Who Is Joe Smith

Deep in the night, alone, I twisted in the throes of a mad dream. A green tiger kept talking, but I couldn’t make out the tiger’s words. When the green tiger roared, my lust for the tiger knew no bounds. Then I awoke, disturbed, doubting, troubled by the sense of having missed an important message.

On Tuesday morning I parked around the corner from the Elections Office, carried my briefcase through the door, and cautiously surveyed the warren of cubicles. As usual, no one was standing at the counter. When I’d pulled this same stunt in two other elections, I’d left the registration cards piled neatly upon the counter and escaped with my anonymity intact.

Late the previous day, I’d driven to East Multnomah County and picked up the cards from Charles and Larry. We’d sat around their kitchen table, drinking from bottles of a dark Mexican ale, and inspecting each card. Even with three of us working, it took hours to examine 804 cards, though the passing time increased my accomplices’ confidence.

“There’s no way the clerks in the Elections Office have the time or the inclination to examine all of these,” Larry said. “It’d take them forever.”

“That’s what I count on, Larry,” I confirmed, reaching for another bottle of the tasty ale.

After leaving Larry and Charles, I drove to my rural mailbox. All was well: My vacant house still stood vacant and my large mailbox was undamaged. I hadn’t emptied it for a week, and the junk mail had piled up. Dead voters from previous elections were getting credit card offers, and the Department of Motor Vehicles was warning some old fart that his drivers’ license was expired. Had I been a criminal, I could’ve wracked up a fortune in fake identifications and fraudulent credit card bills. I mean to say, some of the offers included additional information about the potential respondents, including social security numbers.

Smiling at the memory, I opened my briefcase and piled the stack of registration cards on the counter where they couldn’t be missed. Unfortunately, before I could slip quietly away, a clerk rounded the corner. Instead of ignoring me until I demanded attention, she marched straight over and flipped through the pile. My blood ran cold.

“What on Earth,” she exclaimed. “Have you been out registering the cemetery?”

My feet felt like they had frozen to the floor, but I controlled my voice and my face. “Of course,” I snorted as if voting the graveyard was the most ridiculous suggestion ever uttered.

My trembling finger hovered over the address. “It’s a huge complex for old folks. Most of these seniors were previously registered at different addresses. These new registrations are mainly change of addresses.”

Was I ever changing their addresses—depending on where—if anywhere—people end up after they croak.

Eugene V. Debs and the Socialist Party Convention and picnic at Canton, Ohio, 1918.

If the chills running up my back told a true tale, armies were marching across my grave. I was sure I’d warned Neil, Bunny, and the Buckaroo not to register anybody born prior to 1920, but one of the drunken fools had damn-near registered Methuselah. Birthdates were the one detail Larry, Charles, and I hadn’t double-checked. Swearing under my breath, I hoped she wouldn’t pull out a card for some duffer celebrating his 157^th birthday.

“Well, these look fine,” she said. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re helping these seniors continue participating in the political process.”

My heart rate slowed perceptibly since she didn’t appear ready to summon the police. I beamed like the good citizen I was pretending to be.

She laughed as she picked up the registration cards. “You know, the way things are going with this nasty partisanship, I half-expect somebody to bring in a load of cards that they got off tombstones.”

My anxiety returned with a vengeance. “I expect you’d catch them.” I distinctly heard the gulp in my throat as I spoke.

“I should hope so. Each false signature is punishable by a $100,000 fine and five years in prison.”

I kept my face still as I made the mental calculations. At 804 counts against me, the sentence would add up to some eighty million dollars and forty centuries in the pen. I hoped that an amusing anecdote would divert her attention from the duplicitous cards under her hand.

“’Well, ya’ll figure it out,’ Johnson said. ‘That feller’s got as much right to vote as these other fellers here.’”

Laughing politely, the clerk carried the registration cards to a back office. I mopped my brow, closed my briefcase, and fled with due haste.

The Portland Bee’s chief political reporter, Tad Manes, customarily lunched at a small Greek delicatessen, located conveniently near his office. When he entered the restaurant, towing the editorial page cartoonist, I waved them to my table. I shook hands with the cartoonist and asked Tad, “What’d you think of Saturday’s candidate forum?”

“Somebody complained about a quotation Sharon Hobbs failed to attribute to Spiro Agnew. Sharon might lose her job.”

“She’s a new staff writer. I’ve been grooming her to cover the political beat. As if you didn’t know, Mike.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Young and poorly educated, the novice reporter hadn’t recognized Agnew’s words, and she’d attributed the quotation to an Albee supporter. Without giving my name, I demanded the publisher set the record straight. Hopefully, Sharon’s editor would blame Justin T. Albee.

The waitress arrived with my Greek salad and iced tea. Tad and the cartoonist ordered gyros.

“It didn’t say much, Tad,” I complained, digging beneath my lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, and onions for the heart of potato salad.

Tad made an annoyed face. “There wasn’t much to say. Same old, same old. I guess I could’ve written that the mayor delivered a stinging repudiation of your candidate in his closing remarks.”

“You could’ve printed some trash like that—after writing that nothing Albee said made sense. But I wanted to mention that the mayor had his shills packing the audience and harassing Kim Flanders whenever he spoke. Exactly what you accused me of doing.”

“I shook my head in disagreement, Tad. That’s hardly taunting. The mayor’s boys and girls were making faces at Kim Flanders. Giving him the finger. Trying to make him think his zipper was down. Out and out dirty tricks.”

“Hardly. Print the usual bit: The mayor’s critics say that they find Albee’s dirty tricks deeply troubling and hideously disrespectful to the electoral process.” I filled my mouth with salad.

“Yeah, same old, same old,” Tad sighed, jotting my words into his steno book. He didn’t like it, but he was going to write it. “So the mayor asks why his supporters shouldn’t attend the rally?”

“Political pundits say that it sounds like the wheels are coming off the mayor’s campaign car if he has to resort to dirty tricks. What’s he afraid of? What’s next? Tearing down Flanders’ campaign signs?”

“Has that happened?” Tad shifted aside so the waiter could set down his plate. I took a second look. Our waitress had been mysteriously replaced by a young Greek waiter with flashing black eyes.

“I haven’t witnessed any sign theft, Tad, but they’ve been steadily disappearing.”

“This race is getting ugly,” said the cartoonist, licking his lips. Ignoring his gyro, he scratched out a cartoon on his napkin. Fascinated, I watched as the picture appeared, a representation of the mayor sticking his tongue out at a shocked Kim Flanders while breaking a “Flanders for Mayor” sign across his knee.

After shaking hands again, I paid for my Greek salad and slipped away feeling I’d already accomplished a good day’s work—though it was high time I checked in at the campaign office.

As usual, Lisa was freaking out big-time. She was standing beside her desk, slamming her telephone receiver up and down on a stack of voters lists. Her face was red, and she was swearing richly.

“What’s got you unglued now, Warbitch?” I demanded, bending over her desk and searching her round, brown eyes.

“Warbitch? You’re calling me Warbitch now, Mike?” she screeched, warlike, flared, and cocked.

“I don’t fuckin’ like it, Sissy Baby,” she shouted just as Kim Flanders emerged from his office.

“Sissy Baby, Sissy Baby, Sissy Baby,” Lisa shrieked blowing every gasket in her engine. Tossing Kim a look to show that I had the situation in hand so he need not summon the white-coated guys to bring a straitjacket and a net, I grabbed Lisa’s flailing arm and dragged her into the break room. When I’d gotten her seated with only minor bruises, I popped the top of a Coca-Cola can, poured the contents into two plastic glasses, and told her to sip it.

Lisa and I were friends; we’d taken college classes together and we’d hung our while working on college campaigns, or staffing tables for the campus Young Democrats. I understood her better than she understood herself. When I was confident she wasn’t about to run amuck, I dropped my butt into the metal folding chair on the opposite side of the table and said, “I saw the cartoon that’s going to run on tomorrow’s editorial page.” I described the cartoon as I’d seen it develop, and I soon had Lisa laughing.

“That’s good,” she agreed. “But you don’t know what’s been going on around here.”

“Justin T. Albee started new TV ads today. You know the crap; contrived, phony, sappy, wrapped-in-the-flag public spirit—especially canned for couch potatoes. Then, at the same time, Neil’s been intercepting anonymous e-mails about Kim’s personal life. Nothing true. Just innuendo and below-the belt blows.” Tears swelled in her eyes.

“So that’s why you’ve been sitting on the dick of the mayor’s Chief-of-Staff?” she demanded.

“Lisa,” I exclaimed. “You’re sounding like my sister Janet.” I’d been hoping that she hadn’t caught on that Lance was Chief-of-Staff.

The tears streamed down Lisa’s face. I reached across the table and took her hand. She didn’t resist. “Come on, you’re upset about something else. Spill it.”

Lisa peered into the empty Coca-Cola can like she was looking for spies. I pointed toward her empty glass. “You want another one?”

“Nah. Damn stuff gives me gas.” She sighed and pulled her hand away. “Lou doesn’t like Kim. She doesn’t like me working with a bunch of girlie-boys.”

“You should get her together with my sister. Would Lou be happier if you were campaigning for a stud-muffin?”

“No self-respecting dyke wanted to run,” I said. “Besides, wouldn’t Lou’s eyes turn green if you were working closely with a butch-babe?”

Lisa barked out a harsh laugh followed by a belch. “What’d I tell you about that gas?” she said. “Lou doesn’t know what she wants. She’s unhappy about everything, and she’s making me unhappy. I don’t know how to make her happy.”

I shook my head. “This girlie-boy can’t help you. I’ve never been any good at making people happy.”

“I’ll always tell you the truth about your defects, Mike,” Lisa promised, brightening a bit. “That’s what friends are for.”

After hugging, Lisa and I went back to our separate desks. I looked at a computer printout that Neil had laid on my desk calendar, but I couldn’t concentrate on it. Lisa’s problems had hit me hard, but they were the problems of a relationship. I didn’t have those problems because I’d never had a long-term relationship. In fact, I’d never had a relationship—period.

Sure, I’d had sex with lots of guys, and I’d dated a few for a while but I never formed close bonds. I’d committed many political acts that I could never tell anybody about. I had secrets, and the best way to keep secrets is to keep away from other people. I’d seen pillow talk bring down a lot of politicians.

While I was thinking, Neil sidled up to my desk and whispered out the side of his mouth. “How’d it go at the Elections Division?”

I wrinkled my brow at him bringing up the matter right in the middle of campaign headquarters. Whispering back, I mouthed, “Not too bad, except for a few minutes when my livers and glands detached from my stomach and hopped up into my throat.”

Neil studied me with wonder. “Mike, your knowledge of anatomy is truly unique.” He placed his hand over his mouth—he’d painted his fingernails bright red that morning—and tittered. “So everything went okay?”

I’d felt safe sharing masturbation with Neil because he’d helped me register the graveyard. I could share some time with Lance because he ploughed and sowed in the same field, though his crop was different. Nevertheless, I could never tell Lance about my tricks. He must never know I’d registered a cemetery against his candidate. He must never know about the rumors I’d spread, the pancake fax, the push-poll calls, my own anonymous e-mails, or this morning’s newspaper plant. I knew that my reticence, my secrecy, and my necessary solitude might doom our budding romance. As I pictured a shouting, accusatory cataclysm or a sad, slow heat death of a love yet scarcely begun, a jolt of pain shot through my middle.

“Joe Smith. Like I said.” He didn’t sound like his name was Joe Smith; Bugsy Slaughter would’ve sounded more fitting.

“Terrytown,” Joe Smith/Bugsy Slaughter said. I grabbed my state map. As I’d suspected, there was no Terrytown in Oregon.

“What do you do, Mr. Smith?” I asked, suppressing a laugh. I could predict what his answer would be, and he didn’t disappoint me.

I suppressed a giggle. Whoever had planned this frame knew some political history. During the 1956 Republican convention, state after state had re-nominated Richard Nixon for Vice President. But when Nebraska’s number came up, a spectacled, white-haired delegate in a mustard-colored suit nominated Joe Smith.

Eventually Carpenter admitted that he’d created his candidate whole cloth. “Things were dull around here. I figured somebody ought to oppose Nixon, so I put up good old Joe, the symbol of an open convention.”

I rounded up Bunny and the Buckaroo, though Joe Smith had warned me to come alone to our secret rendezvous. Midnight was fast approaching as I dropped off Bunny and the Buckaroo and their video camera two blocks from Peninsula Park.

“Hello, stupid,” came his less-than-encouraging reply. The voice was different from the one I’d heard on the phone.

So my hunch had been right; I was getting set up. A thrill shot through me. Almost quivering with excitement, I confronted the tough-looking guy, about thirty or so, who looked like he’d been involved in a few earlier scrapes. Something in his demeanor suggested cop or hoodlum—it’s frequently difficult to tell the difference.

He pushed his face close to mine and bared his teeth, a repulsive sight. “Get out of the race, asshole.”

“I’m not running,” I said, glancing around. I couldn’t see Bunny and the Buckaroo, and I hoped they were recording the sound along with the picture.

“You’re a faggot helping that other faggot, Kim Flanders. You better quit your job.” His voice was extremely threatening.

“Okay, that’s one option,” I agreed. “Would you mind explaining what’s going to happen if I don’t.”

He replied by pulling out a .45 caliber Glock and pointing it directly at the bridge of my nose. I’d never looked down the barrel of a gun before, and I was glad I’d stopped to pee before entering the park. Otherwise my date might’ve had the satisfaction of seeing me wet my pants.

“Okay, I’ll give two weeks notice in the morning,” I squeaked. He didn’t crack a smile, and I was suddenly aware of another body rising from the shadows. Joe Smith hadn’t come alone either. For the first time, I wondered if I’d made a serious error in judgment.

I felt the second form move rather than saw the movement. As the meaty fist swung toward my face, I ducked my head to the left. Abruptly a terrific explosion rent the night and the muzzle blast lit up the bandstand. The fireworks were followed by a howl of pain.

“Ah Christ, Scout, you fuckin’ asshole. You shot me,” came a wail as the one who’d tried to punch me gripped his hand. “I’ll have your fuckin’ badge for this.” His was the raspy voice I’d heard over the phone.

“Jeez, sorry, Jay,” the offending cop said. “When the bastard jumped, I yanked the trigger.”

I could see the massive hole in the cop’s ruined hand and the blood flowing onto the ancient boards of the bandstand. I backed into the shadows and let myself quietly over the side.

“Hell, you’re really bleeding, Jay,” he commented. “Look at the way it gushes out. Hey. Where’d he go?”

“Who gives a shit. Call the paramedics. I’m fuckin’ bleeding to death here.”

“He’s a witness, Jay. I’m gonna ice him. If he tells his story, the mayor’s fucked. Then we’re fucked.”

My ears were ringing from the shot, but I slipped into a deeper shadow and ran along the winding path that circled the sunken rose garden. Lights off, my Honda slowly rolled past, and I jumped into the back seat. The Buckaroo was driving, and Bunny sat beside him with the video camera on his lap.

“Did you get it?” I demanded as the Buckaroo drove carefully down Portland Boulevard as the sound of approaching sirens ripped the darkness of the night.

“We got the plunder in our saddlebags. Are you noticin’ any indecorous holes, Mike?” the Buckaroo asked as he drove. “That promiscuous display of fireworks shore lit up the night. Shore yore not leaking nowheres?”

“We thought they’d done blowed yore damn fool head off with their shootin’ irons,” Bunny commented.

We rolled back to Bunny and the Buckaroo’s apartment, knocked back a few Corona Extras, and watched the video.

“If he tells his story, the mayor’s fucked,” the cop named Scout had said. And Jay, the wounded one, had declared, “I’ll have your fuckin’ badge.”

“I can’t make out their faces,” I complained. “I can’t even identify myself.”

“It’s darker than the inside of a mule’s gizzard,” the Buckaroo protested. “You ‘spect us to shoot lightnin’ bolts out our asses?”

“Tain’t gonna knock the mayor galley west,” Bunny mused. “Won’t amount to shucks after them flannel mouths o’ Albee’s commence ter jigging and roaring and prevaricating.”

“You sure shinned out, Mike,” the Buckaroo said. “You skedaddled from that shindy like a jackrabbit from a coyote.”

“Hey, are you in danger from them marshals?” Bunny asked. “They know yore handle. Are they goin’ ter dust you up? Come acrost yore carcass after yore hanged in the hoosegow?”

“Most likely they’d plug him whilst resisting arrest,” the Buckaroo offered.

“They aren’t going to do anything, guys. They’re going to go about their business and hope that I keep my mouth shut.” I hoped.

“We’re not vying for the good citizenship medal, Bunny,” I groaned, shaking my head. My ears were still ringing from the gunshot, but the beer was helping. “When we run city hall, we’ll clean up the police department.”

“Ya reckon the mayor has some galloots sniffin’ after Bunny and me?” the Buckaroo said.

“Huh. Sure they are,” I said, surprised that he should even question it. “Better stay pure, Buckaroo.”

The cowboys exchanged a look. “Tain’t no call fer you to be urgin’ us to stay pure nosomes.”

“We gotta hankerin’ fer each other alone,” the Buckaroo added. “It’s the rest of you that’s got some mighty odd ways, to my way o’ thinkin.”

“Don’t think too hard,” I suggested, adding a bit of innuendo. “Especially if you really think that the voters would consider gay cowboy fucking pure. I’m the pure one.”

“Yep, yore sex life ain’t particularly bully, Mike, because it mainly consists of a’jackin’ and a’squirtin’, but Kim Flanders has done the wiggle-fandango. Whilst he was in college, he got hisself initiated into the Cum-Sponge Society where the initiates take cocks inter both ends at once while them sorority gals judge which boys are the best put-out artists.”

“That’s a story from one of the mayor’s anonymous e-mails,” I snorted. “It never happened.”

“Great, now you’re listening to Albee’s smear team. You need to look at Kim’s character: there’s no way he’d do something like that.”

“I hear tell Kim was roostered proper when he done it,” the Buckaroo insisted—like he wanted to believe the story. “He couldn’t a hit the floor with his hat if’n he had three tries.”

Reaching into my bikini briefs, I straightened my dick, which had been hardening at an uncomfortable angle. “Who cares as long as nobody took photographs.”

“One o’ them Flanders campaign interns done preformed in a porno video, and tweren’t nothin’ lacking in the preformance.”

“So what?” I moaned, visualizing that item ending up in the newspaper. “He’s not running for anything.”

“As long as it wasn’t Lisa.” If Lisa had gone muffdiving in front of a camera, I didn’t want to know about it.

“I said ‘twere an intern, but Lisa Shaw’s got a history that’s a mite more heavy on lick than promise,” Bunny offered. “So’s everybody on yore candidate’s staff.”

“Our side. Yore side. The gay side,” the Buckaroo quibbled. “We hain’t investigated the Flanders staff. Albee’s goons dug up this sleazy stuff and broadcast it o’er the World Wide Web.”

“Albee’s goons didn’t dig it up,” I protested. “I’ll bet Stacy Sawyer made it up.”

Bunny continued, “Bill and his lover Tom used ter frequent that bathhouse on Sandy. One time a damn fool busybody calls in a fake bomb threat, and they go’s a’running outdoors buck naked.”

“Everybody has a sexual history,” I protested, aware that particular story was true.

“Not like the sexual history o’ yore crowd,” Bunny retorted, “and that’s the outrightest declaration I ever seen exemplified.”

“A policeman got shot last night,” Pop said, pointing at the morning paper as I dropped my weary ass into my chair at the breakfast table. I’d crashed for two hours, two hours of dreams riddled with green tigers. My tired brain was so slow on the uptake that I didn’t initially connect Peninsula Park with Pop’s statement. Then something fired, and I woke up fast.

“Let me see that,” I yelped, snatching the Metro Section. As long as I left him the Sports, Pop didn’t mind.

“Grabby,” Janet squealed, trying to take the paper from me. “I wanted to read that section.”

“When have you ever read a newspaper?” I demanded, hanging onto the page for dear life.

“Yeah?” I said, raising the paper above her reach. “Let’s take a quiz. Write down the names of each member of the city commission and the departments they administer.”

“Janet,” Mom warned, setting my waffle and sausage in front of me. “Finish your breakfast, and let Mike have his newspaper.” When Mom turned back to the waffle iron, Janet grabbed my sausage and pretended to perform oral sex on it. While she was acting out, I read the article.

Portland Police Officer Shot

Sharon Hobbs

The Portland Bee

Police Sergeant Jay Serfs was shot through the right hand as he and brother officer Scout Macmillan attempted to apprehend an armed drug dealer in Peninsula Park around midnight Tuesday.

The assailant, a black male in his early 30’s, escaped on a bicycle while Officer Macmillan tended to his fallen comrade.

“Officers routinely find them-selves in hazardous situations. It’s the suspect who initiates action and the officer who responds,” said Jodi Law, president of the Portland Police Association.

“Both Sergeant Serfs and Officer Macmillan acted courageously, and getting shot is nothing new to us. Despite the risk, officers are still answering radio calls for service.”

Said Mayor Albee, “My ad-ministration is going to do more to protect officers working in Northeast Portland. In spite of our efforts to bring about good race relations in this city, African Americans commit the majority of crimes.”

Police Chief Rocky Brownshirt praised both officers for their heroism and suggested that commendations could be awarded at the proper time.

After I ate my breakfast—minus the sausage, which Janet had dropped on the floor to Mahatma’s great joy, I carried the Metro Section to my room and called Lance on my cell phone. Getting no answer, I left a brief message. He called me back within the minute.

“Ah, Leaping Lucifer, did he have to say that African-Americans commit more crimes?” he moaned.

Lance ignored that question. “The calls started at 5:30 a.m.,” he groaned. “Every preacher in every black church has demanded a piece of my ass. The NAACP is threatening a recall if Albee wins re-election. I think that everybody living in Northeast Portland, no matter their race has yelled at me this morning.”

“Look at the bright side, Lance. At least Justin T. Albee said ‘African Americans.’ Imagine how much worse it could’ve been.”

“Don’t go there, Mike,” Lance wailed, sounding ready to break down. “I hope they never catch the guy that shot that cop.”

“How can you be so sure? If they do catch him, the fallout is going to get even worse.”

“They won’t catch him. Their description was too vague.” Vague wasn’t the word for it. The cops had turned me into a black guy on a bicycle. Of course, that was always the way: whenever somebody came up with a description of a fake suspect, the suspect was almost always black. Way too many people shared the mayor’s prejudice.

Of course, Lance didn’t know that the black drug dealer on a bicycle didn’t exist, so he continued, “I don’t want to show my face in City Hall today.”

“Take the day off. We’ll go for a drive in the country. Pack a picnic lunch and tour an alpaca farm. Make the rounds of the Yamhill County wineries and check out their free samples.”

“I wish I could, but my sense of duty won’t let me. Taking the heat is my job. However, Mike, I’ve got to tell you that today is going to be the day from H.E.L.L.”

Imagining him hot for me, I smirked into the phone. “Whatever you want, Lance.”

Campaign headquarters was swamped with outgoing mail. Robbie from Al’s Print Job had delivered campaign literature ready to mail to every voter in the City of Portland, and each stack of glossy brochures and cards had a mail-by date stuck on top. The contributions of Helquist and his friends had paid for machine printed names and addresses on our campaign propaganda, and each piece bore a bulk mail stamp, so we were saved the time-devouring horror of sorting and addressing and stamping.

Albee’s literature would bear pictures of his family (Mrs. Albee looked suspiciously like Ma Kettle), but Kim—not being breeding stock—didn’t have a wife or children. Therefore, we’d included a photograph of him as a child, and another as an adult working with children in an elementary school classroom. We may have been fighting an uphill battle against traditional family values, which seemed to embody breeding like maggots, loading your offspring with guilt, and expecting them to nurture you in your senility, but we had the cute factor on our side. Even at forty, Kim was a muffin.

Sprawling at my desk, I examined a voter’s guide printed by local Christian churches. These guides urged their congregations to support the Heaven-sent Justin T. Albee and boot Kim Flanders back to the Pit that spawned him, rank hypocrisy because throughout the centuries the clergy have been spewing fountains of hot man-to-man sex. On the bright side, I could fish these guides for suckers because they listed a hundred pastors’ telephone numbers.

Using an untraceable cell, I called the first pastor on the list. A melodious, calm voice answered.

“Reverend Aaron, this is Christian Bell,” I announced, assuming an inflated tone. Lisa looked up from her desk and shot me a disapproving look. I blew her a kiss as I announced to the Reverend Aaron, “I’ve been reading your voter’s guide, and I have to tell you that I find it troubling.”

“What would be troubling you, son?” the poor fish asked, thinking on no guile.

“I attended the mayor’s pancake breakfast last week, and I heard Mr. Helquist, whom I know to be a fine Christian man, asking someone if Justin T. Albee had performed in pornographic films during the 1970’s.”

Next to me, Lisa rolled her eyes. Over the phone, the Rev. Aaron gagged briefly, and I suspected that the gossip I’d started had already reached his ears. “I’m sure there’s nothing to that rumor, Christian. It’s simply a malicious cacophony spread by those degenerates Kim Flanders employs.”

“One would pray, Reverend, but I must confess to a misstep.” Lisa was eyeballing me like she would a slimy eel, but Reverend Aaron was nibbling the bait, hook, line, and sinker. “An acquaintance, hardly someone I’d call a friend, owns video tapes of those movies in question, and he showed them to me this past weekend.”

Endeavoring to hold onto his composure and failing miserably, Reverend Aaron simpered, “Oh, young man, you should keep yourself from such evil. Pornography leads to the sin of Onan, as certain as a sheep is led to the slaughter.”

I made a hand-job gesture for Lisa’s benefit, which made her lose her composure. I covered the phone so the preacher couldn’t hear the sputtering laughter escaping her lips.

“Oh, Reverend, I did fall into that inkpool of that terrible octopus of manual stimulation,” I wailed, reeling him in and holding out my net. “My friend and I flogged our dolphins while we were watching those films.”

Lisa nearly collapsed in her chair. A floundering gasp came over the wire, and I decided to cut the preacher some line. Giving him a stroke might prevent him from voting for that shark Albee, but it wouldn’t lead the minnows in his pool into Kim’s jaws.

“Reverend, for whatever offenses I committed during that foul afternoon our mayor must bear some responsibility for I certainly saw him performing in those aforementioned films. Of course, he was thirty years younger than the hardened politician for whom you urge me to cast my vote.”

“This guide you have issued urges me to vote for the mayor, but how can I cast my vote for the man who inveigled me into spilling my seed. It would be like constructing the Golden Calf anew. I would be setting up stones to Baal or passing my progeny through the fires to Moloch.”

A clamorous thump ensued as Lisa, convulsed in paroxysms of laughter, flopped out of her chair and lay doubled upon the hardwood floor.

“Son, I’m going to have to call you back,” floundered the burbling voice over the telephone. I wondered whether he was stricken with horror or rubbing his dick. Whatever, the gaff hook had pierced his heart.

“Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you,” I promised and disconnected without leaving a phone number.

While Lisa staggered off to the bathroom to recover, I picked another fish from the list, and made a similar phone call. I called three others at random before I stopped. I didn’t want to overdo it, which might arouse suspicion. I called just enough pastors to convince the entire crew that one young Christian had been driven to distraction and the depths of sin by the mayor’s past depravity. Well I knew, the news would spread. The Church is the greatest tool of gossip and rumor known to humanity. Flounders, mullets, and tunas are less susceptible to folly.

Arriving as agreed at the Rainbow Club, I found Lance signing up for a year’s membership. I greeted him with a friendly swat on the butt, which he returned—to my amazement—and grinned affectionately. No one seeing us would have doubted our intimacy. Lance seemed to have fallen out of his closet, at least in the Rainbow Club, if nowhere else.

“Let’s swim a few laps first,” Lance suggested. “I have a surprise for you.”

In the locker room, Lance changed into a silver thong swimsuit. “This is the surprise,” he proclaimed, turning to model the suit. Other men changing fixed their lustful eyes on Lance’s rounded rump and their underpants bulged. In order to avoid an untimely erection myself, I turned my head toward the rubber matting outside the shower room where two junior lesbians stood toweling each other off. Strangely enough, the circumference of my cock increased despite my precautions.

Lance noticed my excitement, and his fingers brushed my dick head. “Things have changed for me,” he breathed into my ear. “A week ago I couldn’t have imagined wearing something like this.”

“When are you coming out to the mayor?” I asked, and immediately bit my lip, but the words were out, and I’d stuck my foot into my mouth and down my throat. Lance lurched away from me, his face whitening at the thought.

“Sorry, Lance,” I gulped. “I don’t know what made me ask such a stupid question.”

Lance and I chased each other up and down the lanes until we were panting with exertion. Then we hit the changing room, jumped into our work-out clothes, and hurried to the weight room. We started with squats and worked the muscles from our butts down to our calves. After completing three sets on each lower body machine, I gasped, “Let’s save the upper body workout for tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Lance agreed, sliding his hand over my sweaty rear. “They’re super tight and bulging.”

Two bulky guys spotting each other on the barbells tipped me a wink and one made an obscene gesture that insinuated I was going to get fucked. The gesticulation had been offered with good humor, however, so I wiggled my ass as I followed Lance to the stretching stands.

“Do you mind if we forget about getting a drink?” Lance asked as we stretched our hamstrings.

“Sure,” I agreed, hardly believing my good fortune. The change in him was both unexpected and profound, but I didn’t complain as I followed his shapely ass to the showers.

Twenty minutes later still following Lance, I parked behind him near his apartment. Jennifer was sprawled on the couch watching the news. She was wearing silky pajamas, and I suspected we’d interrupted a private moment. I could’ve sworn I saw her hand slip surreptitiously out of her waistband.

“It’s boring as hell,” Jennifer complained. “What’re you boys up to?”

“Oh, we’re just hanging out.” Lance said, opening the door to his room and urging me inside.

Lance firmly closed the door on her question. Then he locked it. Jennifer couldn’t have missed the audible click.

“She masturbates during the news,” Lance confirmed with a small frown of disgust. “She thinks I don’t notice. She’s got a thing for the weather man.”

“Is it just me, or are women getting more exhibitionistic? Now they want an audience while they finger their clits.”

“Are we here to talk about horny babes?” Lance asked, pushing his mouth to mine.

No answer was possible or even necessary. I matched my tongue to his as his hot hands roamed down my body. Made bold by his newly recognized lust, he unfastened my pants, pushed them down, and massaged my swollen dick through my underpants. I let him take charge, and master me. Then he stepped back and pulled off his own trousers. He was wearing exotic underpants, a tiger print that triggered a shadowy memory, which slipped away as I grasped for it.

We had not yet dropped our underpants, but the brief covering made the mystery of our bodies more alluring. Lance climbed atop me, and our hardened dicks rubbed.

“I’m a tiger for you, Mike,” he moaned. “I want to mount you like I would a woman.”

Thus was the question of my odd dream banished from my mind. Lance pulled out a lubricant and extra-strength condoms he’d stocked against that evening’s dalliance, and when our foreplay had brought us to the edge of rapture, he penetrated me to an overwhelming purpose.