffee and started the drip, then leaned back against the cupboard, facing him. He sat on the edge of the table, facing me, our knees almost touching.

"Well, in 1969, The Advocate had a cover-story that turned out to be about my second cousin. One of my oldest cousin's sons, from Provo, good Mormon family, was called on a Mission. You know about missions?"

He nodded emphatically. "Oh, yeah. Go on."

"Well, he and his 'friend,' same age, 19 or 20, both good Mormon boys, both going to BYU, had both been called on missions but to different parts of the world. They went to their bishop together and told him they were in love with each other and really wanted to go on their missions together. They asked for his advice and guidance. He called them 'abominations in the sight of God,' condemned them to burn in Hell forever if they ever indulged in those sinful feelings. Too late, they already had. So they drove up Provo Canyon, and killed themselves — or each other. Both of them had hunting guns and both were dead when a deer-hunter found them. There was a note in their pickup. 'We are not abominations. God knows that.'

"Anyway, I was furious! I wrote Too Good To Be True and when it came out, I sent my old bishop a copy, along with a copy of the story from the Advocate, and requested my name be removed from their list of Saints, saying I didn't want to belong to a religion that caused men to kill themselves because they loved each other."

"Far out! Good for you!" He was looking at me with something like amazed admiration. "That I didn't know! That's perfect for the article! Did they excommunicate you?"

"What article? I demanded. "No, no, this is not for any article. I don’t want any publicty!"

"No problem!" he said quickly. "That was just newspaper talk." He paused as though trying to think of a better answer. "If I did write an article about you, that would be important. OK? Never mind. Go on, did they excommunicate you?"

I nodded. "Yes, but they don't call it that, only if they kick you out, for, like, say, exposing yourself to the little old ladies at Relief Society meetings. If you ask out, they ‘release’ you - from eternal servitude. I officially don't have to spend Eternity with Mormons. I still have the typewritten letter packed away somewhere. I framed it and hung it on the wall of our bathroom, up in Orangevale. When Ace died and I sold the house, I packed it away somewhere, but I don't remember where."

I gave him a blue mug to match his eyes, and chose a deep red one for myself, filled each cup, took the Amaretto Coffee-Mate from the refrigerator and splashed some into my cup. He nodded and said "Please," and I creamed his coffee for him. He grinned and thanked me.

"You really do know the books, don't you?" I went around to sit on the other side of the table, facing him.

"I told you!" he said. "I'm your number one fan. At least, here in Sacramento. I'm sure you have fans all across the country."

I laughed and shook my head. "Not now. They're all dead."

"No way."

"David, the books were published thirty years ago, '69, '70, '71 — my readers were the AIDS-generation — and they're all dead! Except for you and R. Litel – and for all I know, he's dead too. And how did you get them? You're not much older than the books, yourself."

"Well, thank you very much! I'm thirty-eight — I know I don't look it! Joking! No, I had a friend, a good friend, an older man — and yes, he died of AIDS — but Charles had all your books. In perfect condition. He had an incredible library of Gay books, porn and otherwise. Capote, Vidal, Retchy, Amory, Townsend, Vanden, hundreds of books. But he highly recommended Jake Vance, and loaned me his copy of Too Bad. From then on, I was hooked on Hank O'Toole, Private Dick!" He laughed. "And his off-and-on lover, Dobbin Dubinski."

We both said in unison: "because he's as big as a horse, of course!" and grinned at each other. Hank always used to say that when he described his off-and-on-friend to someone new.

"Your books were fun to read. And hot!" He laughed and shook his head. "I mean, you probably gave me more hard-ons and climaxes than anybody! Some of Charles' other books were like, oh-my-God-I'm-Queer-I'm going to-kill-myself stuff, you know? The love that dare not speak it's name.' That sort of bullshit. But your books... In your books it wasn't just OK to be Gay, it was good! It was fun! Hank O'Toole was like a Gay Simon Templar!" He was one of the good guys!" He took a deep breath and studied me. "Wow! I have wanted to do this for, I don't know how long! Ever since I read Too Bad, and then Too Soon, and then Too Good..." he laughed and spread his hands wide to indicate "...the whole series. More with each book. I mean, I've wanted to talk to you like this about the books... And it took this..." He gestured angrily at the envelopes and pages on the table.

"Yeah," I said, "but I'm glad. In a way." It sounded corny, but it was true. I was surprised at myself, but I was thoroughly enjoying his company. And the blatant flattery wasn't hurting at all. I'd been needing a few strokes.

"Me too." he said. "You've probably figured out that I'm a writer, too. Nothing like you. A couple of short stories in fuck-magazines. Articles for the Gayzette. But I want to write novels. I would love to write a Gay detective novel. They're very popular right now."

"Are they? Maybe I started a trend."

"Absolutely," he said seriously. "One book we have at the paper makes that very point — that you started the genre, single-handed! You’ll pardon the expression.”

"I'm in a book?"

"Are you kidding? Yes, you're in a book! You're in several. Gay reference stuff. We have them all at the Gayzette. You’re Gay History!"

I gave a disbelieving snort.

"They sell them in the Gay bookstore, downtown.'Our World.'"

"I've never been in there."

"Really?" He tilted his head and regarded me as though I must be slightly nuts- or from another planet..

"Really," I said. I studied him again, wondering if I could really talk with this guy, tell him stuff I hadn't told anyone. "I've sort of backed away from Gay stuff," I told him. "Gay life, the Gay Community, that whole thing, these last several years — mainly since Ace died."

"I don't know about Ace," he said.

"Ace was my lover for 18 years.” I told him. “He died in 1988. Of AIDS, of course. The whole bunch we ran with, down in The City and then up here, they're all dead. All but me. The reason I'm still here is that I stopped having Gay sex. And without the sex, the Gay community had nothing to offer me. I hate that whole Empress thing."

"Too Much!" He cried, dramatically. "Who Killed Gloria Mundy," the Empress of California? Was it Delite Fantastic? Tequilla Mockingbird? Buggered to death in High Drag!" He grinned at me, showing a set of perfect teeth. His grin tilted up to one side looking rakish. "I'm sorry! You were talking about Ace."

"You have a very good memory. They gave me hell for that one in some of the reviews I got. The guy at The Advocate really took me to task for, quote, 'portraying drag queens in a negative light'."

"You're kidding?"

"I kid you not!" We both laughed.

He said "I'm sorry, I keep interrupting. You were telling me about Ace."

"Asa Hartz. His real name was Hartzman, Asa Emmanuel. Named after both grandfathers. His parents were Jewish immigrants from Hungary. They'd never heard of the 'ace of hearts,' they didn't speak English, so they had no idea they were saddling him with a name kids would make fun of. But Ace loved it. He didn't care if they laughed at his name — they wouldn't forget it. He'd say to people 'just remember the Ace-of-Hearts-man' Of course, his business cards looked like little playing cards. For three years, back in the late seventies, Ace was 'Sacramento's Celebrity Chef!' He was 'head-cook,' as he liked to call himself, at a place called 'Bon Appetit' in old-town Folsom. Owned by a rich developer, a Good Republican who loved Ace's cooking. Catered a fundraiser for Ronald Regan. Ace was a very liberal Democrat, and he despised Ronnie, but he got a thousand dollar tip for that little buffet. He also got an autographed picture from Ronnie, thanking him. I still have it, somewhere. Celebrity Chef was on Chanel 13 in the noon news, a little 5-minute cooking segment, featuring gourmet stuff you could do in your microwave. You could send an envelope for a copy of the recipe."

"I remember now.” David said. "I think I saw some of those shows. Or Mom watched them.... There was an obit in the Gayzette, wasn’t there? With a picture...guy with a beard and a rainbow-beanie."

"That's what he wore instead of a chef's hat." I explained. "That was his trademark. His kitchen crew wore baseball caps. Several of his female fans knitted rainbow beanies for him. I still have some of those."

"He had kind of a Gay following, didn't he? I distinctly remember that name, only they called him Asa Hartz. That's what I thought his name was."

"It is! I mean was. He had it legally changed when we moved up here and he started his cheffing career."

"Ah... You know, you almost look like that picture. With a beanie? Did you look alike?"

"We looked like brothers. Lots of people assumed we were and that's why we were living together, and we let them think so. It was less complicated than explaining the real relationship, back in those days. We were very much like brothers and not much like lovers. We had sex occasionally at first, then rarely. After he got HIV not at all."

"Not at all'?"

"Nope."

"Not with anyone?"

"Nobody but me," I assured him. "And not very often."

"That's depressing!"

"Yes, it is, isn't it? Let's talk about something else."

He picked up one of the envelopes and studied it. "Maybe the reason he sent it to me is that he knows I'm your fan, so he's dragging me into whatever he has in mind for you."

"Then it would have to be someone you know. Someone who knows you're my fan. Who would know that?"

"Nobody," he said, shaking his head. "Jason knows, but he doesn’t even know...."

"Maybe it's Jason," I said. "Maybe he's jealous!"

He almost did a spit-take but managed to swallow the coffee without choking. He held up his hand for me to wait. It took several gulps to get it down. "Jason? No ... I don't think so. I ... You know, now that I think of it...we've never talked about you. Or the books. He doesn't particularly like books. He prefers tapes. Now DVDs. Have you seen some of the DVD porn? My goodness! It's like 'Live, and in person! Right here in your living room, the world's biggest cocks and the world's most amazing cocksuckers!' Of course Jason had to have one of those big wide screens. We're still paying for it! But it's incredible! The picture is so sharp, you can almost reach out and grab...! Sorry. I'm babbling again. What are we going to do?"

I shrugged. "Wait for the next shoe to drop?"

"Call the cops?" he asked brightly. "I know a guy - one of the Sheriffs. Actually two."

"Has a crime been committed?"

"Not that I know of -- unless it's against the law to use somebody else's return address."

"I don't know what else we can do except wait. Maybe make a list of anyone we can think of who would do this."

"I can't think of anyone."

"Neither can I."

"Except..." he said cautiously -- just as the doorbell rang.

Two men stood on our front landing, smiling seriously. One was short and very muscular, in blue jeans with a sky-blue sports coat over a form-fitting white polo shirt, complete with pony. He had a Sheriff's badge in a black leather wallet, which he flashed for both of us, then snapped it shut like on TV! "Hi!" he said as he surveyed the two of us. "I'm Steve Driver, detective with the Sacramento County Sheriffs Department." He turned to gesture almost theatrically toward the other man. "And this is my partner, Detective Kendall. You may recall, we've all met before. Could we come in for a few minutes?"

Kendall nodded to us. He was catalog-model handsome, blond where his partner had dark brown, almost black hair. Tall, about 6'2" or 3", his buffed muscles strained at his variation of Steve's "uniform," only he wore brown chinos with a khaki military jacket folded over one arm. He had a military haircut. I remembered both of them from the reception.

It took an awkward moment for me to respond. I flashed on all of the times I'd been confronted by policemen, in the old days, not that long ago, when it was illegal to be Gay, and a cop at my door would mean Be Afraid! But those times had changed, I told myself. 'Da Fuz' were now our friends. "Of course!" I said, stepping back to let him go in front of me. They looked like "Cops" from Central Casting. In my mind, the theme from Miami Vice played as they walked past me into the house. "Sacramento Vice!" Ta-da-da-da! I wondered which one was the "good cop."

Detective Driver walked straight into the kitchen as though he knew exactly where he was going.

"What's it about, Detective?"

He turned and smiled quickly. If you blinked, you missed it. "Call me Steve." His word was law.

“Steve,” I said obediently. He grinned again, then waved toward the chairs around the table. "Can we sit down?"

"Absolutely!" I said. We did. Detective Kendall sat at the head of the table, folding his jacket neatly on the back of the chair, Steve sat at the foot, wih David and me on either side. As they looked at the two pages on the table, Steve nodded emphatically with a meaningful glance at his partner, and Kendall said "Uh-huh."

David and I both said "What?"

Steve took a piece of paper from his inside pocket, and unfolded it. "Photocopy," he said, "Original's locked up." He spread the page on the table alongside the other two. It was yet another page from TOO BAD, this one the first page of chapter one, that began: "My name is Henry, which is long for Hank and I'm a Private Detective...." The Title, TOO BAD, had been highlighted in that bloody red and another copy of my address label had been stuck to the top of the page. At the bottom, a crude sketch of a naked man on a cross with a gross-looking black splotch where his genitals should have been!

And under it, in big red capitals: "JESUS HATES ABOMINATIONS!"

* * *

-

Chapter Three: Steve and Ken

Detective Steve Baker looked like a movie or TV-cop. Mediterranean I guessed, several generations ago. Black wavy hair, brown eyes, dark skin. Handsome as hell, and he knew it. A long time ago, as a child, or when he started puberty, he looked in the mirror and thought “I’ll either be an actor or a cop. Maybe both.”

His partner, Detective Kendall – Steve called him Ken -- was tall and blond, looked like an actor in a movie about the Marines, or the Army. His hair was flat across the top and militarily short on the sides. His blue eyes were bluer than blue. His face was so clean-shaven it shined. He smiled a lot, but the smiles looked practiced and mechanical and his eyes seemed to peer right through me, either to my inner core, or to something beyond. His observing stare made me a little nervous.

Although it seemed like he was Bad Cop by default, on his polo shirt, he wore a small badge with a bright yellow smiley-face wearing a blue policeman’s cap, merrily tilted. I remembered him from the newspaper party. He had presented the Good Citizen Award to David’s boss. This was “Officer Smiley,” who did a lot of community relations stuff for “da fuz,” giving kids little Officer Smiley badges as rewards for being Good Kids, and Good Citizen awards to Lesbians who ran Gay newspapers.

Steve was looking from David to me, curiously. “Uh, are you two...?”

Both David and I said “No!” too quickly and we smiled at each other. I said “No, David is here because he got one of those pages in the mail, too. We were just wondering if we should call the cops or not.”

“Well,” Steve said, “here we are anyway. Seems we got us a little mystery to unravel. Any clues you care to offer?”

I pointed to the photocopy and asked “Where did this come from?”

“A murder scene,” he said, matter-of-factly. “A young man was found — a young Gay man —we’re quite sure he was Gay, all the usual S and M paraphernalia was present. He was found in his home in Carmichael, not far from here, and that page from your book was lying near the body! We’re assuming it wasn’t you calling that kind of attention to yourself — but that remains an open question.” He glanced at Ken, as though adding a check-mark about it still being ‘an open question.’

He looked back at me and gave me one of his quick grins. I had a feeling he was enjoying himself. “We’re still trying to ascertain the time of death, but it’s difficult, he’d been dead several days, maybe a week, when they found him.” He looked pointedly at me, then at David. “I’m sure you can both account for your time recently, can’t you?.” He gave us that grin again. He was playing Good Cop, but Officer Smiley just continued to watch, taking it all in silently, with that world-weary smile.

“How did he die?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“You tell me,” he said.

“Okay, but I’m not a suspect, right? This is straight from my book.”

“Go on.”

“He was strangled, right? Suffocated. But there were no marks on his throat.”

Steve said. “Only the killer, the cops and the author of the book would know that.”

“And a reader!” David said. “Somebody has obviously been reading his books – this one at least. A reader could have known it.”

Steve acknowledged David's protest with a parental grin.

“Check his esophagus for semen,” I said.

He actually winked and grinned at me. “Bingo! We’re doing just that, but thanks for the suggestion. That’s what your book is about, isn’t it?”

“That was my fictional killer’s ‘MO,’ yes. Strangulation by penis.”

Steve suppressed a chuckle which caused a hiccup, which made his face get even darker. “That would have to be a pretty big one, wouldn’t it?” he asked, quite seriously. “I mean, I haven’t read your book - not yet - just the first page. But, like, how big is big?”

“Oh..." I shrugged. "Eight or nine inches,” I said. “and fat.”

“Maybe ten,” David added “Ten or eleven would do it.”

Steve laughed. “Well, it wasn’t me, then!” He looked at me, grinning, then at David. We both shook our heads. Then we all laughed and looked at Officer Smiley who actually grinned mysteriously and said “I’ll pass on that one.” Steve turned to me and nodded knowingly.

We briefly studied each other while we considered what had been said in the last few minutes, and by whom, and what it might or might not mean. Finally, Steve said “Rick ... is that what they call you? Rick? Do you have a copy of this book I could borrow? My curiosity has been aroused and I think your book might be some kind of clue.”

“That’s what the killer is desperately trying to tell us,” I said.

“It would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” Steve asked.

I told him, “You’ll probably find the murder fully described in the book. Was he lying on his bed in a kind-of 'play-room' with sex toys, but with no signs of a struggle, but with that date-rape drug in his system? Ro-hip-something?”

"Ro-hyp-nol." he pronounced it correctly. “Rophies. Roofies. Also in the book?”

“That’s the only actual murder in the book, Detective,” I told him, “and that’s how I described it in chapter one.”

“Steve,” he insisted. With a reassuring smile.

“Steve,” I repeated, and returned his smile.

“Okay!” He stood up from the table in a way that let us know that we should all do the same thing, the meeting was over. He had an unspoken air of authority - which was very sexy - and he knew how he looked, the way he stood there, for just a Kodak moment, posed in just such a way that his crotch was thrust slightly forward, showing a lump where a lump was supposed to be. I got goose bumps down my back, contemplating it! I reminded myself that nothing could possibly happen between us because I was celibate and he was a cop! Never the twain shall meet. Never mind the goose bumps! It wouldn’t work.

“I have a copy, yes,” I told him, “but it’s packed away somewhere in the store room. It would take a few minutes.”

“Don’t bother,” David told Steve. “Go on the web. Go to Google. Tell it ‘Too Bad, by Jake Vance’. You’ll get maybe a page full of places where you can buy copies. It may cost a hundred bucks.”

Both Steve and I said “A Hundred Bucks! You’re kidding!”

“I don’t remember for sure.”David added. “It’s been a while since I checked it out, but at some point in the past, I remember at least one on-the-web bookstore had one of your books for a hundred bucks. No shit!” He turned to me. “You didn’t know?”

“I had no idea!”

“How much would you get for that?” Steve asked. “For royalties.”

I laughed! “Nothing. They gave me a flat five hundred bucks per book, for the first couple, then seven fifty for the rest. No royalties, even though I was their best-selling author for two years. But they’ve been out of business for years! Went bankrupt back in the seventies, I think.”

“But there were unsold copies in the warehouse, I’ll bet, and they’re still on the market.” David was smiling broadly as he enlightened us. “I thought sure you’d know. If it was me, I’d know!”

“Well, I didn’t know. This is all a surprise to me. This morning I was just another Realtor, getting the mail ....”

“And it’s not even your birthday, is it?” Steve joked. “Surprise party? Get it?” He turned to David. “Google, Jake Vance?”

“Actually...” I said, but David cut me off.

“The Too Series,” he said. “There are six of them.” David named them all, in order.

Steve seemed impressed — with something about David — I wasn’t sure what, but I doubted that it had anything to do with my books.

“I will do that,” Steve said, shaking David’s hand first, then mine, which he grabbed and held in an iron grip which clearly told me: This guy works out. This guy is sexy as hell. This guy is not to be messed with!

He gave my hand a last hard squeeze and said “Okay, I’ll be in touch. Please don’t leave town without telling me in advance. I mean, you can come and go whenever and wherever you want. I just need to know. Don’t worry. It’s my job. Our job.” He nodded toward Ken. “I may need to ask you a few more questions. Probably will, in fact. Both of you. But no pressure, come and go, just let me know. Okay? Oh, and, Rick, would you see if you can find that copy. You know, just in case I can’t get the department to spring a hundred bucks for a dirty book. Okay?”

We both nodded. “Okay.”

He motioned to the pages on the table. “Could I have these — and the envelopes they came in?”

“Sure,” I said. “Both our fingerprints will be all over these.”

“And maybe someone else’s, too,” he said. “And that reminds me, you both need to come in and be fingerprinted. Would that be possible, soon?”

“But we didn’t do anything,” David snapped.

“For elimination,” Steve said patiently. “Any prints that aren’t yours could be the killer's. Okay?”

“Oh,” David said, grinning foolishly. “Of course.”

Steve smiled at him and this time the smile didn’t quickly vanish. I watched his eyes move up and down David’s body. He grabbed David’s arm, squeezed it and said. “Hey, we all make mistakes. Right? Let’s hope the killer made at least one.”

He led us back through the house the way we had come, gave us another quick grin as he paused on the landing to let Ken go past him and start down the stairs. “Talk to you gentlemen later. Okay? Thanks for your time. And, Rick, I’ll call you about that book. See if you can find it, Okay?” And he was gone, trotting down the stairs to his car in the parking area. It was an unmarked, scruffy black Ford, several years old. Probably not his, but the County’s. His own car was probably a Jaguar, or more likely a four-door white Truck.

He looked back over his shoulder to see if we were still watching, and grinned, but didn't wave.

When they had driven out of sight, David and I looked at each other and said “Oooo-kay!”

* * *

CHAPTER 4: GABRIEL HORNY

We went back to the kitchen and silently finished our cold coffee. I replayed the incident in my head as I made fresh, unusually aware of the loudness of the grinder and the gurgle of the coffee pot. Steve’s questions kept playing over and over in my mind, along with Officer Smiley’s artificial grin. From time to time David and I looked at each other and smiled. Finally, David said “Nice guys.”

“Yeah,” I agreed noncommittably.

“I was expecting attitude when I first met them, way over a year ago, before the party here. When they were planning on giving her highness their humiliation award. Sorry, I mean Judith -- her humanitarian reward for stating the obvious. Then when we had the party here, I met them again. I..sort of....they....” His voice trailed off as he inspected a memory, then shook his head. “Anyway...?”

“How well do you know them?”

“Not well.” he said. “I’ve met them just twice, three times now. They just seem like, you know, regular guys, not cops. I don’t know. Maybe they work at it.” He laughed awkwardly. “Steve seemed to like you.”

“I was just going to say the same about you. In the old days, we used to call that ‘cruising.’”

“I don’t think so. Really? We still do. No, I don’t think so, I think he’s married. Or divorced. Or something. Me? Really? I do think he’s kind of cute.”

“I think he’d hate to hear you say that. Cops don’t like to be ‘cute.’”

“No, but isn’t he a little hunk?"

“Cops don’t like to be called ‘little’ either. But yes, he is a cute little hunk. But a dangerous one, I think. Like playing with matches.”

“Or running with scissors.”

“I was wondering if maybe there was something between the two of them?”

“No. I'm sure not. As I remember, they’ve been partners for several years. Ken’s a Good Mormon, married with 6 daughters. I remembe thinking, poor guy, seven females in the house. I did a blurb about them for the Gayzette. Steve is a native and Ken’s a transplant from somewhere in the Bay Area. I very much doubt there’s anything but, you know, macho-comaraderie, that shit, between them. I’d be surprised. Officer Smiley is also a quarterback for the Sheriffs in the yearly Guns and Hoses football game. Cops versus Firemen. You know about that? ”

“I’ve heard of it,” I said. “In the Spring?”

David nodded. “Every Spring. I’ve always thought that was a very Gay name for a football game, you know? ‘Guns and Hoses.’ I mean they must know what those are both code names for! Duh! Dobbin would have freaked out over ‘Guns and Hoses!’ He’d turn it into some kind of porno-video.”

“Or an opera by Faust.” We both laughed and resettled at the table. “I’ve never been to one of their games. They’ve been having them for years, haven’t they? I’m not a really big sports nut, so I don’t know a lot....”

“Me neither!” he said firmly. “I mean what world problems has football ever solved? Or basketball? Or the fucking parallel bars! I mean. Did you watch the Olympics? Those guys with their tight little Spandex uniforms, showing the world their equipment, and everything else, I mean it’s like eye candy, but has a gymnast ever brought world peace? Or a marathon winner”

I studied him, trying to look exasperated. “Wow! I was just going to say that my dad never played ball games with me, he was always too busy, so I was always that sissy out in left-field in grade school. I hated every minute out there.”

He sipped his coffee and listened with a kind of knowing smile on his face. “In high school," I said, remembering, "you had to try out for sports, and I didn’t enjoy the competition, I knew there would always be somebody worse than me and always be somebody better, so I never tried out for anything. Just barely got through Phys Ed. I grew up working a farm, so my body was in good shape. I grew up an only child, with no competition whatsoever, out there in the fucking wilderness of eastern Utah! Some men I’ve met thrive on competition. That’s how they live, by winning. That’s how most Real Estate salesmen are, hard-wired winners. I’m not that way so much as I’m just determined to succeed. I’m my own competition.”

“Well,” David said, “I grew up with a single Mom until I was 10. My dad died in a car accident before I was born. Mom started ‘keeping company,’ as she called it, with Buck, now my stepfather, when I was almost 10, so all during my formative years, she didn’t encourage me to go out for sports. ‘Read books,’ she said. ‘Study paintings, read plays and books and magazines and newspapers. Blessed be The Printed Word. Listen to music, beautiful music.' She told me: 'learn who Mozart was and what kind of joyus music he wrote.’ I played clarinet in the high school band. I was second chair in a wind quartet who played Mozart at a contest and won! She was so proud!

“That’s where I first heard Segovia and DeFalla. I spent my spare time at the library and the art galleries, the live-theaters and the movies. I acted in plays at school. I saw every movie that came to town, back in the 70s and 80s. My Mom was a wannabe Hippie. She even knew when I started smoking dope. Tacit approval.” He grinned. "Buck had been a star quarterback or something, and some kind of star athlete in college, but by the time he came into my life, I was already a sissy and that was okay by him, because it wasn’t his fault, you know? He’s never given me a bit of attitude about my lifestyle. And he’s happy as a clam with Mom. And they do have a couple of kids between them. ”

“Your step-dad’s named ‘Buck’?”

“Stepfather,” he quickly corrected me. “No, that’s his nickname. I think his first name is Buford or something. Buford Beauregard Allen The Third. Or something. Everybody prefers ‘Buck.’ He legally adopted me when they got hitched. So Buck is my Pop, my Old Man, but not my Dad." he grinned, "No, the truth is, I’m madly in love with Buck, and have been from the minute he started ‘keeping company with mom,’ but I’ve never touched the man and never will. It would hurt Mom too much if he said OK. You know? I guess that means I love her more than I do him, but he’s a hunk and a half. He’s like eye-candy, you know? I’m pretty sure he knows I think so, but he won’t ever do anything about it for the same reason I won’t, he wouldn’t hurt Mom for the world. But, damn, sometimes I swear he poses for me. In his tight fucking faded Marine fatigues. Then he grins that shitty grin like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and I’m sure he does. You can’t be as hunky as he is and not get propositioned. He was in his 30s when he met Mom, so I’m sure he had all sorts of Queer adventures before that. But we’ve never really talked about it. He knows I’m Gay and he’s okay with that. He’s like: it’s your life -- which only makes me love him more, you know? He doesn’t get along with Jason so I don’t get to see him and Mom all that often, but I think he reads the Gayzette that I send to Mom. He knows I do something there.”

He stood up and stretched. “Could I use your bathroom? This wakeup juice of yours is going right through me. Good coffee.”

“If you want good coffee,' I said, 'have an ex-Mormon make it for you.” We both laughed and I pointed toward the bathroom.

“Oh, I remember where the bathroom.....” he stopped suddenly and turned to looked back at me quizzically, almost frowning. “...is.” he finished. As he walked past it, the telephone warbled. “You Have Mail” he called. “And yes, I do remember where the bathroom is.”

The phone rang twice, then asked for a message. “Hello,” said a deep, melodic voice, “I hope this is the right number. For Jake Vance? Richard Vernor? This is Joshua Adamson. I’m calling regarding an envelope I just received in the mail this morning, with a page of one of your novels....”

I grabbed the phone. “Hello, I’m here,”

“Oh, good,” he laughed. “I hoped you would be. You don’t know me, but I know your books. In fact, I dedicated one of mine to you. Do you know Gabriel Horny?”

I laughed, then realized that was a name. “No, I’m sorry, should I?”

“Well,” he said, “I’m not as famous as you, but I’ve published a couple. I’ll give you copies when I see you. I think we need to get together, but I can’t leave right now. Is there any way you could come up here? I’m about 30 miles east of you, up in the hills.”

“Couldn’t you just tell me...?”

“We can’t talk about it on the phone. They may be listening.”

“Oh?” I said “Who...?”

David came back from the bathroom and put his hand on my shoulder. “Whoo? Whoo’s that, an owl?” I waved him away and he went to the table to retrieve his coffee cup to refill it.

“Would it be possible?” The deep voice asked urgently. “I know I may even be taking a chance calling you, but I’m on my cell phone and they can’t trace those, supposedly, although I don’t really believe that for a moment. I’m only about half-an-hour’s drive.”

“Hold on.” I got the phone-pad and pencil. “Okay. How do I get there?” I wrote down the directions to his home in the hills, up by a little town called Lincoln. “All right. I’ll see you in...oh...say within the hour, Okay?”

“That would be fine. I wish I could meet you somewhere, but I’m vulnerable once I leave my little farm. You’ll understand when you get here. Thank you. I’ll see you in around an hour.”

David waited until I was seated again and taken a thoughtful sip of coffee. “What was that about?”

I laughed and shook my head. “One more little surprise. Another envelope.”

“Oh, shit, not again! Who?”

“An author, according to him, who has read my books, a Gay author, calls himself Gabriel Horny?”

“Oh, my god!”

“What?’

“Gabriel Horny! He wrote Gay New World. Yes, I remember now! He dedicated it to you for inspiring him.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Okay, I’m kidding,” he said crossly. He took a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “What does he have to do with somebody who kills Gay men with his big cock? He's all for Gay Love! Why him? Why me? I know why you. He hates you. But why us?”

“Well, it looks like I’m about to find out why this Horny guy’s scared of his own shadow. I told him I’d drive up to his ‘little farm’ in the hills. Because he was afraid to leave.”

“May I come with you?” David almost demanded. “I love Gabriel Horny! I love his stuff! He has an e-book online called ‘THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO GABRIEL HORNY.” It’s his version of the way the world works and it ain’t religious. It’s very anti-religious. I would love to meet him. I could write...! Or just meet him. Could I please,” he begged like a little kid.

“Why not?’ I said. “ You’re in this as deep as he is. You can compare notes.”

“Wow! Whoever would have thought, when I left the house this morning, totally pissed off... Who would have thought I’d meet my two favorite authors! This is amazing, it really is. So where does he live?”

“Up near some little town named Lincoln.”

I showed him the directions I’d scribbled and he nodded and grunted and said “Okay, I know where we’re going. I’ll tell you about his books on the way. You have to drive. My car wouldn’t make it up the hills.”

We took the mini-van with my Real Estate ads on the doors and rear-end, out of the garage, out of my electronic gate and onto Winding Way. It was only a few miles to Highway 80, one of the two freeways out of town. I have a GPS attached to my dashboard and David programmed Gabriel Horny’s address, then argued with the computer about which was the best way to go. He grumbled about “damn machines,” and sat back, letting me follow the map on the little yellow screen, prompting a turn if he wasn’t sure I was watching the screen. The traffic was light for a Monday afternoon and we zipped along to a turnoff just beyond Roseville. As the road narrowed to two-lanes, and started climbing steep little green-covered hills, David told me about his ‘second-favorite Gay Author.’

“Gay New World is dedicated to you for inspiring him. One of your books, I forget, which, had Dobbin saying “Want to drink from my fountain of youth?”

“I don’t...oh, yes! That would be Too Much, and it was said to Delite Fantastique, future dead Empress of California. Yes, I remember.”

“Well, he wrote an entire book based on that line. It’s about the hero, named David, thank you very much, who wakes up at some unknown time in the future, where he is revered as a Saint for discovering that the famous Fountain of Youth was really the male penis, and that semen was the elixir of life, and that if you drank enough cum, you could stay young for eight- nine-hundred years. He claims that was Methuselah's secret. So he discovers he’s this, like Gay Saint of Long-life.
Most of the world is Gay. Some are Gayer than others.

The earth's population had threatened to explode untill all the nations declared homosexuality legal. Organic, natural birth control. Having children was extremely limited, with everybody living so long, Most so-called 'bisexuals' have opted to live together rather than get married and risk having illegal kids.

“Anyway, the hero wakes up in what seems like his home, but it turns out to be a reproduction of his old home, like a national landmark. A tourist attraction. he says 'What the hell is going on? and the House says 'You needn't be hostile. Allow me to explain.' The house talks to him, converses with him, tells him what the weather will be, fixes him coffee, etc. Like Star Trek. Anyway, he goes out and meets what seems to be a very sexy man who openly cruises him, and wants to make love to him, so they go to the guy’s house, but the guy is a hologram and his “home” turns out to be a collection-center, where they collect semen and make pills so everybody can take “forever pills.’ All women have to take the pill and the men are encouraged to produce it as often as possible. The Forever Business is the world's major enterprise.

“Everything is much slower. The earth has gone organic. Lots of Lesbian couples on farms. The men are the artists and workers, and the women run things, the men make it beautiful. Most people are Gay, in groups of two to a dozen, very few children, who are treasured by the community.

"People get from place to place over greenways that were once highways and streets with electronic magnetic cables buried under the grass, guiding traffic. People float around in bubbles they call ‘Glindas.’ They just program their destination and their Glinda takes them there. En route, they can either watch the 360-degree scenery or turn all the windows into movie-screens for ‘Feelie-Vision’ which is stereo television with subliminal body and nerve stimulation that makes it seem and feel real. They have Feelie-houses where you go and hook yourself up to a computerized lounge chair, and you seem to be living whichever dream you’ve selected from the menu. Living porn! With holographic cocksuckers! It seems totally real. While you dream of a gorgeous man of your choosing sucking you off, a machine milks your cock and collects the semen. You get paid for each donation - it gets added to your plastic consumer-card. There’s like an ATM machine in the lobby that records your donations and stamps your card!

“I won’t tell you how it ends, that would spoil it. Maybe he’ll give you a copy.”

“He said he would.” I said, then laughed ruefully.

“What?”

“I’m an inspiration and an abomination, both on the same day! I’ve never been either one before. Well, that’s not true. My bishop thought I was an abomination.”

“Join the group.”

“You said ‘books.’ What else did he write?”

“The only other one I know is online. He has a website called Gabriel-Horny-dot-com. The book is called ‘THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO GABRIEL HORNY.’ It’s laid out to mimic The Bible, but it sure as hell ain’t no Bible!”

I was shaking my head “The man starts to sound like a nutcase! He was very spooky on the phone. ‘They’ had his phone tapped so he was using his cell. He was taking a chance just by contacting me. He couldn’t talk because ‘they might be listening.’ Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick...”

“I don’t see how he could be a nutcase.” David said defensively. “I mean, both of his books are very intelligent. You can’t be coming apart mentally and be a good writer. And, he calls religion a ‘necessary evil.’ What else could control so many crazy people in the world? I mean, when you think about it, that makes perfect sense, you know? I don’t think he’s a nut.” He glanced at me and grinned. “But I’ve been wrong before, as my B-F never forgets to remind me.”

He twisted around in his seat and tugged a small black cell phone from a pocket. “Which reminds me....” He pressed a quick-dial number, waited a moment, then said brightly “Hi! Just checking in! Not at work today. I’m interviewing two famous Gay writers that you’ve never heard of, so don’t expect me for lunch. I’ll tell you all about it at supper. Bye!” He grinned at me as he put the phone away. “Ain’t love grand?” He thought about it for a few moments, then said “Okay, what is Gabriel Horny’s real name? Did he tell you?”

“Joshua Adamson.”

David tilted his head thoughtfully. “Where do I know that name from? I don‘t know any Joshuas. There was a black guy I knew once, briefly, named Joshua, and he was definitely horny, and, oh, my god....but I’m sure it’s not him.”

We turned right on the intersection of Highway 70, between Lincoln and Auburn, then left onto a narrow paved lane that paralleled the highway, then finally turned east again, wound around several hilltops with houses and barns perched on them, animals in the pastures, a totally bucolic scene, then a quick left and up a steep slope to a parking area or turnaround. Joshua’s ‘little farm’ had a high chainlink fence following the incline, which ended in a huge wrought-iron gate where a large sign read:

‘LUCKY DOG RESCUE.
DO WE HAVE YOURS?’

Since I was expected, the gate was unlocked but not open, and I soon saw the reason for this, as well as the high fence that I assumed went all the way around his property: A pack of dogs, a German Shepherd an Australian Shepherd, a couple of Border Collies, and several unidentifiable breeds or mixes, some barking, other wagging their tails like crazy, all watching my van excitedly. “Don’t let the dogs out,” a deep voice called. “Hey, you guys! Buddy! Andy! Goodie! Bob! Randy! Shut up and come up here! Right Now! All of you! Now!” He clapped his hands.

The dogs all turned like a troupe of canine Boy Scouts and trotted in unison up the driveway to the house. David opened the gate and I drove through then waited for him to close it and get back in. We could see the owner of the voice standing at the top of the driveway, waiting for us, the dogs surrounding him like bodyguards. He looked like an early-1900's sheep herder or a TV cowboy on a cattle-drive. A big man with brilliantly white hair, long and curled at his shoulders, white beard, blue Chambery shirt and jeans. Scruffy boots. He almost looked like a Wizard, but the beard wasn’t long enough, and suggested someone much more civilized. At Christmas time, surely children would ask him if he was Santa Claus.

David paused with the door open, half way inside, looking up at the old man. I couldn’t see his face but there was no doubting the disappointment in his voice as he muttered “Oh, shit!”

* * *

CHAPTER 5: JOSHUA ADAMSON

I waited until he was inside the van and had slammed the door, then asked “What?”

I could barely hear his grumble. “Nothing.”

But when we parked and got out of the car to introduce ourselves, it was obvious that they had already met. Joshua was smiling broadly at David and went to him first with his hand extended. “David, what an unexpected pleasure. How are you?”

Up close, Joshua looked something like Robert Redford playing Gandalf!

David reluctantly took the proffered hand and shook it, but without much enthusiasm. I remembered his enthusiasm when he had first grasped my hand. I studied his expression, found it deliberately blank. No sign that he knew the old man. But the old man obviously knew him. Finally Joshua released his hand and said “It’s been a while, David.”

“Not long enough” David said very quietly.

“Oh, ho!” Joshua made a rude noise, and said to me, “Careful with this one. He bites!” He turned back to David and said softly but emphatically “I’ve missed you, David. Welcome to my home.” Joshua turned to me. “So. You must be Jake Vance. I’m honored to meet you, sir!”

We shook hands. He squeezed mine playfully then patted it with his other hand and grinned. “After all these years. Please, come inside.” He turned toward the house and all the dogs got up and turned with him, like a canine-ballet! If he stopped, the dogs would stop, watching him expectantly. “No. Let’s go this way first, and I’ll show you the ‘farm.’” He led us around the house — the dogs moving as one behind him. I counted seven of them, and from the sound of it, there were at least two more in back of the house. As we rounded a corner, Joshua whistled a piercing series of notes and one barker stopped almost instantly. There was one lone holdout still making yipping noises. Joshua turned and grinned at me. “Not quite socialized yet,” he said. “Some take longer than others. That one still barking is appropriately named ‘Barkley.’ His owner died recently, poor little guy, and he’s still trying to figure out what happened to Dad. Dogs don’t understand about death. What he’s trying to do is get Dad’s attention, wherever he’s gone. He’s old. Hard to change an old dog.” He turned to David and smiled brilliantly. David pretended not to see.

He picked up some dog-cookies from a container near the gate, went through and rewarded the quiet dog, deliberately ignoring the yipper, who soon stopped, and then was given a treat. When the rewarding ritual was over, Joshua came out of the dog run and closed the gate behind him.

“Well,” he said, gesturing widely. “What do you think?”

“I’m impressed,” I said, meaning it.

David muttered something I didn’t understand.

“My little retreat from the world.”

Some ‘Retreat!’ He had a garden and an orchard, filling up at least 2 acres covering the gentle slopes of a small very private valley. There were raspberry vines, gooseberry bushes - I remembered them from my grandmother’s garden - rhubarb, several varieties of tomatoes, several different kinds of squash, melons, bean towers, and what looked like a mini-garden of herbs. It was like those centerfold Home and Garden panoramas in the magazine section of the newspaper.

“Don’t you have trouble with deer and varmits, this high in the hills?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. But that’s one of the reasons we take so many trips around the trail. Dog urine is a very heavy warning sign to the wild critters. Here at Happy Acres, we replenish the supply several times a day, exercising the troupes. The high wire mesh fence helps as well. Hard to jump over or climb. And please notice, no damned razor wire on top. I’ve seen what that stuff does to a critter who gets caught in it.”

Along the side of his property, beyond the garden, was a fenced-in dog run, with several large dog-houses fairly close to the main house. The dogs he had just rewarded could be kept separate from the bunch now around him, but they could still socialize. I imagined that once they were content to ‘run with the pack’ he would let them out.

“Where do they all sleep?” I asked.

“Oh, in the house with me, of course. Except for those two,” he pointed to the two dogs watching us, their tails wagging hopefully. “They are both Alphas. They've been 'only dogs.'. They tend to start fights if we let them out with the others. They’ll eventually get the idea. Meanwhile, they get a nice clean run and shelter, exercise in the inner yard. And they get lots of love in the meantime. Then, either they get adopted, or they join the permanent pack. I list them with Petfinders, and that usually helps me find them new homes.”

Suddenly he sidestepped and almost fell, arms flailing wildly. He yelled something that sounded like “Tickan dictman. Han han! Tan dan. Ho!” He recovered his balance, then turned and laughed at our expressions. “Doggie Glossolalia. Don’t step!” He pointed, then took a bright blue plastic bag from his back pocket and picked up a mess of dog poop on the path.

The dogs all looked guilty, tails and ears drooping. Joshua laughed. “It’s okay, gang, it’s okay-tokay. Tin-tin, tan-tan! Okay?” Apparently that meant it was okay to the dogs, they all perked up and started up the path again. Joshua dropped the blue bag into one of a series of trash bins along the trail. “In Mormonism and Pentecostal sects,” he said, “they call it ‘Tongues,’ ‘Speaking in Tongues.’ I was just Swearing in Tongues. It started when one of my boys - a sweet little Sheltie named Spike - got totally spooked if I started swearing – if I slipped on dogshit and fell down and said any of those angry words he knew, he ran away and hid for hours. I finally figured out that whenever he heard swearing, he expected to be beaten. So I made up fake swearwords. They’re never the same, really. It’s easy!” He raised his hands in the air, closing his eyes, looking like some kind of high priest. He sang out a series of nonsense words, sounding very much like an evangelical preacher, making no sense at all. The feeling it evoked in me was very primitive and made me shudder.

The dogs gathered around him, looking up expectantly, all tails wagging. He opened his eyes, acknowledged them with a little bow. “Thank you, thank you! Let's go this way. ”

As we walked back toward the house, Joshua pointed toward an old Volkswagen Van, parked beside the garage. The van had been painted “psychedillic” at some point, long ago in its history. There were fresher portraits of dogs, painted all over the van. “Those are Jimmy’s portraits of all my adopted kids," Joshua explained, "gone to their rewards, either to good homes or to the great outdoor toilet in the sky. With squirrels and cats. Dog heaven. No, they would miss us. Do they allow dogs in Mormon Heaven? Can you imagine spending eternity with Mormons and no dogs? That would truly be Hell. ”

He led us through a large screened back porch, with an old beat-up sofa and matching chair facing the windows and back yard, both covered with dog hair. We walked through kitchen to the front room, which had been decorated to seem very 50's farmhouseish. It was clean but messy. Dog toys and chews were everywhere. Wall to wall brown carpet in each room, even in the kitchen. “Easy to clean, doesn’t get scratched-up by their claws, and dogs don’t like linoleum or hardwood, also hard on their paws. Also, carpeting helps keep them from getting elbow-wattles. Those things can get infected. I had one poor guy, German Shephered, Andy, had to wear cut-off kiddy socks on his elbows for a year before he died.”

There were paintings and pictures of dogs everywhere. As we walked past them, Joshua named them: “Luv,” a white German Shepherd, “Adam and Steve ,” two mischievous looking black and tan German Shepherds. “And, of course, Pogo,” a sandy-colored hairy mixed terrier. Most of the portraits looked like oils, and I guessed that Joshua was something of an artist. “They’re all gone now. Out in the memorial grove, fertilizing weeds.”

When I looked curiously at him, he explained: “Their ashes, natural fertilizer.”

One framed drawing that looked like an old-fashioned cross-stitch “sampler” read:

“For Godda so loved Dogs
that She created Human Beings
to care for them.”

I laughed aloud and Joshua said “That was given me by Loraine, our Vet On Wheels. Two Lesbians, one a licensed Vet, the other an incredibly efficient helper, Loraine’s lover, of course, have a van that travels all around these hills, caring for animals. Loraine and Joyce. Dr. Morris. Brilliant Veterinarian. And Jo-jo. My dogs love them, they love dogs and cats and name it, they love it.”

He led us back into the kitchen, a large room with white plaster walls and a high ceiling, an old-fashioned farm house kitchen, with stove and refrigerator that looked straight out of Sears – 40 years ago. The main feature of the room was a large, heavy round wooden table covered with a plastic blue and white checkered table cloth, with 6 well-worn high-back chairs surrounding it. In the center of the table, neatly stacked, were all of my books. He even had a ball-point pen lying on top of the stack of books. Obviously he was going to ask me to autograph his collection. There were two other books, set slightly apart from mine, one the size of a paperback novel, the other more like a computer printout in blue report covers.

It was very strange, realizing that something I had done so long ago was sitting proudly on this old man’s kitchen table! I had to assume that he liked me and my writing enough to keep the books this long!

There is a predictable satisfaction in closing a real estate deal, a feeling of a small measure of success. But this was different. Those books contained a lot of me, my philosophy of life, if you will, and I realized that Joshua Adamson knew it. So did David. Both men knew what I was all about and approved of me. Liked me! That was a brand new kind of pleasure for me. I commented on his obvious health and he grinned as though I had just asked the right question.

“Well, in addition to working the organic garden, I get plenty of exercise, tending these guys. We take several walks per day around the property, which is 3 acres of up and down trail. I play with them, throw the ball or the frisbee. Sometimes we roughhouse. They pretend to fight each other. Nobody ever gets hurt, but there’s a lot of play-fighting. I can still give as good as I get.”

“In more ways than one,” David muttered.

Joshua turned to grin at him, a very intimate grin. But David didn’t return it. Joshua smiled and sighed and turned to me. “The younger generation! Are they totally unforgiving. You were saying?”

“That you looked remarkably healthy for a man your age. You must be...what?” I paused, hoping he would respond, but he just grinned again.

“I must be...what? How old do you think?

“No, no!” I protested. “I don’t want to insult you...”

“Why? Do I look older than you think I am? Go ahead. Take a shot.”

I shrugged and went with caution. “Okay, 70.”

I’m closer to a hundred than that.”

“Seventy five.”

“Keep going, you’ll get there.”

“He’s 80, okay?” David barked. “It says on his book.”

“Actually a speck older than that, now. That book was published 5 years ago. I’ve kept looking young because of my boys,” he said. He laughed again. “They love it when I call them ‘boys.’ My Gentlemen Callers. My stable of studs. Old studs. My horny Grandfathers! I have sex at least once a week, sometimes more. Sips from several old fountains of youth.”

“Oh, please!” David turned away and studied the scene out the window.

Joshua stepped a bit closer to him and said, almost seductively: “And then, of course, there’s the fruit of Tree of Knowledge in the middle of the Garden of Eden. Same thing as the ambrosia of the gods, from the Fountain of Youth. I have a good helping of man-seed once or twice a week. I’m sure it plays a part of my staying as young as I do.”

“You’re taking an enormous risk with multiple partners!” David whirled back and yelled at him.

“David!” Joshua silenced him with a gesture, his hand held up like a traffic cop. David’s voice stopped abruptly. Joshua said “Do you honestly think I’m so stupid that I don’t consider that?”

“Well... Do you?”

“Of course I do!” He pulled back slightly and lectured David like a grandfather: “How do you think I got to be as old as I am? By not thinking about it? I’m as aware as you on how to get AIDS.Or STDs. But these men are in their 60's, David. They’re grandfathers. From Grass Valley, Nevada City, Auburn. One guy drives down from Marysville. Their wives, for some reason or another, some are dead, do not satisfy them any more, or even have intercourse with their loving husbands. Women seem to lose interest in sex, somewhere in their 40s or 50s,. Men stay hard-wired all their lives. They were all Hippies 30 years ago -- so they’re not rednecks now. Leftover Hippies, living in the hills. And they help me out. Frank helps walk the dogs on weekends. Jim takes care of the dog bus, not just the dog portraits, but he keeps that old heap of tin running like new. Jerry comes on Saturdays when he’s supposed to be at Home Depot, checking the merchandise and bullshitting with he guys. He’s here, doing handyman stuff, then letting me milk him in payment.”

“You are disgusting!” David insisted. “I still think it’s dangerous,”

“Of course you do, and well you should.” Joshua said sharply. “If you were to do the same thing, with the Gay or bisexual men of your age and younger, who are still cruising the parks and public toilets for whatever they can pick up, you’d be insane to swallow their seed. They’d give you whatever they had. You’d be wise to avoid those guys and their semen. But wait until they’re sixty and chow down! Or move to the country and find yourself some current grandfathers. There are millions of them out here, David! Most of them horny as hell! It’s an unexploited demographic.”

David had stood it as long as he could. He exploded: “You sonofabitch! You make me sick!” He stood up from the from the table, knocking a chair over noisily. The dogs leaped up, and several barked at David. He picked the chair up and set it down cautiously, watching the dogs, then looked back to me. “I’ll wait in the car. Take your time, okay? Get what we came for.” He paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. “I think this guy’s a definite candidate.”

There was a long, awkward pause. Finally Joshua said to me, “Well, that was unpleasant. However, ‘sonofabitch’ is not, to me, as great an insult as he intended. Would you prefer to finish this some other time?”

“No. Let him wait.” I looked out the window and saw David marching angrily toward the van. “Fuck him,” I said, laughing, “he’s old enough to look out for himself.”

“Good choice. First of all, would you mind autographing my ‘Hank O’Toole' collection.”

“I’d be honored.” I signed each one inside the front cover: “Joshua: Many Thanks & Best Wishes! Jake Vance.”

Also on the table with my books were two others. One looked like a standard paperback and the other was a very slim volume with a blue cover, where a familiar-looking label announced the title.

He picked them up and studied the paperback for a moment. “My contribution to Gay Literature, such as it is.”

The paperback cover was a colorful, expressionistic acrylic painting of a group of naked men in some kind of orgiastic celebration. “GAY NEW WORLD” by Gabriel Horny.

“And this,” he said, handing me the larger volume as though it were delicate, “is the why of that.” A computer label was centered on the blue cover:

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO GABRIEL HORNY

“This is the one on the web, so if you lose this copy, you can always go online. Read this one first,” he said, pointing to the paperback. I wrote that after reading one of your books that I found in my local bookstore, back in San Francisco, 1972, somewhere around there. TOO MUCH was my introduction to you. So I quickly read all the others I could get my hands on. I’d had an experience... well, that’s what THE GOSPEL is about. Read either one first, it won’t matter. Let me know what you think.”

Joshua pushed all the books out of the way and produced a large white envelope which contained a single page from TOO BIG. In the margin, in blood red ink it read: T

THOU ART AN ABOMINATION.

THOU MUST DIE.

IT IS THE LAW.

Joshua waited until I’d read it several times, took a deep breath and closed my eyes. He said “I’ve heard clicks and pops and metallic sounds on my land-phone, sometimes when I answer, there's no one there, but there's no dial tone, so someone's listening -- so I use the cell. Right now, I’m afraid to go shopping. Maybe I'm being totally neurotic, but nothing like this has ever happened to me. No one has ever threatened my life before.Who knows where that crazy person might be? In the mall? On the highway, in a car driving by? You can see how paranoid I am. It wouldn't be all that difficult to climb these hills with a rifle and wait til we run the dogs. And I don’t understand how he connected your book with mine. Why didn’t he send me a page from GAY NEW WORLD? That one probably
frosted his balls. ‘Tis a mystery.”

“Getting more mysterious by the moment.” I quickly rehashed the story of the envelopes, David, the murder and the Sheriffs, but nothing clicked for him.

“Well,” he said, taking my hand to squeeze it gently. “If it took that to get us together, then that’s okay. Sort of.” He laughed and squeezed harder. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again, sooner or later.”

I had an impulse to hug him and as I stepped closer, he gently pushed me away, saying “Go tend to that sad young man of yours.”

“He isn’t mine,” I protested. “We only met this morning because he got one of the envelopes too. They threatened his life, too. And I don’t know what the hell to do about it. The police know about it and they’ll keep in touch with me. I’ll keep in touch with you. I'm sorry, but that's all I can do. You said you can’t leave the place? How about groceries?”

“One of my boys does some specialty shopping for me. Jack. He’s with Senior Servers and he collects a blowjob for his services. I can ask him if I need something. He always calls for the list before he starts over. If it becomes a problem, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile always use my cell number. I’ll always have that with me. Go. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for coming.”

Back in the Van, David waited until I had returned to the narrow road, headed back toward Sacramento. “He’s crazy!” David said. “Insane! Mad as a hatter. Loony as a toon.”

“That’s crazy as a loon.”

“What?”

“Its in a song.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You! You’re the crazy one. Okay, so he turned you down or whatever he did. Maybe you don’t know why. Maybe...”

“Maybe because I didn’t believe he was Jesus.” he said flatly.

“What?”

“He believes he is Jesus Christ, back from the dead to save the world!”

It took several seconds before I could respond. “Really?”

“First of all, take his name, ‘Joshua Adamson.’ Okay, we know that’s not his real name, right? Real
name Jerry Adams, for Jerome or Jeremiah or some damn thing. Fairly famous, actually. TV, movies, Music Circus. Jerry Adams now calls himself Joshua Adamson. Joshua is Jewish for Jesus, Jehu, actually. Same name. Adamson, Son of Adam. The name Adam means ‘man.’ ‘Son of Man.’ I’ve got one of those little books with names and I learn cool stuff like that. Joshua Adamson,Jesus, son-of-man. Yes, in answer to your question, he thinks he is Jesus. That’s why we broke up, if we ever got started. I was so crazy in love with him, I didn’t know if I was coming or going. Really, I was 20 years old. Just starting college with all these rah-rah sports types. And here was this incredibly handsome professor — I’ve always had a thing for older men, so sue me. Okay, it’s a father-thing. I met Jerry when he did a visiting professor thing at Sac State, taught an acting class. Acting for TV and Movies. He cast me as the male lead in the little artsy-fartsy TV play we produced. We kept bumping into each other, sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose. He was a famous character-actor on television, and a summer standard for many years at Music Circus. He was Professor Higgins, The Music Man, The King and I. I was young and gaga!

“He was almost 60 then. White hair, neatly trimmed beard, hot bod, even at his age, you know? I have to give him that, he still looks damn good!” David laughed. “Too damned good! Actually, he looks almost the same as he did, twenty years ago! The sonofabitch!"

"Speaking of which..."

“Anyway, we had this brief, intense...thing...romance...fireworks. Everything worked! Everything clicked! Sex was incredible! We liked the same things. The same plays, the same musicals, the same kinds of music. Then he told me he had to tell me something, something that could change the way I felt about him. Well, he had this long crazy story about LSD and the seeing Jesus in the mirror. Okay, I know about LSD. Did you know that it was once studied to be used as a secret weapon? Did you know the CIA once conducted experiments on Gay men in San Francisco, putting LSD in their drinks, then observing, often photographing their behavior? There are many accounts of Gay men claiming to be Jesus. For some reason, that’s part of the acid-trip. Other people talk to God when they’re stoned.”

“Other people use it for sex.”

“Acid? Doesn’t it make you crazy?”

“Makes you crazy for sex, makes it seem to last longer, makes it feel a hundred times better.”

“You know this as fact?”

“Yes,” I said. “Once. Ace insisted. He loved the stuff. We went to a party, over in Berkeley, where they served acid-punch. We spent the night, along with a dozen others, naked around an indoor pool and Jacuzzi. We fucked and sucked all night long, in every conceivable coupling. One of the guests was the guy who posed for Colt, you know, one of his earliest models, ‘Ledermeister.’ He was a telephone linesman in real life, beautiful bod, fantastic cock, and I remember vividly having a 69 with him while Roberta Flack sang an incredible song “The First Time Ever!” I remember! It seemed as though our bodies were merging. Talk about a trip! But then, at some point I started getting scared — of nothing. Of everything. Of ideas. I was afraid to think for fear I might make something happen. I was afraid I would just disintegrate. Just go poof! I was terrified. Shivering in the corner. They had to give me something, some downer, some tranquilizer to get me to calm down. All day next day I was
afraid it would come back, that something I might accidentally do would start it all over again. It took a long time to get over being paranoid. Ace assured me that’s all it was. He’d seen it before. He’d had it happen before. Ace loved Acid. But one trip was enough for me.”

“Well I’ve changed my mind about Gabriel Horny. Fuck Gabriel Horny! Fuck his books! ”

“I think maybe you’re judging him too harshly. If his books were good before you knew who he was, then they’re still good.”

“Good Book!” He snapped. “There, see! Crazy Jesus wrote a Good Book! I hate that!”

I started to laugh. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“What?” He turned to glare at me.

“It’s a quote from Shakes....”

“I know what it’s from!” he snapped. “I am not a lady.”

“Oh, David! ‘Methinks the laddie doth protest too much, does that suit you?”

He sat for a long time, glowering out the window. Finally he said “Y’know what? Fuck you, too.”

I pulled off the narrow road onto a turnout and sat looking at him. He started straight ahead, obviously deliberately refusing to look at me. After a few minutes of crackling silence, during which I seriously considered telling him to get out and walk, I pulled back onto the road, and we finished the drive home in silence, awash in his anger. He got out of the van in the turnaround, near where he had parked,. He said “Thank you for the experience,” quietly, as he gently closed the door.

He got into his car and drove away, leaving me sitting there, wondering what had just kicked me in the head?

* * *

ALL OF ME - Part 2

CHAPTER 6 - HOME ALONE

As I parked the van in the garage and sat listening to the gate closing, then the garage door, I felt suddenly exhausted. I had been running on “high” from early this morning, but all the activity had ended in total frustration. I was no closer to knowing who sent those envelopes, or how real the danger was, and I was suddenly embroiled with two other Gay men. I wondered if maybe one or the other of them was playing games with me. I felt like Charlie Brown when Lucy pulls the football away, flat on my ass wondering what had happened?

I felt slightly paranoid, noiselessly opening the garage door into the lower part of the house, where the bedrooms were. I told myself I was going to have to install a motion censor over this door. I’d been putting it off, thinking it sufficient that the perimeter fencing was wired to sound an alarm for anything over 20 pounds, and all the windows were wired, plus the entry, but not this door.

I switched on all the lights and they came on everywhere in the house – without causing any noises of somebody scrambling away. Silence. As I climbed the stairs I became more and more aware of the silence. I was very much alone in my own home. I’d kept myself so busy selling houses that I hadn’t let myself feel alone. After all, I had a Security Service and had to enter a code to get into or out of the gate. But there were gadgets in catalogs, things that would let someone read the code for opening the gate – spy gadgets that might be amusing to contemplate, in the catalog, but scary to think someone might be using one of those gadgets to open my gate!

Ace and I had had dogs here, Frank and Ernie, German Shepherd brothers who were our “kids” for ten years. They kept Ace company the last 3 years of his life. We also had a cat named Stella, a sweet female tabby given to us by a well-meaning friend, but who didn’t like dogs and tended to be sulky and sullen when the dogs were around, which was most the time. Ernie lived a year after Ace died, Frankie 2 years. They missed him as much as I did. So when finally Stella was the only one left, she ruled the roost and kept me company several more years. And that’s all I needed, I told myself.

When she died, I decided I simply didn’t have the time needed to adopt a new pet. I didn't want to go through all that again, raising them, loving them, losing them way too soon. It was too painful, losing them.

But today had been a shock to the system. Suddenly I had found myself the focus of the hatred of a psychopath, the adoration of a fan and the reluctant audience for a reunion of ex-lovers. I did not want any of it! I had kept myself apart from Gay goings on except for the ads in the Gayzette - but Kat and her lover Maria handled all the Gay business – except for the ‘overflow’ if they were boys, but I hadn’t had any of those lately.

"Overflow," of course, had happened during better times. The housing market had gone down the toilet the last few years. To keep the brokerage open, I discovered the best way to stay alive in the market was to sell the repossessed houses at a "discount" to the loan-holder, a bargain for our customer and a smaller but fairly constant commission for me. It entailed mountains of paperwork which often kept me at the office – ten miles away – until late evening. The grounds were well-lighted. A Security Patrol – painted to look like a Police Vehicle – drove by once every hour, all night. They were part of the service, so they knew if I was home or not. And when I got home, or left.

Our house was one of 3 in an unnamed circular turn-around off Winding Way. There were neighbors close enough to see anything – if they happened to be looking.

My stomach was starting to ache and was making noises and I realized I’d been going all day without food. Just coffee in the morning. Adrenaline the rest of the time! I turned on the television in the kitchen and microwaved a frozen dinner, which I ate without tasting it, standing up, blindly watching some idiot afternoon soap-opera that had the same characters doing the same things they had done for years and quarreling about it – as they had been doing 10 years ago!

I shut it off – then turned it back on. Even inanity was better than the silence.

The phone warbled . “Hi, it’s me. Are you there? Hello?” It was David. I stopped myself from doing anything. It almost seemed like a part of the ongoing soap-opera. After a brief silence, he said: “Okay, listen, I’m sorry. I really am. I was so....freaked out...seeing him again.... I mean, all of a sudden, bang! There he was! I took it out on you and I shouldn’t have. I wanted you to be sympathetic and instead I pissed you off.” He paused again, hoping I would respond. I didn’t. ”Okay, well, I guess you’re still out...doing something...but I wanted you to know.... Listen, Jason and I would like you to come over some evening for dinner, ok? Be thinking when would be good for you. Okay. I’ll call you later. ‘Bye.”

I stared at the phone, fighting an impulse to grab it and tell him please don’t call back! I did not want to get involved with anyone so emotionally volatile. Knowing him would probably be like living on a roller-coaster - up and down and around, all without warning. And yet...there was something about him – a kind of child-like quality that made me want to hug him and keep him safe from people like Joshua. If, indeed, Joshua was dangerous. Or was actually insane enough to think he was Jesus. He didn't seem crazy!

The telephone warbled again and I waited for David to say “It’s me again,” but instead an unfamiliar deep voice said “Hello, Rick? This is Steve. My partner and I were there this morning? Remember me? Anyway, I’m just now leaving the station and I was wondering if you’d found that book yet.”

I grabbed the phone. “Steve! Hold on, I’m here.”

“Oh, good.” His voice was deep and vibrant and it seemed to reverberate in my head – and groin. How y’doin’? Hangin’ in there? Hey, did you ever locate that book of yours?”

“I haven’t had a chance yet....” I started to say ‘Officer,’ but stopped myself and said “Steve....” I imagined him grinning. “But I know right where it is. It’ll only take a few minutes....”

“Mind if I come by and pick it up?”

“Not at all!” I said too quickly. “No, that’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.” Why did I say that?

He laughed. “Okay. It’ll take me about 10 minutes. I’m not that far from you. So I’ll see you in ten. Or twenty. Okay?”

“Yes, fine!” I said before the line went dead. “Yes, fucking fine,” I repeated as I hung up the phone. “Just fine. Just what I need. Where the fuck did I put that book?”

I found it in the garage, in one of several boxes stacked at the end. They were all there, all seven TOO’s, and I wondered if I ought to let him take them all, then decided that would seem pushy or needy or arrogant. Or it might seem like I was trying to get him horny enough to seduce him. No! I’d wait and see his reaction to TOO BIG. If he said “This is pure smut!” I’d know not to mention the other six. If he said “Hey, this is hot stuff,” then, maybe, one-by-one I’d give them to him - until he came begging for mercy and relief!

I looked up and saw my reflection looking back at me from the window-turned-mirror. What in the world was I thinking? I did not want to get involved, especially sexually, with an officer of the law! If nothing else he’d try to dominate me and I wouldn’t like that. TOO BAD was about a Sadistic Gay Policeman; maybe I should give that one to him? No. Wait.

I heard his car in the gravel and stepped out on the landing to meet him, thinking I’d just give him the book and send him on his way. At the bottom of the stairs he looked up and grinned, then came bounding up every other one, like a teenager. He took the book with one hand and grabbed my hand with the other, squeezing it hard. “Hey, thanks.” He studied the cover, a deliberately crude line-drawing of a semi-naked man with an enormous erection down his pant-leg. I had never really liked the covers.

“Wow!” said Steve. “Now that is big. Can we go inside? I’ve been on my feet all day and I’m fucking beat.”

I wanted to ask why he didn’t just go home, but I said “Sure, come on in.”

“Will my dog be okay down there? I stopped at home on the way over. He loves to go for rides. He’s in the shade and I left the windows open.”

“He’ll be fine. Or bring him up if you want to. The grounds are dog-proof. He can't get out anywhere. We had two of our own...”

“You sure you’re okay with that?” He nodded, answering himself, then turned and bounded down the stairs, unlocked his truck to let a dog out. The dog was mid-sized, like his master, and just as handsome. He was mostly black silky hair, with a large white ruff and no tail! The two of them came up the stairs together, in sync. When they reached the landing, the dog came straight to me, looked up to study me for a moment, then put his paw on my shoe.

Steve said “Awwww! Lookatthat! He likes you. That’s how he says hello.”

I bent over and put out my hand “Shake?” The dog just looked at me.

“No,” Steve said. “He doesn’t shake. That’s just his signal that you’re okay by him. He’s fucking smart, this guy. This is Max, The Wonder Dog, named after a can of dog food!”

At the sound of his name, Max pulled his foot back and sat as though for inspection. Steve patted his head. Max was a very handsome, midsize dog, tri-colored: black and white and tan, with bright, intelligent eyes that regarded me curiously. It looked like he was grinning – like his master.

“He’s part Aussie Shepherd, obviously," Steve said, "and, I think, part Aussie Cattle Dog – like his mom was a Queensland Heeler. That makes him an Aussie-Aussie. Smartest dog I’ve ever known and I’ve had a couple of good ones. Hey, Max!” he said to the dog. “Go explore. Go pee somewhere.” He gestured toward a trail around the house that wandered down the slope among trees and plantings. The dog turned to follow Steve’s pointing finger and cocked his head, looking back. “It’s okay,” Steve said, pushing him gently. “Go pee.” To me: “I hope you don’t mind.”

I laughed. “Like I said, the grounds are dog proof. Frank and Ernie marked everything. It’s probably washed off by now. That’s been several years.”

Max wandered down the trail to the first group of juniper bushes, sniffed, looked back at Steve, then lifted his leg.

Steve said “Okay, so?” He clasped my shoulder with a quick, tight grip. It was like an electric shock! “Let’s sit where Max can see us.” He pointed to the umbrella-covered patio table, just outside the sliding glass kitchen door, overlooking the grounds where Max was sniffing and marking. As we sat, he stretched himself out in the webbed-plastic chair, so I could plainly see his crotch, which was bulging noticably. I stared at it for a moment, then looked up at his eyes. He'd been watching my eyes. He grinned, then groaned and sat upright. “Oh, man! What a day. What a fucking day! We been talking to some of the dead guy’s friends and neighbors. I mean, that guy was into all sorts of weird shit. Of course, nobody knows anything. Nobody wants to admit they knew the fruitcake. Pardon the expression. The nutcase. He had torture stuff, S and M stuff, dope! You name it. It was probably his own fucking Roopy that let him get strangled! And, yes, the coroner’s techs found semen in his gullet, so all we have to do now is ask any suspects to jerk off in a bottle!” He laughed, then looked around. “So. You live here all by yourself?” He squirmed in the seat and pushed his crotch forward again, staring pointedly at the lump in his Levis, obviously wanting me to do something.

I was almost ready to reach out and touch someone – grope him like he wanted to be groped – when the gravel in the turnaround crunched under another set of tires. A car door slammed and David appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He saw us, paused, then called “Did I leave my backpack here?”

“Woops!” Steve said. “Better be on our way.” He pointedly pressed down on his crotch, sighed audibly, then whistled for Max, who came loping up the trail. When he saw David, Max stopped, then looked at Steve for instructions. “Come on, boy, let’s go home.” As Max allowed David to pat his head, Steve stood up and grabbed my hand, pulling me upright, almost face-to-face. “Hey,” he said intimately, “Thanks for finding the book. I’ll be in touch, okay?”

As they passed on the landing, Steve playfully boxed David’s shoulder. “Hello again, Studley! See you later.” This time, man and dog went slowly, almost reluctantly down the stairs.

David watched them go, then turned and said “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

* * *

CHAPTER 7 - PHONE SEX?

“What did he call you?” I asked.

David just grinned. “I tried to call again,” he said, “but your line was busy. So I figured you were home. Except I didn’t know you had company. Is everything okay?”

“He came by for the book.”

“Oh, yeah. Good.”

We stood on the patio, awkwardly nodding at each other, waiting for the other one to say something.

I finally said, “What do you mean, my line was busy? I haven’t been on the phone since...”

“I got a busy signal. That’s what made me think your line was busy.” He led the way into the kitchen, where he pointed to the telephone receiver, just slightly off its cradle. He picked it up and held it out to me. The line was dead. It had been like that since Steve’s call, an hour ago.

“See!” David said triumphantly. “And there is my backpack, right where I left it! Got all my electronic stuff in here. Can’t function without it. Thanks for keeping it safe.”

“I didn’t even know it was here.”

“I know.” He picked up the pack and slung it over one shoulder, then put out his hand to shake mine. I stared at it for a moment, then took it and let him shake it like a Missionary. I felt like we were back in that soap opera again. He started toward the door, then stopped and turned. “And I was serious about dinner, it has to be a weekend – Jason works too late for weeknights. How about Saturday?"

I shrugged. "I..."

"Okay, Saturday it is. I'll be in touch about details. See you then."

I sat at the kitchen table, watching him disappear down the stairs, and reached for a cigarette – patted my empty pocket – then stared at my open hand. I hadn’t done that for years! I’d quit smoking 20 years ago! But I needed a jolt of something to stop me from churning inside. It felt like I had electricity running up and down my arms and legs.

I locked the kitchen door, and keyed the lock-down code into the keyboard. The TV was still on, now talking heads opining about the news, and I left it on as I headed for the bathroom.

I peed in the sink, took a sleeping pill, washed it down, then staggered to my bed and fell over it, fully dressed, feeling like a balloon being deflated.

The phone was bubbling in my head as I swam up toward consciousness, annoyed that a dream had been interrupted. I punched the speaker button. “What?”

“Hey!”

“What? Who is this?”

“It’s me, man! Steven. Jesus!”

“What?”

“Your book.”

That woke me up and I sat up in the bed. “What about my book?”

“Did you, you know, do all those things...he does in the book?”

I laughed, my initial fear turning into a kind of sleepy amusement. “Every one of them,” I said teasingly. “I had to do research so I could write about it – right?”

“Right. Right. I mean, can you...can you really...you know, take a big one...like all the way down? Like Deep Throat?”

“Yes,” I said. "Just like in the book."

He made a moaning sound, then “Well, I just called to tell you, I just finished your fuckin' story, and, man, it has got me...so...fuckin’...hot...man! I..! Jesus! Everything? Ohhh, shit!”

“What?”

He was silent, sucking in deep, shaky breaths. “What?” I demanded.

“Aw, man!” he whimpered. “I just came! Talk to you later!”

* * *

Would you like to read more? Available by email, a PDF file you can print. Please contact me at Dirk@DirkVanden.net

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