Craigslist 42
WARNING
This story details explicit gay sex between men, teens and boys. If you find this kind of thing distasteful, or if you are underage wherever you live, then stop reading this now, and delete this file. The story is completely fictional; the author does not condone or encourage any of the acts contained herein.
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Craigslist
Chapter 42
By: Tim Keppler
Tim can sometimes be a real pain in the ass. It's not that he tries to be a pain in the ass. It's just that he goes along, living life very much from his own perspective. He lives in his world, and doesn't always emerge to realize that there are others of us out here. I don't mean to imply that he's selfish. Actually, he's anything but that. But he is very...focused, and one of the things he's focused on is providing for all of us -- Jason, me, and the boys. It a rare occasion that he focuses on himself, or lets us focus on him. Case in point: Jason's piano. The instant he discovered that Jason could play, could really play, he was searching second-hand sites looking for a piano, and not just any piano, a Steinway baby grand. When he found it, he pounced on it, and Jason was provided for. When he found that I liked writing games but didn't have the background to do it well, he had me enrolled in college, driving me on to a PhD that's given me the reputation I need to be fairly influential in the industry. And, when he found me floundering with my Dark Angel series because I hadn't sufficiently architected it, he dove in and wrote a platform on which each subsequent game has been written. He loves and nurtures my nephews more passionately than any father ever loved or nurtured his sons, despite the fact that they are no relation to him, and even extends a helping hand to people he's basically never met, like Dinh, my teaching assistant, who was starving to death while working his ass off for me. Why? Because I asked him to.
But, what do we get to do for him? He never asks for anything... Well...nothing but food. Tim loves to eat, god knows. And music. He loves music. And sex. But he never asks for that. It just comes to him, because we love it (and him) as much as he does. Both Jason and I absolutely adore him. So do the boys. But we don't really...show it very much. Is it that we don't know how, or that he doesn't let us? I'm not sure. Maybe we just haven't been creative enough.
After he finished the platform for Dark Angel, a project that took him two months of intensive concentration -- both because we wanted it to be expandable and because it needed to accommodate a retrofit of previous games -- I started to feel really...bad...about how little we'd done for him...to thank him for all that he is to us. I mean, both Jase and I were a total...mess when we first met him. Jason wanted to go to college, sort of, but had no direction. And I was happily working in...fucking retail. It was Tim who gave us the guidance we needed to find careers that not only fit our desires, but would pay us enough to live. That process wasn't always easy. It took perseverance from all of us, but we prevailed. So, after the Dark Angel project, I start to think about what we could do to...reward him, to show him what he means to us and how much we love him.
This is a remarkably hard question. I mean, Tim can basically have anything he wants, but isn't particularly materialistic. He's got two ten-year-old cars that he shows no interest in replacing, a television and stereo system that is as old as the hills, but work fine, he says. The only thing he upgrades regularly is his computer, and that's only because it's a business tool -- he has no choice. We could take him on vacation, I suppose, but he's basically a home-body. He doesn't like to travel a lot, especially after his "travel years" in the nineties when he clocked in 1.2 million miles in ten years. What he loves are good food, good friends, great music, great sex, and us, most of all us -- Jason, Kevin, Kai, Ian, Alejandro, and me. That's about it. He's a pretty essential guy.
Part of the problem is something I realized about him years ago when I talked to him about sexual gratification. One of the things he told me was that, while he finds the idea of bondage, of being tied up, erotic, he can't personally get off that way. He's way too touchy-feely. If he can't stroke you, can't feel like he's actively making you feel good, he can't get aroused, and I think that says all you need to know about who he is, both sexually and in life. He has the need to produce pleasure in others. That's a really awkward-sounding statement, but I don't know any other way to say it. I think a lot of this comes from his relationship with his mom when he was a kid. By the sounds of what he's told me, she wasn't always particularly...stable, and he felt responsible, from as early as eight years old, for ensuring that she was...happy...in a good mood. Because, if she wasn't in a good mood, she didn't show him much...affection. So, he's really good at sensing the emotions of others, but not very good at sensing what he himself is feeling.
I realize that the need to produce pleasure in others may appear to be at odds with the relationship Jason and I have with him. I mean, Tim can swing a razor strop faster and harder than anyone I know. But sometimes producing pleasure doesn't involve a caress, at least not initially. This may not seem intuitive, but is nevertheless true for Jason and me. And it's why we both love him so -- because he understands us. If I didn't want to be spanked, he wouldn't spank me. Honest! If it didn't bring me pleasure in some form, he would never do it. Never! But it does, and so once every couple of weeks, when he senses I'm `blue', he spanks me, and we sit and talk, and I feel better. Who knows why?
But, I guess I digress. The project before us is to make Tim feel more loved than he's ever felt in his life, and I'm not sure how exactly to do that, but I have a sense of what the ingredients for this recipe should be. It should include food -- probably Chinese food because that seems to be his favorite. It should include music. It should include as many of his family and friends as we can bring together. And, it should include mind-blowing sex (though not with his family and friends -- with just Jason and me). Jason and I brainstorm extensively, throwing around ideas, and finally come up with one that sounds interesting, something we think Tim will like. Then I call Gary, Tim's longest and best friend, and float the idea by him. He likes it, and thinks Tim will like it, which is more important. It's not elaborate. It's not even especially creative. But, it's something likely to please him. It's going to take one hell of a lot of coordination, however, and I'm not real sure where to start.
So, I start with the obvious and call Brian, the manager of N'Touch, a gay Asian bar and dance club in San Francisco. N'Touch has been closed down. They've lost their liquor license as a result of a sting operation by the San Francisco police that caught them serving liquor to minors. They didn't do this intentionally, but as a result of accepting bogus ID as proof of age. So, they're now in the process of reapplying for the right to serve liquor, and while they go through that process, the bar is closed. I mean, what gay club is going to survive without liquor? Brian knows me well, but is surprised to hear from me. Usually, it's Tim who contacts him. When he hears what I have in mind, though, he's enthusiastic. "That's very sweet, Kenny. I've known Tim for years and years, and I think that would please him no end. Yes, absolutely. The club is closed, as you know, so I can be quite flexible on the timing. Choose a night. You can have liquor, but you have to bring it and control it. And you can't sell it. It has to be an open bar. Basically, what you'll be doing is renting a room, and what you do in that room is no different than what you could do in your living room."
"Perfect," I say. "That's exactly what I was hoping for."
Next I call the real estate agents responsible for Parc Hong Kong, our favorite Cantonese-style Chinese restaurant in San Francisco. They've been closed for months. Bankruptcy. It's not the food I'm looking for, though. It's the venue, and they are hungry for any business they can find to help defray the cost of having the building sit vacant. They agree to rent it to me for one week at a ridiculously cheap price, and like Brian, they're flexible. We can choose any night we want. They'll even clean it up for us. It was such a lovely banquet venue, mostly because it was so traditionally Chinese in decor. The kitchen is still functional, I'm told, which is also important. Fabulous.
Finally, I call Jason and get him started on his part of this planning, and three hours later we have a date. We have an event that will take place exactly one month from today. I call Brian, and then the real estate agent for Park Hong Kong. We're set, and I'm seriously excited. Finally, I get the last call from Jason. A German friend of ours, Hans-Peter Henkel, is going back to Hamburg to visit his parents. His flat in San Francisco will be vacant during that time and he'd love for us to stay there. Mrs. Leong is also available that night, and she can babysit the boys. The stars are aligned. We are truly set. I begin to send out invitations to over three hundred people, asking for RSVPs two weeks later, and two weeks later we have acceptances from two-hundred and thirty-two of our friends. This is just fucking awesome. I can't wait.
So, here's the plan. Ian and Alejandro will fly in on the Thursday before the event on Saturday, bringing Vivienne Tourneau, their landlady, with them. I've only met her once, and she seemed pretty cool. They're crazy about her, and Tim, I think, is in love with her. She appeals to his folksy side. If he was straight, I think he'd propose to her, despite the twenty-year difference in their ages. The three of them will stay at Hans-Peter's flat, so Tim won't even know they're in town. We'll spend the next several days setting up the restaurant, and N'Touch. The N'Touch part of that will be minimal, and I've put Ian in charge of that. They have pretty much everything we need there except the liquor, which I've arranged to have delivered on Friday. Brian has kept the place clean during their closure to ensure they're ready to go when their license comes through. I've hired a DJ, one of Dinh's friends, to take care of music, and he'll come with his own set of disks.
For the restaurant, I've arranged to rent 20 tables, as well as linens, dishware, flatware, cooking utensils, and crystal. Each table will have a centerpiece of white and orange flowers (Tim's favorite colors) that are being arranged by Tim's favorite florist in Los Gatos -- Bunches. And then on Friday we'll hit the Asian markets on Clement to pick up what we need for the dinner. Nathan and I will cook, and I've hired two sou-chefs from the San Francisco Culinary Academy to help us with that. They don't have a lot of experience with Asian cooking, and this will be a chance for them to learn, so they come cheap. Between them and Ian and Alejandro, we should have plenty of cooks. I've also hired a bunch of San Francisco City College students as waiters for the evening. We'll need to train them a bit, but most of them have experience, so it shouldn't be bad.
Saturday's going to be a little sticky. Jason can be out of the house because Tim thinks he has a performance that night. In fact, he's arranged for Nadya to cover for him as first violinist, so he's free. He's also arranged for the rest of his quartet to be with us, another violinist, a violist, and a cellist. He had to work at this, I guess. I mean, these musicians are core to the string section of the Symphony, and Tilson Thomas wasn't thrilled about having them all missing at once for Saturday's performance. Jason managed to convince him, though. He also managed to convince Patrick O'Casey to fly in for the occasion, calling in a favor for all the nights that Patrick and his husband William have spent with us.
I, on the other hand, can't really come up with an excuse without raising suspicions. So, Jason and Nathan will supervise food preparation (chopping, slicing, parboiling) throughout the day. They'll also be at the restaurant to receive the flower delivery and to take care of any last-minute preparations. I'll arrive that evening with Tim, Mrs. Leong and the boys in tow, telling him that Parc Hong Kong has re-opened and has gotten favorable reviews in Yelp. We have to try it. By the time we arrive, the guests will all be seated, and the restaurant will look like its usual bustling self, except that everyone at the tables will be Tim's family and friends. Hopefully he won't notice that until we're inside. We'll have music, a banquet the likes of which Tim has never seen, and when we've finished, we'll move to N'Touch for dancing. Honest to god, this is the most daunting thing I've ever arranged in my life. I don't know how event managers at software companies do it. It is more complex that any project I've ever coordinated, but I honestly think that it's going to be amazing.
On Friday night, I set the trap, and Tim walks into it. "Did you hear? Parc Hong Kong has re-opened."
The minute these words are out of my mouth, Tim's eyes light up. "You are kidding me." And then he comes down from that high. "It's probably not as good as it was."
"Well, I read several review on Yelp from former customers, and they say it's even better. The food is just as good because they have a lot of the former staff, and the service has improved."
I've never seen a broader smile. "We're going to have to try it."
"Well...umm...err..." I taunt him. "I made reservations two weeks ago for tomorrow. We're going."
Tim looks troubled. "But...umm...Jason has a concert tomorrow night."
"Don't worry about me," Jason reassures him. "I'll get there eventually. Reservations are hard to get right now, Kenny said. You guys should go without me."
Tim stares at Jason, and then at me, and then smiles. "Okay. If it's good, we'll go again soon."
YES!
We leave home the next evening at 5:15 so we can arrive at 6:30. Parking is always a challenge on Geary, and is bound to be even worse with 232 guests slated to arrive. I want a little extra time to find a spot. When we hit Park Presidio in San Francisco, I hit the send key on my cell phone to send off a text message to Jason that we're five minutes away so he can take the "Private Party" sign off the door and turn on the Park Hong Kong marquee sign. We find parking in the garage above Walgreen's, about a block away, and hustle the boys out of the car and down the block to the entrance, and, honest to god, it looks just like it used to on a Saturday night. The restaurant is packed, but with a very mixed crowd (this would be the only give-away). They're animated, and Tim doesn't appear to notice that every one of them is someone he knows. As we enter the restaurant, an Asian lady (one of the hired waiters) greets us in the perfunctory way of all Chinese restaurants (as she'd been instructed), and leads us to a table directly in front of a small stage at the left of the restaurant. Tim is guiding the boys, and doesn't notice until several seconds later that he's been lead to a banquet table, rather than a table for four, and that it's right next to a small stage. As he looks up, he sees Ian, and looks utterly confused. Glancing to his left, he sees Alejandro, and then Mrs. Leong. Then the entire room of what turned out to be 228 people rises in unison and screams "Surprise!"
It is just priceless. For a moment he looks terrified, and instinctively moves in front of the boys, shielding them from whatever this is. And then he scans the room, realizing that he knows everyone here. Gary and Nathan are here, Ty and Teddy, the Mazurs, the Claspills from his old neighborhood, Norma, Becky and her new girlfriend, 228 people he loves, many of whom he hasn't seen in ages. Even our county supervisor is here, the guy that performed Jason and Tim's marriage ceremony, and the Unitarian minister who performed our commitment ceremony. He is stunned and confused, and then turns to me and smiles, cuffing me playfully. "Very well played," he says with a snaugh. "You should get an Oscar for this one."
The crowd finally sits, and I get the boys settled while Tim makes the rounds of the room, moving from table to table, greeting everyone. More hugs and kisses are exchanged than he's given in years. It's only when Jason and the quartet make their way to the stage that Tim finally meanders back to his seat and sits. He has, after all, no idea what this is about.
"Thank you all for coming," Jason says, taking his place in front of the other three musicians. "Kenny and I are so glad you could join us. We're here, as all but one of you know," nodding toward Tim, "to pay a tribute to a role-model, someone who has made such an impact on our lives that I wasn't quite sure how to express it when I was thinking about what I'd say here." Tim looks confused, I notice from the side, but continues to listen intently. "He's generous, kind, passionate, and very wise." Jason is starting to choke. "He's also, as my cousin says, a pain in the ass." Big laugh. "He's very hard to thank, because thanks typically embarrass him. But we...umm...have to thank him...for...so much. He has made a huge difference in my life, in Kenny's life, in the lives of his sons, Ian and Alejandro, and in the lives of our sons, Kevin and Kai. And we...umm...adore him...and...and...I don't think I can say any more...right now. We're here to honor...Tim...because we love him...so."
Tim suddenly gets it, and is glassy-eyed. He looks like he wants to get up and hug us, but I think he's embarrassed and right on the verge of tears.
"So," says Jason, looking down at Tim with a very fond smile, "Tim appears to me to be really close to tears right now, so what we're going to do is push him over the edge. We're going to do the one thing that we know will give him that emotional release." Gary reaches over and squeezes the back of Tim's neck. "We're going to play some of his favorite music, and when he's sobbed out, we're going to have dinner. Those of you who don't know Tim well probably don't know how hard it is to take him to a concert." This draws snaughs from several in the audience, and from Tim himself. "We have to fortify him. We have to ensure that he's well insulated from the rest of the audience because he's a very emotional listener. Music speaks to his soul, and we're about to play some of his favorite pieces. You needn't worry about him. Just pet him occasionally. He'll purr and be fine. We're going to start with Janáček's first string quartet, and follow that with a solo piece that I'll play, Paganini's Cantabile. Then we're going to play Schubert's Quartet in D-minor which you probably know as `Death and the Maiden', and we'll finish up with the Shostakovich Quintet, which I believe is his favorite piece of music ever written and should finish him off nicely. And joining us for the Quintet will be Patrick O'Casey, a good friend to San Francisco, and a good friend of Tim's." Patrick makes his way through the tables and squeezes Tim's shoulder. They hug warmly, and then Patrick takes his place at the piano. "And your job, Gary, is to prevent Tim from getting up and leaving the room, because he will try." Tim smiles tearfully, the crowd laughs, and the music begins...
...and it is lush, spectacular. I don't personally know a lot about classical music, but both Jason and Tim do. The Janáček is spell-binding from what I can hear from the kitchen, very figured. It's sort of romantic, but the music is built on short repeated segments, abrupt shifts in mood and texture, and is very...dissonant, yet rooted in tonal harmonies "Death and the Maiden" I love. In fact, I come out of the kitchen to hear the first part while Nathan continues to cook. It may be my favorite piece of classical music ever. Jason says it's a chestnut, whatever that means, but he clearly loves it too. By the Quintet, Tim is a mess, but so are a lot of others. Shelly Mazur, Diane's mom, is sobbing, and Teddy has a wad of Kleenex clutched in his hand. Even Patrick, sitting at the piano, is teary-eyed during the Paganini. The Quintet, which I've heard several times because Tim can't get enough of it, is breathtaking, and I don't even know how I know that. How is it different from the Borodin Trio's version, which Tim plays endlessly, or the Manhattan String Quartet's, which he also seems to like a lot, or...? I've no idea. Is it because it's live? Or is there something intrinsically different about the interpretation? I really don't know, but if you want to see tears, this is the one that delivers. My god! It looks like half the audience has the sniffles.
At the end of the Quintet, the audience rises in a thunder of applause, and when that dies down, Jason comes forward, motioning me onto the stage. "Thank you, Tim," I say, "for all you've done for us." Now I'm choking. "We...love...you...more than you can know." I'm not especially articulate, I guess. But, Tim knows that. I think he'll understand...what I feel.
Tim can't stand it any longer, and it's not as if these 200+ people haven't watched him cry through almost two hours of music. He jumps up, climbs onto the stage, and hugs us, and then Ian and Alejandro join us. Kevin and Kai, who, in our absence have looked to Gary for permission, are next, launching themselves into our collective arms. This is one very long group hug, and it garners another ovation. "I love you guys...too," Tim chokes.
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We fed the musicians before anyone actually arrived, I should admit here and now. Well, all of them except Jason. Nathan went next door and got them barbequed duck and pork over rice, which was Patrick's suggestion. Why? Because I want them to keep playing throughout the meal -- background music -- music to eat by. They form a piano quartet, and play Mozart and Schumann mostly, with some Dvořák and Fauré, all Jason's suggestions based on what he knows of Patrick's repertoire, and that of the other members of the quartet. As they begin to play, the waiters bring out pots of tea, Go-Bo, for each table. Go-Bo is a beverage consisting of China Black Tea mixed with Chrysanthemum flowers. It's a common tea for Dim Sum, but not so much for dinner. Still, I know Tim loves the fragrance of the Chrysanthemums, and will love this. Next, the waiters return bearing two bottles each of wine, a Chardonnay, Tim's favorite, and a Pinot Noir, which won't be too heavy for the food, Jason thinks. And then, they bring out plates of shrimp dumplings, Har Gau, and pork tarts, Siu Mai, typical Dim Sum treats, but both easily comprehensible by this mixed crowd. They're gone in an instant. Next is Hot and Sour Soup, which I'd always thought was a Taiwanese dish, but actually originates in northern China. This stuff takes work. You have to get the proportions of soy sauce, sesame oil, rice vinegar and broth just right. Nathan and I have labored over this for most of the afternoon, and I think I have it right. Tim loves this stuff passionately, and scarfs it down pretty fast, I notice. Then we start sending out the entrees: Beef chow-fun, another of his favorites, Crab with black-bean sauce, Stir-fried clams, Stir-fried Geoduck with veggies (and you just can't fucking believe how expensive Geoduck is these days -- nearly a hundred dollars a pound), Gai Lan with beef in oyster sauce, Shitake mushrooms stuffed with shrimp, Clay-pot eggplant, Baked lobster, and Deep-fried Pompano. Jason helped me with the menu, and I have to say, it's pretty spectacular, though not especially difficult to prepare. That's the amazing thing about Jason. He pulls together these meals that seem like they must have taken days to prepare, but didn't.
Gary tells me later that about fifteen minutes into the meal, Tim asks where I am. "He's cooking, Tim. He and Nathan are cooking."
Tim is astonished. "You mean...umm...this isn't Parc Hong Kong food?"
"Umm...no," Jason replies. "Parc Hong Kong really is dead. This is Kenny food."
Tim gulps, and tears up, but says nothing. He simply goes on eating, savoring every bite. He is very fond of Chinese -- food and boys. J
At the end of the meal, we send out dessert, mango and sticky rice, which is Kevin's all-time favorite thing on this planet. The fibrousness of the mango combined with its sweetness is juxtaposed against the mooshiness of the sticky-rice with its thin coating of coconut milk and sprinkling of toasted sesame seeds. Kevin likes it even better than bananas. I can't resist sneaking out while it's being served so I can watch him crawl nearly out of his skin waiting for his portion, and I specifically ask the waiters not to serve Tim's table first, just to torture Kevin a bit. Ultimately, though, Tim just can't watch him become that frantic, and takes a serving from one of the other waiters' trays and carries it over to Kev. Kevin squeals when he sees it, and dives right in. And after that first bite, he looks up at Tim, his mouth full. "Fank yow Thaddy!" he says, relieved. He's become a pretty adorable little boy.
At Tim's table we seated Gary; Ian and Alejandro; Vivienne Tourneau; Jason; Diane, Shelly and Paul Mazur; Kevin and Kai; and an old straight friend of Tim's, Gordon, whom he hasn't seen in several years. You do the best you can at events like this, I guess. You try to match people who're compatible. At Tim's table, we tried to put the people who are most important to him at this moment, or people he really likes. But...inevitably...you're left with a handful of people who are unattached but important. I'd asked Tim about Gordon, and he'd told me how important he'd been to him early in his career. Gordon must be twenty-years older than Tim, and had been a mentor to him when his ex-partner worked at IBM. "He was hands-down the most meticulous programmer I've ever known. He liked to work in Assembly language, which tells you a great deal about his personality. At that time, he could have been coding in C, PL/1 or COBOL, but he wanted to work in Assembly -- right down at the bare metal. He was an absolute fucking control freak, and a difficult guy to know, but once you got to know him, and he got to know you, he was really sweet."
Since that time, apparently, he's gotten less sweet and more personally rigid. Most of us, when we're in a public setting, try to assess the people we're with and temper our comments so they fit the crowd. This is not to say that we don't believe what we believe. We just try to package it in a way that's appropriate to the people we're with. Gordon apparently doesn't do this. In fact, he goes out of his way to understand the values of the people he's with, and to oppose them. He's not having a discussion; this is a monolog. He wants to talk about everything, and to piss off everyone. And, apparently, he does a very good job of it. He talks endlessly about why Israel shouldn't exist, pissing off the Mazurs, about the "superficiality" of people who live in southern California and how inferior UCLA is to Berkeley, about the "stupidity" of being a concert musician and classical music in general, and about how he believes that game development will become a corporate undertaking rather than a creative endeavor for entrepreneurs. And then he announces that he has to go pee, and as he's getting up to go do that, Tim, who has clearly had enough, says, "Gordon, I think the best restroom for you is at Walgreen's, down the street."
Gordon looks at him quizzically. "Doesn't this place have a restroom?"
"It does, yes. But the one at Walgreen's is better -- for you."
Gordon gives him a long, long look. "Are you suggesting that I leave?" he asks.
"I am. Yes. I just think that we'd all be happier, yourself included, if you pissed at Walgreen's rather than pissing on us, don't you agree, Gary?"
"I do. Yes," Gary says, getting up out of his chair. Gary is a big guy, probably 6'5", weighing in at nearly 300 pounds. His rising could either be interpreted as a way of accommodating Gordon's departure, moving out of the way so he can squeeze between the tables, or as a threat. Who knows how Gordon takes it? Who knows how Gary meant it?
Looking at Tim again, Gordon's eyes narrow, the same kind of signal as when a cat's ears fold down: he's ready for a fight. And then Tim defuses the moment -- or makes it more awkward -- by rising, extending his hand, and saying "So good to see you again. Drive carefully."
Gordon takes his hand, and they shake, Gary looming behind Tim. "Good night," Gordon says, turning and wending his way through the labyrinth of tables to the door where he exits the restaurant. And as he leaves, there's a collective sigh of relief from the other guests at Tim's table. Gary moves back to his seat, and sits. Tim smiles, scanning the guests at the table. "Interesting the difference a few years makes, don't you think?" he asks, sitting down in his own seat. And then, crisis averted, the table begins to discuss the most recent election as the waiters come to replenish the tea, Tim motioning me from the side of the room to come and take Gordon's vacated seat next to him. After fifteen or so minutes of discussion, during which we trash the republicans (as we normally do), Tim looks over at me and smiles. And then he reaches over and pulls me into a rather passionate kiss. Breaking the kiss finally, he whispers in my ear, "Thanks, babe. This was very sweet." The table is dead silent. Tim scans the guests, smiling. "So, how `bout those Giants," he says, drawing a laugh from Shelly Mazur as everyone starts to chatter again. All in all, it's been a pleasant evening.
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We'd suggested that everyone take public transportation from wherever they live along the peninsula to San Francisco -- CalTrain. The 439 train leaves San Jose's Diridon station at 4:00pm and arrives in San Francisco, 4th and Townsend, at 5:36pm. It stops everywhere, so there's no reason that any of our friends can't catch it. If they take this train, we'll have chartered buses waiting for them at the station to take them to the restaurant. We'll also bus them from the restaurant to N'Touch. The last train out of San Francisco on a Saturday night leaves at 12:01am, which is just too early for us, so we plan to have the buses drive them to each of the train stops along the CalTrain route between San Francisco and San Jose. Because this part of our plan amounts to 50% of the cost of the whole event, we'll charge our guests the equivalent of what they'd pay CalTrain to carry them back home.
At 11pm, the chartered buses arrive, ready to take us from Parc Hong Kong to N'Touch, and 180 of us file out of the restaurant and onto the busses. The head waiter, a City College student we're paying very well, is responsible for supervising the cleanup, so he and the rest of the waiters remain. The two sou-chefs from CalCulinary come with us. They've earned this. They've worked very hard tonight chopping veggies. They should enjoy N'Touch. The plan is that we'll go to N'Touch and dance. We have a DJ, the friend of Dinh's, and he comes with his own music and equipment. We have another City College student who's going to be our bartender. He's actually been a bar tender before. He knows how to do it. And we have Mrs. Leong playing nanny for the dozen or so children who are coming along. N'Touch has a back room that's reasonably sound-proof. We've lined it with foam-rubber mats and blankets. The children will sleep there. Kevin and Kai are pretty much asleep by the time we get there, as is Diane. It's way past their bed-time. We carry them in, plop them down, cover them up, and they're good for the night. Tim tells me that his parents used to take him everywhere. They didn't, apparently, like the idea of baby sitters. So, they'd take him along to parties, and at some point dump him on someone's bed where he'd fall asleep. Then, hours later, when they were ready to leave, they'd carry him home and tuck him in. Kids are resilient that way. I mean, when you're six or seven, what do you care where you sleep. I never did. I'd just do it. Tim's older sister told him that when she was that age, his folks would take her to friends when they were out of beer, and that's what she'd say: "Mommy and Daddy have run out of beer, so we've come to see you." It made a good intro line, I guess. An hour or so after they arrived, her mom would put her to bed on whatever bed was designated. Sometimes there were four or five kids on that bed. The next morning, she'd wake up in her own bed a little confused. Her mom would have to explain to her how she'd gotten there.
We've been to N'Touch a number of times over the years. We have sort of a tradition. And we're going to follow that tradition tonight, as Tim realizes the moment he walks in, because the bartender, who is a very cute, slim Asian guy of about 25 (I'd guess Vietnamese) is naked. We warned the guest about what to expect in a letter that accompanied their invitations. If they don't want to be involved, they can leave after the banquet, and a couple do. The rest, including a fair number of straight couples -- Diane's parents included -- elect to come and dance. As soon as everyone's inside and the kids are tucked in, Jason, Ian, Alejandro and I climb up on the bar and I bang on a glass to get everyone's attention. "Again, let me thank you on behalf of the four of us for coming. Tim means the world to us, and we've been trying to figure out how to thank him, not so much for what he's done for us, although he's done a lot, but for who he is. We know he loves good food, especially Chinese food. So, we've fed him. We know he loves good music, especially chamber music, so we've serenaded him. We also know that he loves...to dance, and so we're going to dance with him. But..." Long, long pause as I survey the crowd, "...we have a proud tradition here at N'Touch, a tradition Tim started several years ago. The four of us like to dance...naked." As I've been speaking, each of us has shucked his shoes and socks, using one foot to take the shoe and sock off the other foot. We've all been practicing this for the last several days to make it unobtrusive. When I say "naked," we each reach to the collar of our t-shirts and pull forward. What each of us has been wearing aren't really clothes. They're costumes -- sort of -- they're clothes, but they're connected, front to back, by Velcro strips that run along each side and between the legs. When we pull from the collars, those Velcro strips separate so that in one fluid movement we're naked, dropping the clothing onto the bar. We've done a "Full Monty", and the crowd cheers and applauds. "Please get a drink, and have a wonderful evening," I say, concluding, as we each make for a go-go cage.
There are five go-go cages at N'Touch, and four of us. But, Nathan is joining us, and by the time we jump down off the bar, he emerges from the restroom, also naked. We all scatter, taking our places, just as the DJ starts the music: Cher's Believe. What else would you play as the first dance tune at a gay bar? And then we move through Tina Turner's Proud Mary, Tom Petty's Refugee, Gloria Estefan's Conga, Santana's Smooth, and a host of Tim's other favorites. Be careful what you wish for. At home, all our music runs off a server in the attic, and there's music going pretty much 24 hours a day. The software that runs on that central server tracks how often each song is played so it can build a "favorites" play list, and Tim isn't one to set the server on random and just let it play. He programs his play list for the day every morning. (He's very anal when it comes to music.) So, what I do is take the first five hundred most-played pop titles of his musical favorites, print them off as a list, and deliver it to the DJ, who analyzes it, and builds his play list for tonight from Tim's. An hour into the first set, Tim is apparently breathless. "Fuck," he says to Gary. "I can't stop dancing. Every time I think I'm out of gas, this DJ puts on another of my favorite songs. This guy has great taste."
"I had to smile," Gary says later. Be careful what you wish for...
Jason, Ian, Alejandro, Nathan and I dance non-stop for three hours, and so does basically everyone else. Very little liquor is served, we discover later, because everyone is too busy dancing to drink. Is it the music, or the tone we've set -- one of sheer abandon? I've no idea, but we manage to cram some 200 people into this place, and they're all gyrating to the beat of some of Tim's pop favorites from the `60s through to today. And, it's not all disco. One of the things the DJ discovers in looking through Tim's favorites list is that the two songs he plays most frequently are San Francisco, written and sung by Scott McKenzie, and Imagine, written and sung by John Lennon, and he integrates these into his sequence of songs. They're a challenge for us because they're really slow, very different from most of the other stuff we've been dancing to, and they're a challenge for Tim because they do to him what chamber music does to him -- they reduce him to tears. I know why Imagine does this to him. It's a perfect description of his world view, of how he'd like the world to be: no heaven, no hell, no countries, no strife, no war -- "and the world would be as one." When the song starts about half way through the evening, we all stop dead. I stop because I don't know how to dance to this at first, but from the go-go cage, I realize that everyone has stopped. And then I see Tim, standing more or less in the middle of the room, looking utterly lost. Then he crumples and starts to cry. Then Dinh, who's standing behind him, notices, and reaching out, hugs him. They start to dance, holding each other, Tim draped over Dinh's shoulder, Dihn leading. It's a special moment. It isn't often that Tim can cede control and allow himself to be led, but he does for this song.
The same thing happens half an hour later when San Francisco begins to play. I've no idea why this song touches him so. Well, maybe I do. It's the idea of "Gentle people with flowers in their hair". The song appeals to his hippie side, though it was written a couple of years before he was even born. He likes to think of San Francisco, and probably California as a whole, as idyllic, which is probably why he descended into such a funk when Proposition 8 passed. Suddenly Californians showed themselves to be the bigots they are. He wasn't prepared for that. Appropriately, when the song begins, it's Vivienne Tourneau who rescues him, and they dance slowly around the room, holding each other tightly. They really would make a good couple...if Tim was straight. Given that he's not, Jason and I will have to do. J
The DJ, who is straight, finishes the evening with the gayest of gay anthems, Somewhere Over the Rainbow. But the version he chooses is one done by a singer named Jason Castro, he tells me later. I've never heard of him. Tim seriously loves this song, and has versions by Ray Charles, Celine Dion, Jewel, and, his favorite, Faith Hill. This version is very different, and until you're probably thirty seconds into it, you don't even realize what you're listening to. Then, with the first word -- "Somewhere..." -- you get it, and it is just amazing. It follows a disco remix of Britney Spears' Everytime, certainly not one of Tim's favorites, but good to dance to. Somewhere Over the Rainbow, once again, stops everyone in their tracks as we all try to figure out what this is. And then, after that thirty second mark, most of us begin to dance again. Not Tim. He stands motionless in the middle of the room, listening for probably another thirty seconds. And then, he begins to dissolve. This time it's Shelly Mazur who goes to rescue him, and they dance together. Apparently she's as touched as he is. And as they dance, Paul, Shelly's husband, joins them. It's such a beautiful song, and such a beautiful moment. Tim was right earlier. This DJ really does have great taste. He's read Tim like a book, based solely on his favorites list, and has introduced him to some music he's probably never heard before, stuff he'll never forget, stuff he'll be buying from Amazon tomorrow, I guarantee you.
At 3:00am, the busses arrive, and Jason, Ian, Alejandro, Nathan and I scurry out of our go-go cages and get dressed, and then I climb back up onto the bar, flushed and out of breath, but exhilarated, too.
"Thank you all so much for coming. Did you enjoy yourselves?" The group cheers and applauds. "Great! So, the busses are here to take you back to wherever along the peninsula you've come from. As you board, please let the driver know where you're going so he knows where to stop, and please keep in touch. In fact, please e-mail Tim tomorrow so we know you got home safely. Those of you with children sleeping in the back, please don't forget to collect them because, otherwise, they'll become a brother or sister to Kevin and Kai, which is fine with us. Take care."
And that's it. In fifteen minutes the busses are loaded and on their way, and the room is virtually empty. We collect the remaining liquor and load it into the back of the BMW we drove up in, tidy up a bit, and collect the boys, sound asleep in the back, loading them into the back seat where they hug each other and fall back to sleep. Dinh is going to drive them and Jason's mom back to San Jose, and Jason, Tim and I are going to walk to Hans-Peter's flat where we'll spend the night, a 15 minute walk from N'Touch. It's been a wonderful evening, and I think Tim has had a blast, but I don't think there'll be any sex tonight. I think we're just all too tired. I guess we're getting...old.
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The next morning, I realize that I was right. Sex was well beyond us last night (or, should I say this morning?). We were lucky even to get home, and when we did, we fell all over each other into bed, utterly and completely spent. Ten hours later, though, at around 1:30pm, Jason is the first to wake up, followed by me, followed by Tim. We are interlaced, as hardware engineers would say. But "interlaced" implies a quality of order that we have not achieved. Basically, we're just sprawled all over each other. Still, we all have hard-ons.
I don't know. Maybe every guy wakes up with a hard-on. I always seem to, and I think Tim and Jason do too. But, sex in the morning isn't always that...rewarding. I prefer the afternoon. Of course, this is the afternoon, isn't it? Tim suggests that we get up, pee, brush our teeth, and shower, which sounds like a good way to start the day. When I start to stroke his dick in the shower, though, he smacks my hand away. "No. We're not doing that in here," he says, assertively, earning a laugh from Jason.
Once we're out of the shower, though, once we're clean and dry, Tim drags us back to the bed and we begin to kiss, first Tim and Jason, and then Tim and me. Tim is a very energetic kisser. Tim loves to kiss. In fact, there's nothing that will get him hard faster than kissing. I've sometimes wondered whether Tim could be made to cum by kissing alone. I'm not sure exactly what it is about kissing, but he's told me before that he thinks it's the most intimate thing two guys can do, more intimate even than fucking, and I guess I can understand that. You're basically face to face. Dissembling isn't possible. You're as close as you can possibly be. And, while two of us kiss, the third looks for other ways to please.
I don't want to get all philosophical here, but sex just fascinates me. I had a boyfriend once who said that sex was a joke. I think he said that because he wasn't very good at it; he was very self-conscious, which I don't think can ever lead to good sex. For me, sex is about losing yourself. It's about abandoning the ego, as Eckhart Tolle might say (for those of us into Oprah-style new age bullshit, as Gary is). It's good to cum, but that's not the best part for me. The best part is throwing away all of your inhibitions and instinctually touching someone in ways you'd never think of doing if you were thinking about it. I mean, really, would I be slurping on Jason's dick in a logical world -- for probably fifteen fucking minutes? I doubt it. But instinctually I know how good it makes him feel and how much it makes him love me. It's not something I think about. It's something I just do. More and more there's a distinction being made between the so-called "reptilian" mind, and the conscious and logical mind, and that distinction makes a lot of sense to me. Sex lets you tap into the reptilian essence at the core of us all, abandoning all the "consciousness" associated with our social and civil selves. And that is just so comforting... And Jase, Tim and I don't have a lot of baggage to abandon anyway. Imagine how it must be for the devoutly religious, who get to jettison years of moral garbage. That must really be an orgasm!
I've never understood how you decide what you're going to do sexually, especially in a three-way. Who makes the decisions? How are they communicated? It's not like we ever have a discussion. Today, what we're apparently going to do is a sandwich, but a very different sandwich than we've done very often in the past, because today I'm going to fuck Jason (very unusual) while Tim fucks me (not very unusual). And we're going to do that while the three of us kiss ALL AT ONCE. It's like we can't get enough of each other. Three mouths sealed together. Three tongues interlaced. Tim is moaning, like always, and Jason is whimpering. And we're all just...gone. None of us is in the room. Our bodies are robotic, running on pure instinct, and this is...ecstasy. And then I do the one thing I know will set us all on fire, the one thing I know will start the dominoes falling -- I pinch
Tim's nipple really hard. Really, really hard. And he screams as he breaks our kiss, squeezing me almost painfully tight as he starts to cum. I can feel his dick swell inside me, and I'd swear I can feel the gushes of his cum fill me. Unlikely, I know, but I swear I can feel this. And with that surge, I start to cum, and as I do, so does Jason, who has stroked himself twice I think. It seems like we cum for hours, and when we're done, Tim and Jason are both in tears, and I'm panting, breathless. We are so tightly connected that it takes us several seconds before we can figure out how to disengage. Maybe I've had an orgasm this powerful before, but I can't remember it. It was mind-bending, for all of us, I think.
After maybe thirty minutes, thirty minutes during which we're all striving to regain control, Tim, who's lying between Jase and me, giggles. "That was nice," he says. Jason cuffs him, laughing hysterically. Yeah. That was nice.
Published first at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Nemo-stories/