i.
Elliott crushed out another cigarette. He finished his buttered muffin with a swallow of cold coffee, fished in his pocket for three crumpled dollar bills, and left them, balled up from his damp fist, upon the table top. He slid out of the booth, slung his green book bag over his shoulder and rushed out of the luncheonette onto a crowded Broadway.
He was wheezing as he took the steps at Philosophy Hall and damp with perspiration once he sat slouching in his chair in the lecture hall. Professor Dupee was explaining the significance of Forster's idea of "connecting" and what his debt was to Shelley's great ode on the death of Keats. "'The one remains,'" he quoted, dragging on a cigarette. "Mrs. Wilcox has been," he continued, "transmuted from a person into the central idea of the novel, becoming its unifying spirit."
Elliott cut gym and stayed reading in Butler library until after night had fallen, then walked back to his room on a hundred and sixth street after ten. His eyes were aching.
Not just in song, but in fact, autumn in New York is a difficult time for people who are alone. In Elliott's case, an inchoate longing without an object plagued him like a physical symptom of an undiscoverable disease.
Fagged out from jerking off without coming and unable to sleep, he got dressed and walked south along Central Park West down to Columbus Circle and then back. The air was still balmy. He didn't walk on the park side. There, statuesque guys in tight jeans and body hugging muscle shirts slouched against the low stone wall. Some lounged on the benches lining the street. Others were poised with cigarettes and distant countenances, advertisements for themselves. He kept to the west side of the street, passing the facades of the sumptuous towers where wealth and glamour had installed their favorites.
Friday night he went over to the Student Activities Cinema Festival at McMillin for a screening of ZAZIE, and Malle was there afterwards taking questions.
He smoked several cigarettes in the lobby, furtively envied several couples, got a headache from the film, didn't stay around for Louis Malle and wandered downtown along Broadway afterwards.
At the seventy-second street kiosk a drunk called out to him, Hey pretty boy, wanna suck my dick? He turned away from the man's glance with a show of angry disgust.
ii.
He didn't look good. He had let himself put on weight, was ill-groomed, unkempt, and thoughtlessly attired, and he knew it. He was depressed. In recovery, he said, but not recovered. It had been over a year however since he'd been dumped. It haunted him that the reason Ellen had left him was because he hadn't made her feel that he wanted her enough, like she was a woman, she said. But, it was strange, he only felt -- really, painfully felt - that he wanted her at those times when she withdrew from him. Then he would always become terrifically attentive, even charming, and she'd bounce back. But it couldn't last.
Sometimes, when he was stoned, he could con himself into seeing himself in a better light. He kept trying to improve, but hardly succeeded. So he tried to ignore all that and assert himself intellectually wherever he could. The result was that he seemed opinionated and little aware of the feelings of others or how to behave properly. And nobody listened to him anyhow.
He tried to inure himself. Cast a cold eye, he repeated sotto voce.
iii.
But it didn't work. His eyes were anything but cold. They were hot with desire, burning with hopeless longing; simultaneously looking and pulling his glance away. He failed in everything he approached, and he could not approach anything he wanted. The astonishing times he succeeded, it had no permanence; it wasn't part of something firmly anchored that was continually building.
It all showed in the way he took those walks along Central Park West so many nights. What was it but unadmitted cruising? And he knew it, although he denied it.
Words spun through his head. Thoughts rushed around, transformed into other thoughts and dissolved, like clouds. He was anchored by a tension created by the collision of desire and denial. Both dominated him, and he performed -- as if awake and conscious -- within the deep trance created by their interlock. Aimless, he passed wasted time; life evaporated.
His fantasy, of course, was that this would change. But he was not able to change it -- just as when he cruised he could not approach cruising. He longed for cruising to approach him; for something besides negation to approach and change him.
iv.
Elliott was walking back up Central Park West, across the street from the park. A good looking, well-built, sandy-haired guy who had been browsing a few nights ago at the New Yorker Bookstore -- he'd noticed him there - was walking behind him, then passed him, but waited for the light at the corner. It was 81st Street. They had just passed the Natural History museum and the Planetarium was down the block if you went left.
You were at the New Yorker Bookstore the other night.
I saw you there.
Do you live around here?
On a hundred and sixth street. You?
Ninety sixth.
I go to Columbia.
So do I. What do you study?
Physics and psychology.
Good god!
You?
Comp. Lit., Art History, Elliott said.
I live on this block. You want to come up?
Sure.
It was a one bedroom on the top floor of a brownstone. Marshall's heart was beating with anxiety when they reached the fifth floor, and Elliott was trying to suppress his huffing.
The key turns in the lock. The door opens.
Come in.
He flicked on the light.
You want anything to drink?
No. No thanks; nothing.
Do you smoke, he asked meaningfully. I mean...
You mean... do you have?
A bit of the weed.
Marshall took a small silver tin from the utensils drawer built into the apron of the kitchen table.
They sat across from each other at the table. They got stoned together and soon by some unrecorded movement of agreement began looking at each other and staring into each other's eyes. Seated though they remained they felt each the sensation of rising energy that pulled up from the weight of their bodies.
Want to try something? Marshall asked.
What?
Have you ever been hypnotized.
Can you?
Would you like to be hypnotized?
I'll try it.
Does it frighten you?
Elliott's tongue was loosened. It excites me.
What about it excites you?
Elliott hesitated.
If we're going to do this you have to be honest.
Surrendering, Elliott blurted out.
How do you feel about obeying me?
Silence.
No hesitation. You must speak the truth.
The idea excites me...and frightens me.
Look at this, Marshall said holding a crystal pendant in front of Elliott. Follow it as it swings back and forth. Your eyes are locking on it, being pulled from side to side. Side to side. Everything is easy. Back and forth. Relax. Nice and easy. Relax. You feel like closing your eyes. Close them. That's right. It feels good to do that. It feels good to do as I tell you. Deeper. Feel yourself falling. Can you hear me?
Yes.
Good. I'm going to tell you to do things, and you will do them. Do you understand?
Yes.
You do not remember your name. You have forgotten it, when you awake you will not remember your name. Do you understand?
I will not remember my name.
But when I tell you what your name is, you will know that it is your name, and you will know that because I named you I possess you. You belong to me and must do as I say. You only want to do what I tell you to do. Do you understand?
I belong to you. I will do as you say.
Very good. Take some breaths. Relax. The more relaxed you feel, the more deeply entranced you are, the more you want to surrender to me, the more you want to do as I tell you, the more you want to obey me. Now I'm going to count to three and you will open your eyes. Whenever I say to you, Oil your cock, you will return to the state of deep trance you are in now. Do you understand?
Yes.
1
2
3
Elliott opened his eyes, squinted and shook his head, momentarily disoriented, until he recalled where he was.
Hey, I'm sorry, he said. I must've zoned out.
It's getting late, Marshall said as if in response. Maybe you ought to be going home.
Guess so, Elliott said, vaguely disappointed, but not knowing why.
You want to get together again? Marshall asked.
Sure, Elliott said.
Pushing a message pad and ball point pen towards him Marshall said, "Here, write down your name and phone number.
Elliott began to. He scribbled his phone number first because it occurred to him immediately, but when he started to write his name, he hesitated. He looked up puzzled. He couldn't remember it.
Is something the matter? Marshall asked.
No. I mean, this is absurd, but I can't... remember my name.
You can't remember your name?
I can't.
Try.
I am.
Well?
Nothing.
You alright?
I think so.
Well, what about other things? Where do you live?
One fifteen a hundred and sixth street, Elliott said without missing a beat.
Where do you go to school?
Columbia.
What year are you in?
Senior.
How old are you?
Twenty-two.
What's your name?
Blank.
You remember everything else.
I can't remember my name.
Shall I tell it to you?
Please.
It's Jason.
Jason, of course! Elliott said smiling with relief.
Can you remember it now?
It's Jason.
Oil your cock Jason.
Immediately Elliott - now Jason - fell back into a trance.
Can you hear me, Jason?
Yes, sir.
I am pleased with you.
Thank you, sir.
It feels good to please me.
Yes, sir.
And it feels bad to displease me.
I do not want to displease you, sir.
Jason, I am going to shape you. You will lose your old identity. Elliott will disappear. You will be the way I tell you to be.
Yes, sir.
Whenever you are with me, the moment you see me or hear my voice on the telephone, you will be Jason. When you think about me, you will be Jason. For the present, at all other times, you will continue as Elliott. But slowly you will transition away from Elliott, until you are entirely Jason at all times. Do you understand?
Yes, sir. Slowly I will change from Elliott to Jason as you guide me through the process.
Excellent. You please me Jason.
Thank you sir.
v.
From the start, Elliott felt different.
After three months, he actually was different, physically, emotionally, sexually.
He carried himself more easily, was calmer, less anxious, more focused and more able to concentrate than previously. He began swimming daily and used the weight room, too. He became unable to stomach coffee and loathed cigarettes. His taste for food changed. Bagels and muffins and sodas and hamburgers became noxious to him, and he found himself becoming fastidious with regard to clothing. He could hardly bear to touch most of those things of his he used to throw on without thinking.
He became interested in sketching and began painting. He was good.
The arrogant cringing was gone. So too was the clammy, doughy-textured skin and the sense of avoidance or withdrawal. He became open-shouldered, graceful, inviting and engaging, trim muscled and well-defined, friendly with his body. It was actually an astounding change.
But more astounding was the manner of his being. His face had changed. Bearing yet the same features as always, the face had been recast by a reconfiguration of the attitudes those features expressed. It had become strong, outgoing and regular, dependable, charged with a free floating happiness he had never before experienced.
vi.
Marshall's hand was covering his and their heads were close. The table cloth was burgundy, and the meal was nearly finished. They were sharing a joint.
Chamber music by Gabriel Faure was playing on NCN. The candles were low.
I saw you a few times around Columbia before we met, even before the time at the New Yorker Bookstore. You fascinated me because I knew you were getting in the way of the person you really are. I wanted to know him, I found him very attractive. But he wasn't there. You were keeping him prisoner, had him locked up. He couldn't get out.
So I took a strong dislike to you, stronger as I became more strongly attracted to him because you were keeping me from him by keeping him from me. Sometimes I felt like beating the shit outta you, and it's lucky for you that I'm a pacifist. He smiled, then continued. I knew what he was like even before he was entirely there. And I knew I had to get to him...which getting hostile with you would never accomplish.
Elliott who had become Jason almost entirely by now sat quietly, a calm glow on his face looking intently at Marshall and listening to him with real attention.
I understand why I feel such devotion to you, he said.
Thank you, Marshall said. I had to get you away from yourself in order to have you.
By doing that you've given me back to myself, too. So being your slave has freed me from being enslaved. It's weird. I really wasn't who I was.
It wasn't complete however. Jason had a native intelligence, a vital narcissism, a healthy exhibitionism and a generous disposition, but he hadn't declared his homosexuality. He hadn't gotten to the bottom of himself acknowledging, celebrating the reality that he was most himself and most in possession of himself when he surrendered himself sexually and could be devoted to a man through whom and for whom he existed.
Oil your cock, Jason.
Immediately he fell into a deep trance.
Stand up. Let me admire you. I did good work. He put his hands on Jason's waist, drew him near and kissed him gently on the lips.
Jason shivered.
Did you know you were gay?
No sir, Jason said.
How could you avoid knowing? It was so obvious.
I was so suppressed, I knew nothing, yet when I took those walks on Central Park West I'd be screaming inside with desire and dread, until everything became dull and stale.
Relax.
Breathe.
Easy.
Slowly.
Breathe.
Feel the weight of your body.
Fall to your knees.
Bow.
Kneeling Jason bowed. Master, he called from his heart, filling with identity and surging with delight.
The moment his lips were around his master's cock he became a great undulation, a wave of suction pulling his master into himself. He realized that this had been his deepest wish. The simultaneous but mutually exclusive fear of it and the desire for it had caused him terrible headaches when he had been governed by Elliott, before this grand freedom.
The rush of come filled his mouth with orgastic waves, and lassos of jizm broke in spasms from his crowning cock. Snaking whips of spray shot along the ocean shore, bled upon the rippled sand, and left white lace to foam in the swirl until the next retracting current came rushing in again.
vii.
The first warm sun of April was breaking through the winter sky.
Elliott was nowhere to be seen.
Jason's hair, dyed a sandy blond now, was perfectly trimmed and deliberately shaggy. He had on a worn dungaree jacket hanging open over a midnight blue turtle neck, faded jeans and snug high boots underneath them. Bus driver shades covered his eyes. He wore a gold watch with a leather bracelet on his left wrist and a jade stone set in a silver ring on his right pinkie.
Marshall was standing by the fountain near the arch.
Now I have to wait for you, he said as if observing an irony.
Forgive me, Master, Jason said before kissing him on the lips and lingering with his tongue.
I got it.
Good boy. I knew it. I'm proud of you.
You should be proud of yourself, Sir, Jason said. Whatever I accomplish, it's only because of you.
Not entirely true.
You knew it was there. But it was only there because you knew that and could bring it out in me.
I knew you (he said with emphasis on "you") were there, and I knew I had to have you.
You've got me.
And I'm keeping you.
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