Sometimes I can stare at them for hours and wonder what the fuck is going on in those pea-brains of theirs
All this long story of my life before is to say that this is why I am here. This is why I think the way I do, why I act like I do and why I like old men (if not in the faggoty sense).
For instance, there is this wonderful old fucker across the street. Mook B doesn't like him, but Mook A seems to understand that's he a lonely, sick, queer old guy (a lot like Mook A, actually, come to think of it). But he's also crazy about me and whenever I go for a walk with A, he lets me go up to the guy, who's always on his porch, and make nice-nice. It's the smell. It's the age. It's that you can tell he understands things like Frank understood things.
There is a backstory: The old guy owns the two houses across the street and they're very nice houses. Rumour has it that when he was in his hey-day, he owned the first gay bar in the city and managed to fend off the Mafia, which controlled most of the other gay bars here. Because he did this, his place became the hangout and over the years it also became the anchor of what is now a very large gay district. Now, I may be total disgusted by that lifestyle, but gay or straight anyone who stands up to the Mob and, later on, the cops (raids were a common thing) is a pretty cool guy. He's also a cool guy who got relatively rich (ie: the two nice houses) but also paid the price with his health. He has been in and out of hospital and though he looks better, he is probably on his last legs. And he loves me and he loves Ginger and you can't better about any man than that.
Anyhoo...
It's the way Mook A is kind with the old man—waaaaaay kinder than Karrlah ever was with Frank—that makes me thinks A may not be so bad after all. That doesn't mean he's going to win the ongoing battle of wills between me and the Mooks. I will win. I must win if I am to survive. But let me tell you: the Mooks are tenacious fuckers and A has the capacity to scare the jizz out of me.
Right now one of the key battlefields is the visit of my beloved, his nurse. I want to see her. I must see her. Simple. But A wants none of it. He claims he has enough on his plate dealing with the actual visit and its humiliations without me sticking my nose in his privates (as I am wont to do). So the minute she rings the doorbell on the mornings of her visits, he hustles me into the office and onto my bed and closes the door. To make sure I stay there he comes back two or three times while she's setting up the instruments of torture. So I behave...'til I hear them talking and getting down to the business of the treatment. Then I piss on something; the couch, the rug, the floor...it doesn't matter, it just has to make the point that the nurse belongs to me. After she leaves, though, Mook A gets downright Jason/Freddy but without the slashing and hacking. He comes in, finds my message, lets out this mother-fucking-from-some-animal-part-of-him-which-still-exists roar and grabs me by the scruff of the neck and tosses me into my bed, roaring all the while. If I so much as move my nose out of the bed, he comes back and sets me straight with another roar.
The last time I made the mistake of snarling at him and he brought his face right up to mine, nose to nose, and bellowed, "IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU'D LIKE TO ADD TO THE CONVERSATION!" I sucked back that snarl like it was a dick and I was a jonesing crack whore. I may be tough, but I'm not suicidal.
But that's the thing. The Mooks are a bit like that old fucker across the street. They don't give up. I push and push and push all of their buttons and still, at the end of the day, I find myself being cutesy for my food and fawning over them for a place on the couch or the bed and they give in. It's part of the many deals and compromises of our whacko relationship.
Is it possible that faggotry is contagious? Jesus H. Christ on toast...shoot me now!
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