the Bar Studs) Page 4

  “Only a year. My mother cried all over the police station and the courthouse, and they felt sorry for her. She actually did more for me than my lawyer. In fact, I shoulda had her as my lawyer.”

  Dorothy laughed, raising her hand to her mouth. Johnny Mash figured she knew she didn’t look so good when she laughed. Her teeth weren’t straight and her mouth was too big. They approached the newsstand on Sheridan Square, where lines of people waited to buy the Sunday Times and News.

  “I’d like to pick up a paper,” Dorothy said.

  “Be my guest.”

  She stood at the end of one of the lines, and he leaned against the blue mailbox at the curb. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a fresh matchstick which he stuck in his teeth. Many people were walking the sidewalks and crossing the Sheridan Square intersections, and traffic was heavy on Seventh Avenue.

  “How’s it going, Johnny?” asked a tall redheaded girl he vaguely remembered fucking. She’d been a model or something like that. Maybe an actress. She wore a gray coat that looked like it came out of an old Humphrey Bogart movie and he wondered how much he owed her.

  “It’s goin’ all right. You?”

  “Okay.” She smiled and made motions with her lips.

  “What’s a sharp-lookin’ number like you doin’ out alone?”

  “It’s one of those nights, I guess. Would you like to come up for a cup of coffee?”

  Johnny Mash inclined his head toward Dorothy. “I already got my cup of coffee.”

  The redhead looked at Dorothy. “I think I can make better coffee.”

  He thought of the fifty dollars he was going to ask Dorothy for. “Some other time, baby. I’ll give you a call, or better yet, come inta the bar some night.”

  She shrugged. “Okay. I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah, baby.”

  “Who was that?” Dorothy asked, carrying a fat New York Times in her arms.

  “Old friend of mine.”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “She’s okay, I guess. Where do you live, anyway? Maybe we should take a cab.”

  “It’s only a few more blocks. Just down Charles Street off Seventh Avenue. Are you tired?”

  “Johnny Mash don’t get tired.”

  They walked arm in arm past the all-night hamburger stand at Christopher Street, the dry cleaners next door, and the record shop. On Charles Street they turned right and strolled to a modern white-brick apartment building sandwiched between two tenements halfway down the block.

  “This is where I live,” Dorothy said. Johnny Mash had walked past this building many times. “The rent must be pretty high.”

  “Three hundred and twenty dollars a month for a studio.”

  He shook his head. “Somebody oughta shoot these fuckin’ landlords.”

  They took the elevator to the sixth floor, walked down a corridor, and Dorothy unlocked the door to her apartment. He followed her inside and saw yellow walls, an easel near the window, paintings hanging and stacked everywhere, and a fluffy orange sofa on a chromium base. Her desk, chairs, and knickknacks looked like they came from an antique shop.

  He stood before one of the paintings, a semi-abstract study of a young woman with an agonized look on her face. “She looks like somebody’s stickin’ a red-hot poker up her ass.”

  Dorothy laughed. “Well, she’s certainly unhappy.”

  “Broads like to be unhappy. When they’re happy they think something’s wrong.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “I am.”

  She removed her fur jacket. “Can I take your coat?”

  “I’ll leave it on for awhile.”

  “Would you like something to drink or to eat?”

  “Naw, but you got any dope?”

  “Dope?”

  “Coke, grass, anything like that?”

  “No.” She draped her coat over a chair.

  “I figured you was a big square.” He sat down on the sofa. “This is a nice pad you got here.”

  She sat beside him, crossed her legs, and faced him. “Thank you. Where do you live?”

  He noticed she had heavy thighs and a big ass, but a tiny waist. “The Barrington Hotel—ever hear of it?”

  “The one on University Place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think I read something about it in the Village Voice. Isn’t it supposed to be full of junkies and welfare cases?”

  “Yeah, there’s junkies and bums all over the fuckin’ place.”

  “Aren’t you a little afraid?”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “That they’ll rob you or something like that.”

  “Nobody robs Johnny Mash—they all know better.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded hunting knife whose handle was made of ebony and brass. He opened the four-inch blade until it clicked. “I don’t fuck around.”

  “Jesus.” She stared at the knife.

  “It’s a beautiful thing—ain’t it?”

  “It looks pretty lethal.”

  He chuckled. “It turn you on a little?”

  “What?”

  “The shiv.”

  “Why should it turn me on?”

  “Because broads like to be scared.”

  “Not me.”

  “Bullshit!”

  He turned sideways to her and in a sudden motion brought the tip of the knife to her neck. Her eyes widened and she flinched but he followed her movement and touched the point to the white skin of her throat.

  “Like it?” he asked.

  Her frightened eyes searched his face. “I’m going to scream if you don’t take that away!” There was a tremor in her voice.

  “I don’t give a fuck—scream.” He laughed darkly. “You know what’s gonna happen now?”

  “I think you’d better leave.”

  “No, that ain’t what’s gonna happen. I’ll give you another guess.”

  “I’m scared, Johnny.”

  “I know that, and it feels good, right?”

  “No.”

  “C’mon, don’t give me that. You feel more alive than you’ve felt in fuckin’ years, right?”

  She closed her eyes and didn’t answer. Her face was white as her blouse.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do,” Johnny said. “You’re gonna cop my joint right now.”

  “What?”

  “You’re gonna unzip my fly, bend over, and put my prick in your mouth, and if you don’t I’ll cut your fuckin’ throat.”

  She held her head high in the air like a giraffe. “Please put that knife away.”

  “Naw, baby. The knife is what’ll make it good for you. It’ll be the best cock you ever sucked in your life.” His voice became a low growl. “Now go ahead.”

  “I don’t want to. Please…” She shook her head and looked ready to cry.

  “Get this straight, baby—I ain’t leavin’ until you suck my cock or your head’s layin’ on the floor. What’s it gonna be?”

  He increased the pressure on his knife, and noticed her chest was heaving. She bit her lower lip, whimpered, and reached for his fly. He eased up on the knife. She felt around for his zipper tab, caught it in her thumb and forefinger, and pulled it down. The zipper pulled apart, revealing his white jockey shorts. She twisted her small hand into the opening and fished out his cock.

  “Put it in your mouth and make it hard,” he told her.

  “Please be careful with the knife.”

  “You be careful with my cock.”

  She held his cock in her fist, lowered her face slowly, and took its head between her lips. He leaned against the back of the sofa and watched her. He loved to see women suck him off, and could feel himself getting hard. He kept the knife pressed against her throat enough so she’d know it was there.

  “Don’t bite so much,” he said. “Just use your lips and tongue. I’ll teach you how to be a good cocksucker.”

  She moaned and slurped her tongue around his
cock as with her free hand she pulled down the zipper at the front of her slacks. Then she got on her knees beside him on the sofa and pushed her slacks and underpants until they were down as far as they would go.

  She lifted her mouth off his cock. “Touch my pussy,” she whispered.

  “Touch your own pussy.” He pressed the knife against her neck. “And don’t take your mouth off my cock until after I’ve come and you swallowed it all.”

  She worked her head up and down as her left hand massaged his balls and her right hand stroked herself between the legs. She breathed furiously and swallowing sounds came from her throat.

  Johnny Mash chortled. “I told you you’d love it,” he said.

  * * *

  Adrian flicked the switches beside the fuse box, and except for a lone light above the cash register, his bar became plunged in darkness. Julie Bauman sat at the bar and smoked a cigarette as she watched him lock the front door and then walk the length of the bar to lock the door in back. He acted like she wasn’t even there, and, earlier, when he had balanced out the cash register, hadn’t looked at her once.

  He came to her out of the darkness. “You want to take a drink upstairs?”

  “You got anything to smoke?”

  “Lots.”

  “That’s what I want.”

  “It’s upstairs. Let’s go.”

  He led her through the darkened kitchen to the steel door, which he unlocked with a key, and then up the stairs to his office. From the top drawer of his desk he took the three joints he’d rolled before he’d gone downstairs.

  “This is a great office,” she said looking around, her hands on her hips. She wore a yellow shirt with the top three buttons undone. “I love your prints. Are they signed?”

  “Some of them.”

  “How about that Picasso over there?” She pointed.

  “Not that one. Let’s go to the other room.”

  He opened the door behind his desk and entered the kitchen, where a white plastic table was surrounded by white plastic chairs. Next came his large living room, dominated by a stuffed sectional sofa covered with dark brown fabric. A Mexican tapestry hung on the wall over the brick fireplace, and positioned strategically were a color TV and expensive stereo sound system.

  “It’s really nice here,” Julie said. “That sofa looks so comfortable I could live on it.”

  “It’s nice to fuck on, too.”

  “Well, it’s really not wide enough.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “No?”

  “If somebody wanted to roll over or something, they’d roll over right onto the rug.”

  Adrian walked toward another door. “Since you’re so concerned about comfort, let me show you the workshop.” He opened the door, flicked a light switch, and a little dim lamp atop a night table flashed on. Beside the night table was a king-sized brass bed. “You think you’d fall off that?”

  She stood beside him in the doorway and pressed her body against his. “I don’t think so.”

  Her body felt firm and strong, and her left breast pressed against his stomach. When he bent to kiss her she hugged him tightly and raised her face to him. Their lips met and their tongues wrestled. She sighed, and he lifted his head away.

  “Take a shower,” he said. “You smell like my saloon.”

  “Let’s smoke a joint first.”

  He sat on the maroon upholstered chair beside the bed and lit one of the joints, while watching her unbutton her shirt. She stood before him with her legs spread apart and undid the buttons slowly, her head tilted to one side, looking sexy as hell.

  “What are you trying to prove?” he asked.

  “I’m just taking off my clothes.”

  When her shirt was unbuttoned she peeled it off and threw it over a bedpost, her round breasts standing high and proud. Next she unhooked her big brass Wells Fargo belt buckle, but stopped when he handed her the joint. A swoosh sound came from her lips as she inhaled and filled her lungs, then she smiled tight-lipped and handed him the joint back. As he drew on the joint she unzipped her jeans, pushed them down, and stepped out of them. Now she only had her white bikini underpants on.

  He watched as she arched her neck and ran her fingers through her long brown hair. The bikinis were puffed out slightly at her crotch, and her legs were smooth and fine. “C’mere,” he said. With a Mona Lisa smile she tiptoed in front of him and stopped. He bent forward, handed her the joint, and pressed his lips against her flat stomach.

  “Oh Daddy,” she whispered, looking down at him.

  “I’m not your daddy.”

  “Yes, you are.” She spun around, sat on his lap, and wiggled her fanny. “Daddy’s got a hard-on,” she said. “I can feel it.”

  “You’re going to feel it a lot more.”

  “Daddy likes to talk dirty.”

  “It’s not just talk.”

  They squirmed against each other, kissed, and passed the joint back and forth until only a tiny end was left. Adrian put it out with a dab of spit, and then popped it into his mouth.

  “Go take your shower,” he said. “I have to make a phone call.”

  “To your fat old lady?”

  “Get going.”

  She stood up and walked toward the bathroom, and Adrian watched the roll of her ass beneath her white bikini underpants. What a great little bitch she was. She closed the bathroom door and a few seconds later he heard the shower.

  He sat on the bed, picked up the red telephone on the night table, and dialed Sandra’s number. The earpiece buzzed five times before Sandra answered.

  “It’s me,” Adrian said. “How’re you feeling?”

  “I’ve been waiting up for you. Are you on your way over?”

  “I don’t think I can make it. It got busy downstairs and now I’m pretty tired.”

  She sounded disappointed. “I was looking forward to seeing you. We haven’t been together for over a week.”

  “I know, but I’m going to collapse any minute. I’ll come uptown when I wake up and we’ll spend the whole day together. I’ll take you to a nice restaurant.”

  “Would you like to drive out to the Island? I’d like to go to that seafood place in Oyster Bay.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” Sandra owned a Porsche, and he loved to drive it.

  “What time to you think you’ll get here?”

  Adrian looked at his watch. It was quarter to four in the morning. “Around two in the afternoon.”

  “Okay—I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her voice was warm and made him feel guilty.

  “So long.”

  He hung up the telephone and stared at the beige walls of his bedroom. Far off he could hear the shower gush like a waterfall. Glowing orbs of color appeared on the walls. Sometimes he thought he loved Sandra, but he couldn’t let her know. Once women realize you care about them, that’s when they start breaking your balls.

  “Hey, come on, wash my back!”

  “Hold your horses.”

  Adrian stood up and removed his clothes, and when he was naked looked down with disapproval at his stomach, which was beginning to bulge a little. Barefooted, he walked to the bathroom and opened the door. Steam and soap smell flew out at him.

  Julie peeked her head from behind the red shower curtain. “Your fat old lady give you a hard time?”

  “I’m going to give you a hard time if you keep talking about her that way.”

  She glanced down at his crotch. “I don’t think you could give anybody a hard time right now.”

  “Make room. I’m coming in.”

  The shower apparatus was in a white porcelain bathtub. As he stepped in she turned her back to him. “Scrub my back.” She held the soap behind her.

  He took it and looked down at her smooth rump. “Anybody ever screw you up your back door?” he asked as he soaped his hands.

  “I’ve been screwed everywhere, Daddy.”

  He massaged her back with his soapy hands, and then worked them forward to her breasts, cupping and
squeezing them. She twirled in his arms and hugged the front of her body against him.

  “Look at me,” she said.

  “I’m looking at you.”

  “I mean into my eyes.”

  Her hair was wet, her face was dripping, and when he looked into her eyes they were shimmering.

  “You really turn me on,” she said throatily. “You’re my kind of man.”

  He reached behind her and turned off the water. Then he bent over, hooked his arms around her, picked her up, and carried her out of the shower, out of the bathroom, and into the bedroom, where he laid her on the bed. She spread her legs and rolled her hips as she looked at him and raised her arms. He lay between her legs so that his face was above her soaking curly muff. He cupped his hands under her ass and lowered his head, pressing the flat of his tongue against the soft folds of flesh.

  “Oh Daddy,” she sighed, rocking her head slowly.

  He pushed his tongue deep inside her. There was nothing in the world like young girls.

  * * *

  When Teddy Holmes left the Corral he saw the usual crowd outside leaning against cars and motorcycles or pacing back and forth like animals in cages. These were the ones who hadn’t been able to make arrangements for the night with anyone, and now they were desperate. He noticed some of them gazing at him longingly, but he was used to this kind of attention. He knew he could have just about any gay man he wanted.

  The dark-haired one was leaning against a car, smoking a cigarette and wearing a blue bomber jacket. His eyebrows were thick and his eyes slanted and beautiful. “Hi,” he said as Teddy approached.

  “Hi.” Teddy continued walking east on Christopher Street, and the dark-haired man joined him.

  “Where are we going?” the man asked.

  “I live nearby.”

  The man smiled, put his arm around Teddy’s shoulders, and hugged him. There was no one approaching so Teddy casually let his palm brush the man’s fly. There was a firm bump underneath the zipper.

  “What’s your name?” Teddy asked.

  “Mark.”

  “I’m Teddy.”

  “I know. I’ve been to the Corral a few times and I’ve asked about you.”

  “I don’t remember seeing you.”

  “I never sat at the bar before. Tonight I thought I’d try to talk to you.”