Queering Benedict Arnold 8 Brooklyn, New York: July 27-28, 2012 By Jake Preston
"Queering Benedict Arnold" is historical gay fiction. The story alternates between twenty-first century scenes in which Jake Preston and Ben Arnold (a descendent) investigate Benedict's life, and eighteenth-century scenes imagined by Jake and Ben. Some characters and allusions hark back to "Wayward Island" (in nifty's file on Beginnings). Jake Preston is the narrator in both works.
Most episodes are faithful to history, except for sexual encounters, which are fictional. You should not read this story if you are a minor, or if you are offended by explicit gay sex.
Benedict Arnold was an American military genius who was treated unfairly by jealous rivals while he lived. After his death, he was demonized as the archetypal traitor in history and folklore, but he was a target of inexplicable hatred long before his treasonable conspiracy with John André to surrender the fort at West Point to the British. Taken as a whole, "Queering Benedict Arnold" is an attempt to discover the origins of that hatred. Comments and suggestions welcome: contact Jake at jemtling@gmail.com.
Nifty stories are free to Readers, but donations are encouraged.
Late in July (2012), Ben told me the story of Benedict's coming-of-age while we rode the train from Norwich to Grand Central Station and thence on the subway to Brooklyn. There we spent four nights at the home of Benzion and Sarah Haiam. It was a two-story white Victorian house, larger than I had expected. Their son Chaim, and my adopted son Red, were at school when we arrived. Benzion and Sarah were gracious hosts, but they couldn't conceal their distress when they saw the burn-injuries on the left side of Ben's face. "It goes all the way down to here," Ben said; he reached toward his lower leg. Benzion offered to give us a tour of the house. At the large screened-in front porch, we passed by a separate apartment on the first floor. "We have a tenant living here," Benzion said: "a music teacher at Prospect High School. We use the rent to pay for heating this place, and keeping the lights on."
We started our tour in the parlor, a large room with bay windows overlooking the side yard. A grand piano stood in one corner, and opposite it, a fireplace. Atop the hearth was a framed photograph of Benzion and Sarah, with Haiam and Red Feather. I studied it. The boys travel together to school every day," Benzion said. "Julliard and the CUNY Graduate College aren't far apart in Manhattan." We passed through the dining room, peeked into the kitchen, and entered a large room with bay windows facing the back yard; it doubled as a library and music room. Next to a second piano stood a music stand, and on a side table, one of Chaim's violins.
"They're getting on well together, I hope," I said.
"If you sit in the dining room on weekends, you get music from two directions," Benzion said. "When Chaim practices violin, usually he's got Red playing piano. It's nice having two boys in the house. Red comes to synagogue with us every Saturday morning. They give a violin-and-piano concert there on once a month, on the first Wednesday, and they've attracted quite a large following. When they perform, they dress in their concert tuxedos, so a lot of old Jewish ladies are in love with them. Either that or they really like Mendelsohn and Mozart. On Sunday mornings, Red plays organ and Chaim plays piano at a neighborhood church called Trinity. They've started a chamber-music group with Ken Moss (the music teacher) and two young ladies from Julliard. It earns them a bit of extra cash."
Benzion led us to two adjoining rooms on the second floor. "Chaim and Red have these rooms"-a study with two desks, a bedroom with a queen-size bed. Hanging over the bed was an almost life-sized painting by Anna Ravitch, depicting Red Feather and Chaim, sporting naked in the water by a boulder with Norway pines in the background. I recognized the setting at once: it was the island in Wayward Bay. The way they gazed at each other was love or lust, depending on your point of view. To the right of the swimmers, two loons sported in attitudes that mimicked the postures of the male figures.
"This is a beautiful picture, but I don't recall Anna painting it," I said. "There's no doubt that it's hers. It's a continuation of her 'Swimming Hole' series."
"Mrs. Ravitch painted it as a gift for Chaim," Benzion said. "Is she still living at Wayward Island Lodge?"
"Right now she's at cabin, house-sitting and dog-sitting," I said.
"I've wondered about the loons," Benzion said. "Are they mates, male and female? They look so much alike."
"Anna only does males," I quipped. "Seriously, male and female loons are identical, except that the females are slightly smaller." I got close to the painting and studied the loons. "They're the same size. Anna knows about loons. I'm sure she painted them as males. If she were here, she'd insist that we speculate about their meaning in the painting."
"Easy to say," Benzion replied, echoing a phrase that he heard in the North Country: "The male loons signify Chaim's and Red's union as part of the natural order. They've been talking about getting married. It's been legal in New York since last June." He paused. "June 24, 2011"-he remembered the date then the Legislature in Albany legalized same-sex marriage. "Who would have thought it, after the opposition had been so noisy," he said quietly.
I remember the day in my cabin when Benzion and Sarah learned that their son and Red Feather were lovers. It happened during a breakfast with my gay neighbors, Ben Hasek and Sam Black Bear, when Chaim told his parents that he and Red Feather were younger versions of them. Even before Chaim went off to college in Oberlin, Sarah suspected that Chaim was gay; but it was shocking news to Benzion. Red Feather got him alone on the pretext of gathering firewood from the shed, and asked him to imagine his union with Chaim as a game of ice hockey. "Chaim plays forward and I play goalie-it's Chaim who slams the puck into the goal," Red Feather told him. The metaphor made it easier for Benzion to accept that his son was gay.
Chaim and Red got home in time for dinner. It was a joyful reunion- I hadn't seen them since the previous summer when they vacationed at Wayward Island Lodge on Lake Ashawa. Like Benzion and Sarah (and like most people), Red reacted to Ben's war-wounds with initial shock and distress. Chaim was unfazed, and kept company with Ben for the evening.
We watched the opening ceremony for the London Olympics. We were amazed at the British humor, especially when James Bond and Queen Elizabeth jumped from a helicopter and sailed into the stadium on Union Jack parachutes while an orchestra played the James Bond movie theme. The American TV commentators irritated us by going on about how the Chinese spent three times the money on the Beijing Olympic ceremony in 2008. They liked that the Brits found a cheaper way to do it, but couldn't refrain from saying that the show in Beijing was more spectacular. "How crass!-all they can think about is money," Red exclaimed.
"No doubt the TV personalities prepared their commentary before the ceremony opened," Sarah said.
"The new American nightmare is 'Do more with less'. That's what business leaders always say. We no longer have unions to reply 'We'll do less with less'," Benzion muttered. The political parallel was indirect, but a reminder that Brooklyn is a working class borough.
"The Beijing show was spectacular, but the synchronization of hundreds of dancers and musicians symbolized Chinese collectivism," Chaim said. "The British approach is individualistic, based on comedy and idiosyncrasy. There's no way to rank one above the other. They belong to two different genres. Each one was best in its genre."
Ben praised Chaim for seeing beyond surface appearances and getting to deeper meanings. Benzion and Sarah looked benignly at Ben, approving his praise of their son. I could see an emotional connection developing between Ben and Chaim. Red saw it too.
We spent our first night in the Haiam's guestroom. Hanging over the bed was a framed sketch of "Apollo and Admetus," one of the studies that Anna Ravitch made for this complex painting. At the center of the sketch, the models were unmistakable: it was Red Feather fucking me intercursally, and I was in agony, as a way of representing that it was Apollo's first time. I told Ben how we modeled for the painting, and how we prepared for our task by studying Euripides's Alcestis. "It's the central panel in a triptych," I said, "and most of the details have mythological meanings." That night when we imitated the painting, Ben played the part of Admetus.
Red came to our room at dawn, while I was massaging ointment over the left side of Ben's body. "If I'm disturbing you, we can talk later," Red said, amazed at the extent of Ben's wounds. Ben told him to get comfortable on the bed. I gave him the ointment and showed him how to rub it into Ben's upper leg. "I feel like Pandarus," Red said. "Chaim sent me here." A long silence followed. "Jake, this is awkward." Red wanted me to help him out, I could tell.
"Chaim wants to sleep with Ben," I said.
"How did you know?"
"I could see it last night," I said. "I don't remember him being shy in Oberlin, back in the day when you were called Red Feather. As I remember, he seduced you within minutes after you met."
Ben ignored my comment. "I wouldn't want to do anything that might interfere with your relationship with Chaim," he told Red.
"Sex is sometimes for love, sometimes for friendship. Chaim knows the difference. So do I," Red replied. He was speaking to Ben. "You're on your way to Camp Lejeune to see Aziz, yet here you are, in bed with Jake."
Ben got up from the bed, unashamed of his nudity, and retrieved a small purple box from his rucksack. "Tell Chaim he'll have to ask me himself, but first give him this," Ben said.
"Is this what I think it is?" Red asked.
"Just make sure he gets it," Ben replied.
Ben wore his Marine service uniform for the Orthodox service that morning. I borrowed a suit from Red. We both borrowed yarmulkes from Benzion, who showed us how to fasten them to our hair. The synagogue was three miles from the Haiam's home. Keeping to Orthodox custom, we walked- as a party of six. Chaim kept company with Ben, and Red stuck with me. Benzion, Chaim, and Red each carried a Tanakh, a blue volume with white letters on the flyleaf. I hadn't been to a religious service for weeks, and this was my first time at a synagogue, as it was for Ben. Seated with Red, I observed how he listened intently to the Cantor; how he followed the Hebrew text in his Tanakh during the Rabbi's readings from the Torah and the Psalms. The service was lyrical- that's the best word for it. I started to understand why Red had decided to convert to Judaism. It wasn't just for Chaim's sake. "When I do convert, we'll be Reform Jews, not Orthodox," he had said, "but we'll still attend the Orthodox synagogue, as long as we feel welcome there."
During the service, Chaim took out the purple box that Red had given him, a gift from Ben. The cover was adorned with a gold-embossed image which I recognized as the heraldic arms of George Washington: a white shield crossed with two horizontal red bars, and above them, three blue stars. A spray of green leaves stood at each side of the shield. I wrote a note and passed it to Ben:
"Argent, two bars gules, charged three stars azure in chief, supported by sprays of leaf sinople, dexter and sinister."
Ben smiled, and passed the note to Chaim, who compared my impromptu blazon with the heraldic arms embossed on the purple box. During the summer when Chaim lived with me and Red Feather at my cabin, he had delved into my collection of books about medieval heraldry. I had used the books for research when I composed one of my "Mike Peterson" vampire-mysteries. Chaim was checking the diction and syntax of my blazon, I could tell. He motioned to borrow my pen. On the note, he crossed out "sinople." Above it wrote the word "proper." I gestured approval with my index finger and thumb. The things people do in synagogue, and in church!
Chaim opened the box, and gasped. He raised the medallion by its purple ribbon, and gazed at the bust of George Washington, centered in a heart colored purple. "The precepts of the Lord are just, rejoicing the heart"- the Cantor recited from Psalms. Whether by chance or design, the verse echoed through the synagogue, not without ambiguity for Chaim, who recalled that 'rejoice' was a euphemism for sexual intercourse in fifteenth- and sixteenth-century English. Chaim glanced at Ben, who nodded back at him. Chaim pressed the medallion to his heart, and looked at Ben with searching eyes. Ben smiled and squeezed Chaim's hand.
After the service, folks wanted to meet the U.S. Marine who was visiting their synagogue. They assumed he was Jewish, and wondered how he was related to the Haiams. The image of our First President prompted Chaim's reply: "I cannot tell a lie. Meet Benedict Arnold, visiting from Calgary, Alberta. He's a descendent of a more famous Arnold by that name." "Benedict the fourteenth, or fifteenth, or sixteenth, depending on how many Benedicts you're counting," Ben said-it was a line he used often on new acquaintances.
People marveled. The Haiams' reputation in the congregation rose to sudden stardom. We overheard people speculate: "I didn't know Benedict Arnold was Jewish!" "No he wasn't; he was a Puritan from New England." "Somewhere along the way, the family must have married into Judaism." "He's a war-hero, and he's related to the Haiams!" Chaim could never tell a lie- if he tried, it would be detected. But he wasn't compelled to correct a misimpression, since no one asked.
I must admit that my opinion of Orthodox Jews was altered. Like Christian fundamentalists, the Orthodox condemned homosexuality as a sin against God and Nature, so I assumed that collectively they would be something like Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka. Benzion and Sarah were exceptions, I thought, only because their son was gay. No doubt there are many Christians and Jews who are homophobes, but we encounter any in the Haiams' synagogue. Their tolerance was more along lines of 'Don't ask, don't tell', perhaps not quite to the progressive level of 'Live and let live', but to us they were friendly and accepting.
After lunch, Chaim and Ben started a game of Scrabble at the dining room table. The coat of Ben's service uniform hung around the back of a chair. They played 'Gay Scrabble'-I could tell from a debate that they had about the word 'swimmers'. Chaim played 'swimmer' off an 's', thus extending his word to a red "triple word" square in the corner, and he used all his letters. This earned a 50- point bonus. In 'Gay Scrabble' a player doubles his points if the word he lays on the board is arguably related to gay culture. To get his points doubled, the player is required to use the word in a sentence that illustrates its gay nuance.
Four of the letters in 'swimmers' are worth only one point each, but 'w' gets four points, and each 'm' gets three. One of the 'm's was on a double-letter square, so it counted six. This meant that Chaim's base-score was 19 points. The triple-word square increased that score to 57. The 50-point bonus brought his score to 107. If 'swimmers' was accepted as 'gay', his score would be 214-quite a good result for seven tiles whose combined face-value was 16. Ben disputed 'swimmers'. Chaim offered to use it in a sentence: "I want to send my swimmers into your ocean on a flood of foamy surf."
"Oh, those swimmers!"-Ben conceded the points.
I asked Benzion, Sarah, and Red to accompany me to the Brooklyn Museum. I had never been there, but the museum is famous for its Egyptian antiquities. The American collection includes some paintings by Thomas Eakins, and I wanted to see if the museum had Anna Ravitch's work on display. They also have important paintings by Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec. Benzion and Sarah were orthodox, but they didn't imprison themselves in their home on Saturdays. They were happy to visit the Brooklyn Museum. It would be a chance for me to bring them up to date about people and events in the North Country.
During our absence, Chaim led Ben upstairs to the bedroom to claim his prize. Ben left his service coat on the chair, but Chaim went back to the dining room to retrieve it. "Two bulls locking horns," I thought, and wondered how they would work through the impasse-not without amusement! Had I paid closer attention, I would have realized that their game of Gay Scrabble was a contest for dominance in bed. Each one had bet his ass on the outcome. Ben had bottomed for Aziz, but with me he got used being a top.
"Keep your uniform on, Ben. I want to fuck a Marine," Chaim said. He handed Ben the service coat. Ben put it on.
Ben helped Chaim out of his clothes and explored his body with fondling and kisses. They stood beside the bed. Chaim unfastened the khaki web belt and lowered Ben's green service trousers and shorts to his knees. Ben's cock jutted between the front flaps of his shirt in full salute. "Wow! You look incredibly hot this way," Chaim exclaimed.
"Thanks."
Chaim knelt in front of Ben and sucked his cock while he groped the cheeks of his ass beneath the gabardine materiality of his coat. He motioned for Ben to turn 'about face'. Ben's shorts and trousers hobbled him at the knees, but he managed a full turn. Chaim raised the back of Ben's service coat, lifted his shirt-tail, stroked the Marine's ass, and ran his fingers up and down the hairy cleft.
"It's almost three years since I've been fucked," Ben said when he felt Chaim's fingers on the ridge of his portal.
"It'll be a pleasure to break you back into it," Chaim said. "I like it that you're a man's man. There's nothing more erotic than fucking masculine ass."
"I guess you won my ass fair and square," Ben said.
"That makes it even more erotic, the fact that you're forced to give it up," Chaim said. "We should play Scrabble more often."
"Swimmers," Ben said. "I could get into swimmers."
"Swimmers will get into you," Chaim quipped. He helped Ben into bed.
"This might be easier if I took off my service coat," Ben said.
"Nothing this beautiful comes easy," Chaim replied. He lubed Ben's portal with his index and middle fingers. Ben winced. Chaim sidled Ben and hot-dogged his cleft in a continuous rocking motion. Eventually his cockhead shagged Ben's portal like a hook snagged in the mouth of a fish. Ben winced and wriggled like a walleye at the edge of a fishing-boat. His movements were restricted by shorts and trousers wrapped around his upper legs. Chaim shafted and probed. His hands gripped the khaki that gathered around Ben's legs. Ben yelped and struggled. Then he relaxed. His body absorbed the alien intrusion. The lining of his love- tunnel wrapped itself tightly around Chaim's cock whenever it struck a full blow and came to a momentary point of rest. Chaim wrapped his right leg around Ben's trousered legs while he fucked.
Ben glanced over his shoulder. His eyes met the resolute eyes of a determined top. Ben's eyes, shocked at first, dissolved into helpless acceptance. He shuddered in the grip of total surrender. Chaim saw the look and felt the shudder. He knew what it meant. Ben had 'fallen into submission'-body, mind, soul, spirit, heart. Chaim had 'conquered Ben's ass'- meaning that Ben's surrender was complete. Some guys speak of 'conquering ass' as if it was just a hyperbolic idiom for fucking a man who was reluctant to get fucked. A top doesn't really 'conquer' ass unless the connection with his partner is spiritual as well as physical.
Chaim alternated between hard humping and gentle massages delivered to Ben's love-canal. During those anal massages, he frigged Ben's throbbing cock. Ben resisted at first, but gave in when Chaim persisted. Ben gasped and spooged. "Who says you can't get milk from a Marine?" Chaim quipped.
Urged on by spoogy fragrance, Chaim turned Ben on his abdomen, pressed his torso into the pool of his own man-juice, and fucked intercursally. He fucked hard and fast until he pumped semen into Ben's love-tunnel.
"That was hot, Chaim," Ben said as they lay side by side. "I've never been fucked quite like this before. Is it okay if I take my clothes off now?"
"That would be nice," Chaim replied. Dazed in mutual satisfaction, they lay naked in each other's arms. "Are you okay, Ben?" he asked softly.
"Yeah, I feel great," Ben said. "Silky-creamy. All your little swimmers are racing into my bloodstream."
"I've got to admit, I'm a breeder," Chaim said. "I love shafting seed up a guy's ass. And you thought I was just a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn!"
"I'm a chrematist-as long as we're getting into true confessions," Ben said.
"A chrematist, what's that?" Chaim asked.
"Chrematistophilia," Ben replied. "Normally I don't like getting fucked, except when I'm forced into it. Then it's really hot. Three years ago in Afghanistan, I got blackmailed into letting one of the Kabul Cops fuck me over. They guy wasn't blackmailing me; he was blackmailing Aziz. I let him fuck me so he would leave Aziz alone. I never told Aziz that I liked it. But I did."
"Chrematistophilia, chrematistophiliac," Chaim recited the words.
"Yeah, chrematistophiliac, but that word is a mouthful. 'Chrematist' is easier," Ben said. "If you have sex with a guy who is blackmailing you, or holding a gun to your head, that's 'hard chrematistophilia'. If you lose your ass in a pool game, or strip poker, or Gay Scrabble, or bet or a contest of some sort, that's 'soft chrematistophilia'. If you like losing your ass in this way, you're a chrematist."
"You're an amazing guy, Ben," Chaim said. "And you're an amazing lover. But nothing's more amazing than your après-sexe pillow-talk!"