Everybody Loves You by Ethan Mordden Page B

and very drugged. So it all came together on him one night, and the next day he was no longer with us. You know, I think … I just think I have something you should see. Sip your wine and gaze upon the sempiternal sea while I make sure it’s out here.”
    He went into the house. While he was gone, the two boys came out of the ocean arm in arm, grabbed their towels, and dried each other off. They stood for a while, looking at each other.
    â€œWell, we’re in luck,” said the wise old queen, returning with a small black rectangular box. “I must say, I thought I’d taken it out here.”
    I would have said something, but my attention was held by the two boys from the beach, who were coming up the walkway onto the wise old queen’s deck.
    â€œRuss and Billy,” said the wise old queen.
    They called to him, waved at me, and went into the house.
    â€œBelieve it or not, I don’t do anything with them. I just like to watch them together. Why? Who can tell us why? Maybe even money is not enough. Maybe the reason some homos stay straight is out of fear of the dream. They fear to be … all homoed up into starving wraiths who get nothing. Take your wine along, I’ve this to show you now.”
    The box held videotape.
    â€œRuss and Billy will be napping, luckily. I wouldn’t want them to see this. It’s strong material. What we used to call ‘private films.’ Of course, everything’s transferred to video now. What pleasing novelty to see dear old friends back among us from the past. But don’t expect state-of-the-art…”
    Waves of static gave way to what looked like a piece of cardboard bearing the ballpointed legend, “Sailor Dick and Pants-Down Johnny.”
    â€œA certain half-baked Seventh Avenue tycoon who must remain nameless or I might vomit used to hire boys to make these … what to call them, my dear? Noose operas? Where it looks as if one boy is getting hung by another?”
    â€œHanged,” I told him. “Not hung.”
    â€œIs there a difference?”
    â€œPorn stars are hung. People are hanged.”
    â€œAh, there’s Champ. How tired he looks. I wouldn’t appear in a piece this tawdry to save my life. Of course, they’re totally fake and harmless, and the money was terribly good. Still…”
    Champ was pretty much what I had expected, a solemnly nice-looking chap who seemed very uncomfortable to be where he was, in a spotlit corner of a dark room, sitting in a chair. The raspy voice of an unseen man directed him in a stripping scene, item by item. “Leave your socks on,” the voice ordered. “Now let’s see a little action.”
    â€œThat’s our friend from Seventh Avenue,” said the wise old queen. “He liked to superintend his shows through a microphone, right into the sound track. Everyone else was making silents. Not he. Lavish productions, spare no expense.”
    â€œDon’t rush it, baby,” the voice grated out. “Take your time and you’ll get your dough.”
    â€œRather Brechtian, wouldn’t you?” said the wise old queen. “All these directorial impositions during the show?”
    Champ stopped masturbating and said something toward the camera. He seemed hostile, but he wasn’t miked, and I missed it.
    â€œSilly name, isn’t it, Champ McQuest? It was originally something extraordinarily simple. David Jones? Donald Jones? There was so much of that then. So many David Joneses coming to the city to turn into Pants-Down Johnny.”
    â€œOr Sailor Dick.”
    â€œNo, the sailor is an unusual item. He looks like a pro to me.”
    That he was, as I soon saw: sturdy, self-possessed, edgily efficient, and incongruously mustached in his navy whites. He hulked into view through a doorway and stood there, a pose in the shadows. The brutal voice told Champ to undress the sailor, step by step as before, and