The Twilight Hour
Now, you can look at me as innocently as you like. But don't act as though you haven't always wondered.
You've been thinking about this all along, haven't you? Even though I've always insisted he's simply not my type, you've noticed the way I flirt with him. And even though he never responds, even though there's never been a flicker of interest from him - even though you know perfectly well he's married to the girl he's dreamed about for far longer than some people would consider entirely decent…still, you've wondered.
Well, maybe you're right. Maybe, just maybe, there was something between us once. But I warn you; it may not be what you were expecting. It may not be an entirely accurate account of how it all happened; in fact, it may not even be true at all. After all, I think we both know that I'm not exactly…the most reliable witness. If you've been paying attention all these months, you've seen me literally get away with murder.
Nonetheless, it's Christmas Eve - Jòl, as the man we're both thinking of would no doubt say if he were here. The beginning of that strange time outside time, the twelve days that even up the balance between the solar year and the lunar one. The time when the Green Man marches into Arthur's hall bearing his paradoxical life-in-death symbol, the holly branch. The time when the King of the Bean is crowned, the Lord of Misrule takes charge, and anything can happen. And I'm in the mood to kick back and reminisce about the ghosts of Christmas Past. So, if you really want to know - if you really think you're ready to hear about it - pull up a chair and I'll tell you…
-----
It was Christmas Eve in Lazytown, and a fifteen-year-old Stephanie was saying a tearful goodbye to her Uncle Milford at the train station.
"I'll miss you tomorrow," she told him, trying to smile.
"And I'll miss you too," he said, sighing. "But, you know, your mother and father haven't seen you since your birthday - it's a wonderful opportunity to spend some time with them."
"I know you're right," she said, resolutely swallowing her tears. "And I left you a present under the tree, okay? Oh, and one for Miss Busybody too." She climbed onto the train and waved out of the window. "And I made you a cake as well, it's in the fridge…"
"Stephanie!" He exploded onto the platform in a flash of blue, and dashed to the train window. "I'm sorry I'm so late, I had to help Ziggy, he got his hand stuck down the sink again…"
Her smile was blushing and brilliant.
"It doesn't matter," she said, taking his outstretched hands shyly through the open window. He smiled, and pressed a small parcel into hers.
"Since we're in your country and not mine, I think I have to tell you not to open this until tomorrow," he told her laughingly, and turned to go.
"Oh, wait - " she reached into her bag and rummaged for a carefully-wrapped package. "Don't you open this until tomorrow either - "
"I promise," he said, looking straight into her eyes, and for a moment neither of them could look away. "I'll see you when you get back, okay? Have a wonderful Christmas."
"You too," she whispered, dazzled by the warmth of his smile.
The train whistle shrieked, and he let go of her hands. She waved to him for as long as she could see him through the falling snow.
"It's nothing but a damn shame that she has to go," said Milford suddenly, and then bit his lip. "Oh dear, I didn't mean…but really, Sportacus, all these months with barely a post-card, and then to expect her to dash off with two day's notice just because they happened to be in town…"
Sportacus looked at him with understanding in his face.
"I'm sure they do their best," he said at last, treading the delicate balance between tact and honesty.
"Well, if that's their best…" said Milford mutinously, and sighed.
"She is extremely lucky to have you to take such wonderful care of her," said Sportacus firmly. "It's starting to snow again…would you like a lift back into town on the airship?"
"Oh, my, thank you - but no, I have the car…"
"In that case drive carefully, all right?"
-----
Oh, what? You're shocked that even then they were starting to notice each other in That Way? Come on, now; I would have expected a rather more liberated attitude from you. He might be a hero, but he's certainly not blind. Of course, before you pass out in horror and then call the police in, I suppose I should add that she was eighteen before he ever laid a finger on her - although once they got started, Good God, you'd think they'd invented it the way they carried on…
But all that's by the by. The point is that he was lonely that Christmas Eve; his best friend, eventually to be his lover and then his wife, was out of town, and without her, there was very little going on in the way of Christmas celebrations. Milford the idiot wasn't in the mood for a party without the apple of his elderly eye, and Miss Busybody was still busy channelling Blanche Dubois as she mourned all that she'd lost in her long-ago youth. The laggard youth of the town were all summoned to dreary family parties with their dreary, loser parents.
And then there was me…
Oh, yes. And then there was me.
-----
His crystal began to bleep as soon as he got back into the airship. Swiftly he piloted it back over Lazytown, keeping a sharp eye out for the Mayor, who was a slow and nervous driver even in perfect weather conditions…but no, he could see the car, inching carefully along the road back into town. He banked low over the town hall and out again towards the meadow at the edge of town, following the pull around his heart. Where, to his huge surprise, he could see a figure sitting alone outside in the snow, not moving, just staring into space, and occasionally drinking from a bottle.
He was so taken aback that for the first time in his life, the thought crossed his mind that there might be some mistake, or he might have mis-understood. But the sensation in his chest was too insistent to ignore. He shrugged, climbed down the rope-ladder and stood hesitantly behind the lone figure sitting in the snow, wrapped in a long maroon great-coat.
"Robbie?" he said at last.
"Oh, why don't you just fuck off and leave me alone," said Robbie venomously, without looking around.
Sportacus sighed.
"If you absolutely insist, then I will. But before I do, I have to ask you - is everything all right?"
"Couldn't be better," said Robbie, flinging his arms out wide. "It's Christmas Eve, the town is covered in snow, I have a bottle of Jack Daniels which I fully intend to drink to the dregs, and an enormous cake waiting for me down in my humble little home in the unlikely event that I'm still sober enough to eat it when I finally finish up here. What could possibly be wrong? I'm having the time of my life."
Sportacus sat down in the snow beside him.
"Robbie, I'm sorry if this annoys you, but I know there's something wrong," he said patiently. "I understand that I am probably not the person you want to talk to about it, but I have to at least try - "
"Oh, you're just too good to be true, aren't you," said Robbie, glaring.
"I understand. Whatever the problem is, I'm clearly not helping. If you would truly prefer me to leave, then just say so and I will."
Robbie looked at him for a moment, then passed him the bottle.
"Here," he said. "Keep the cold out."
Sportacus looked at him and smiled.
"Okay, Robbie, we both know I don't drink, but - "
"You want to know how to help me, you're going to have to start."
"What? Now, look, Robbie, that is not fair - "
"Who said anything about fair? Drink it or leave." Robbie rested his chin on his knees, and watched Sportacus out of the corner of his eye. Sportacus sighed, weighed the bottle in his hand, then with sudden decision took a large, incautious mouthful out of the bottle and swallowed.
"That is truly disgusting," he said to Robbie with a smile as he passed it back. "I hope you're pleased with yourself. Now since I've done what you asked - what can I do to help?"
Robbie lay on his back in the snow and looked up at the sky.
"Look at the view," he said.
Sportacus looked blankly up at the leaden grey clouds, which were already beginning to swim a little under the unaccustomed influence of alcohol.
"The view?"
"Yes."
"You mean the clouds."
"Yup. Grey, dull and depressing. The perfect metaphor. Did I happen to notice you charging over to the train station earlier, by the way?"
"I - yes, since you ask, actually I did."
"Bet you're going to miss her, aren't you," said Robbie maliciously, glancing at the small white box that Sportacus still held in his hand. "Oh, don't worry, I won't tell anyone…"
"Robbie, I thought we were going to talk about you," said Sportacus firmly, tucking the box into his waistcoat.
"Oh, yes, of course, me. God, you just never switch off, do you? If you were dying right in front of me, you'd still be trying to make the world a better place…have another drink."
"I really don't think so."
"Well, I do. Come on. Don't be so fucking uptight and miserable all the time. What are you afraid of?"
"I don't particularly enjoy being drunk."
"Two shots won't make you drunk."
"Two shots is more than enough to make me drunk, Robbie, I can assure you - "
"Just one more. Then I'll explain. Come on, you know you want to."
"I certainly do not, but - oh, fine…" wearily, he took the bottle and drank. "There. Now the world is spinning slightly and I am not fit to fly the airship. Are you happy now?"
"Delighted. You see, the fact is, you and I…do you know, we may actually have the same problem?" Robbie rolled over onto his side and rested on his elbow, looking up at the man sitting in the snow beside him. "You've been here, what - six, seven years now? Don't you ever get lonely?"
"Lonely? In Lazytown?" Sportacus laughed out loud. "Never. There's always so much happening, so much to do…"
Robbie laughed along with him.
"No, no, no," he said, with emphasis. "Don't you ever get - lonely?" And as Sportacus looked down at him, his blue eyes wide and questioning, Robbie reached a hand lazily up, rested it on the back of the other man's neck, pulled him gently down towards him and kissed him.
-----
You want to know how to spot a closet queer? Look for the homophobes. The sporty frat boy who talks endlessly about how fags are taking over the world. The arm-slapping muscle-man at the gym who makes loud, crude, backs-against-the-wall jokes whenever the openly gay man walks in - "only teasing, pal, we both know it's just a laugh, right?" The unpleasant little high-school bully who, in the first week of the first semester, picks out the boy with that unmistakeable air of difference about him, and makes his life a living hell for four years. All of them making such a fuss about how disgusting it is, while secretly they're jerking off to Elijah Wood's beautiful eyes and Jake Gyllenhaal's immaculate ass, and hating themselves for doing it.
Coming home from a certain private member's club in Metropolis one night, three young men of about twenty-five tried to get the drop on me in a dark alley. Ha. I admit that normally I'm as lazy as they come, but when cornered…well, even a rabbit can fight like a weasel when the occasion arises. The first one I knocked out cold with a lucky blow to the jaw. The second ran, squealing, when I showed him the switchblade I had in my pocket. And the third - ohh, the third. I pinned him down beneath me, right there on the cold, wet concrete, kissed him deeply, and then put my hand on his crotch. He was panting for it, aching for it, as hard as the piece of lead piping he'd so foolishly armed himself with; he came before I could even get his buckle unfastened.
We all crave the thing we profess to despise. (If you can overcome your desperation to find out how I finally managed to jump his bones, and think about that for a minute, there's an important thought in there for you to ponder on.)
But the man who's truly at ease in the company of gay men, who genuinely has no attitude about it, who accepts your flirtation with nothing more than a sigh and a smile, who sees "gay" and "straight" as of no more interest or significance than left or right-handed…well. There it is. It would, after all, be a dull and under populated world if we all wanted the same thing.
-----
Robbie's tongue probed and flickered, sweetly, deliciously. His arm slid gently around the other man to his waist to pull him down beside him into the snow.
Sportacus gently took Robbie's hands off his neck and waist and sat up again, shaking his head. Robbie looked up at him, one eyebrow raised.
"No?"
"No. Not for me, I'm afraid. It just - isn't my thing."
Robbie shrugged.
"Ah well. Worth a try." He smiled. "It is, after all, Christmas Eve…the time when the Lord of Misrule has his way with all of us…"
"I'm truly sorry," said Sportacus gently. "It's just honestly not - "
"No need to say any more," said Robbie. "Here. Have another drink."
-----
Well, of course he turned me down. Some of us are made one way, some of us another, and some of us are perfectly happy to try either option. I knew where he was at, of course, even before I kissed him; and besides, I strongly suspected that, even then, his heart was already given. Still, I thought I'd try my luck. Sometimes, you see, even I call it wrong. But not on this occasion. This time, unfortunately, I was absolutely right.
But I think you've known me long enough to know that I always have a plan. And my plan was much more than a bottle of whiskey, a plaintive tale about how lonely my life is and the hope that the Hero in him, that deep and rather irritating drive to protect and help, would overcome his basic disinterest and lead him to be kind to me.
-----
"Another drink? No, I really don't think so."
"Not even to wash the taste away?"
"What you taste of, Robbie, is whiskey. I don't think more whiskey is going to…" Sportacus yawned. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude…"
"One more shot," said Robbie coaxingly. "You've turned me down once already this evening. The least you can do is keep me company."
"If I drink any more of that I'll be asleep in the snow," said Sportacus, yawning again. "Which I imagine would be even more dull than drinking on your own."
"Oh, I wouldn't know," murmured Robbie under his breath, looking covetously at the sleekly muscled man beside him.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing." Robbie squinted up at the clouds. "It's going to snow again soon. If you don't fancy that rope-ladder, why don't you come down to my place?" He held out a friendly hand.
As he stood up, Sportacus stumbled a little, and Robbie steadied him.
"What have you done to me, Robbie?" he asked blurrily. "How on earth did you convince me to drink that stuff - " he rubbed his eyes. "I haven't drunk alcohol for years…"
"All the more reason to make up for lost time, then," said Robbie smoothly. "This way…" he guided the other man to the entrance to the tube-slide.
"Are you serious?" Sportacus looked at him in incredulity.
"Remind me again where you live?" said Robbie meaningfully.
Sportacus laughed.
"Point taken." He climbed into the tube and slid gracefully downwards.
"I, on the other hand," said Robbie thoughtfully, "will be taking the stairs…" He tucked the bottle in his pocket and climbed down the iron ladder.
-----
Do you remember my Memory Zapper 3000? A particularly fine piece of engineering, if I do say so myself. Depending on how you calibrate it, you can do all kinds of…interesting things…to a person's memory. That night, I had it carefully arranged at the foot of the tube, so that as he slid down it, he passed straight through it. And when I arrived down in the bunker…
-----
"Are you all right?" asked Robbie, climbing down the ladder.
"I - I think so. I'm sorry, I don't - I don't know who you are…"
"Oh, for God's sake. Have you been drinking again?"
He frowned in puzzlement.
"I - yes, that sounds possible, actually - "
"I have told you and told you and told you, you just can't drink, okay? It's fine for me. Not for you. Honestly, every single time this happens…look, you do at least remember me, right? You remember - us?"
Sportacus looked at him helplessly.
"I'm truly, truly sorry," he said at last. "But I don't have the faintest idea who you are."
Robbie put his hand over his mouth to conceal the smile of triumph.
"Not to worry," he said, sighing. "I'm sure it will all come back to you."
"Could you - could you possibly tell me your name?"
"I'm Robbie. We're lovers, for goodness sake. You really don't remember? We've lived here for a few years now, since we moved to Lazytown…"
"Lazytown? That sounds familiar."
"You see? I told you it would come back to you."
"And we're lovers?"
"Yes. And it's Christmas Eve, and I really can't believe you've gone and done this tonight of all nights…" he groaned theatrically. "Well, perhaps this will help you remember." And for the second time that night, he kissed him, deeply and urgently.
-----
I can guess what you're thinking. This isn't exactly what you hoped for, is it? The Deus Ex Machina and the smoothly plausible lie make you feel…uncomfortable. Don't deny it; I can tell from the look on your face. You wanted a story where he turned out to be gay, or at a pinch bisexual; curious at the very least, at the very least lonely and horny and looking for some fun…well, what can I tell you? That wasn't how it happened. He is who he is - straight as a die, and larger than life; and I am who I am - the town Bad Man who schemes and plots and deceives to get what he wants.
I can, however, promise you this; there was nothing of rape or coercion about what happened between us that night. Once we got started, I can absolutely assure you that he was more than consenting…
But then, I would say that, wouldn't I?
-----
"How does that feel?" murmured Robbie, feeling his breath coming faster and heavier. With hands that trembled slightly, he unfastened the crystal from the other man's chest and began to undress him. A small white package fell un-noticed onto the floor.
"Unfamiliar…" replied Sportacus at last, then bit his lip. "That sounds terrible, I'm so sorry…"
"No need…it's all right, I know you can't lie." The blue waistcoat fell to the floor and Robbie lifted the t-shirt off over his head.
"I can't?" Sportacus smiled. "How completely inconvenient."
"Not for me," said Robbie, naked to the waist now. "Come with me." He led the way to the bedroom and threw back the deep purple coverlet. "Now, let's see if I can't jog your memory a little." He began to kiss Sportacus again, trailing his tongue slowly across his chest and over the perfectly defined abdominal muscles.
"Wait a minute," said Sportacus softly. "This seems a little - one-sided - so far…let me…"
Robbie, happily relinquishing the unfamiliar leadership role, closed his eyes in grateful ecstasy as the other man began to kiss his neck and shoulders.
"You're going to have to tell me what you like," Sportacus said with a hint of a smile in his voice, "since I think we both know I can't remember."
"I'm sure you'll figure it out," said Robbie, surprised by how hoarse his voice was. He wriggled quickly out of his remaining clothes.
-----
Do you know what the strangest thing was for me? It actually felt oddly familiar, to be with him like that. I'd forgotten that, you know. The way they have, his people I mean, of making it feel like coming home…
I'll tell you what else he had, too; that basic unselfishness, that thoughtfulness, that gentle but relentless focus on his partner's pleasure. And I'm sure I don't need to tell you that he had the immaculate, clean-living beauty and haunting air of enchantment that they're all born with. It's one of the many, many reasons why they're so easy to fall in love with…
Oh, sorry to disappoint you, but no; he really isn't my type, and never has been. Far too straight-laced and well-behaved. And besides, in spite of everything - in spite of the strange half-familiarity of it all - he wasn't the same as the man I'd - been with before, all those years ago.
If I'm totally honest (but when was I ever that?) it was a bittersweet experience, from start to finish. Emotionally speaking, I'd have to say that it hurt at least as much as it helped.
And now you're wondering what I was doing in bed with him in the first place?
Well, now. Time to make a choice. Do you really want to know about that? Or would you prefer to hear me describe one of the best blow-jobs of my entire goddamn life?
-----
They lay on the bed, naked on the purple silk sheets.
"How about this?" murmured Sportacus, stroking Robbie's lean, flat stomach. Robbie shivered with pleasure.
"Yes," he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady.
"And this?" He began to caress Robbie's right thigh, his hand firm but gentle, up and then down again, up and down, getting closer each time to the place Robbie desperately wanted him to touch, but not quite making contact.
"Yes, yes…Jesus, where did you learn to tease like that…" he groaned in frustration.
Sportacus chuckled.
"I don't have the faintest idea." He kissed him softly on the mouth and continued to stroke Robbie's thigh, letting his fingers just brush lightly against him for a second… Robbie caught his hand and tried to guide it to where he wanted - needed - to be touched.
"I don't think so," said Sportacus firmly, taking his hand back. "Just keep still, please, and let me try and make it up to you."
"Make what up to me?"
"Make it up to you for getting drunk on Christmas Eve and forgetting even your name." His clean, pink tongue described a slow trail across Robbie's chest and navel.
Robbie groaned aloud and clutched two handfuls of the sheet between his fists, completely lost in sensation. Not bad for a new boy, he thought wryly, trying to keep control. Oh, my God, you're so good at that, how do you know, how do you know just how long to make me wait…ahhhh…oh God, and now at last you're going to use your tongue…yes….just like that…no, please don't stop…and then he felt a welcoming warmth close around him and cried aloud in bliss and forgetfulness, lost in the delicious licking, tugging, caressing, feeling the wave of pleasure begin to build…
"No, please don't stop," he begged. "Keep going, that's fantastic…"
"I know. And it will be even more fantastic if you just let me…no, no, no. I don't think so. Give me my hand back. No. I may not remember much about us, Robbie, but I think we both know I am stronger than you and you are not going to win that one. Just trust me…"
"Oh, I trust you, believe me I trust you," said Robbie dryly, striving for his usual pose of lazy insouciance. "You think I'd let you put it in your mouth if I didn't - oh - mmm - ohhh -" Again that welcoming warmth, again the wave was building, and this time he was sure that nothing, nothing could stop it, it was going to break any moment now and send him crashing to the shore -
And at the last possible moment, it stopped again.
"Am I forgiven yet?" asked Sportacus, smiling.
"Yes, yes, of course you are, just don't keep stopping like that, it's - "
"It's what?"
"It's driving me completely wild," groaned Robbie helplessly.
"That's the point." He bent his head again.
"Oh, that's so good…don't stop, don't stop, don't stop…oh…yes, just like that, that's - oh, that's - oh, yes, please, yes, oh my God, oh, oh - oh for fuck's sake, are you trying to kill me?"
"What doesn't kill you will only make you stronger."
"I think I'm strong enough, thank you -" He swallowed hard. "Please, I'm begging you - did I just say that? I'm actually begging you, how did that happen? I can't be that far gone - oh God, yes I am, I am damn well begging you here, don't stop again, please, I can't stand any more…"
The moment when it finally arrived seemed to come from the base of his spine and radiate out in a sweet, agonising pulse that travelled through his whole body. He heard himself cry out as the feeling stretched out and out into an endless, timeless moment of rapture, on and on, lifting him up into space, and then just as he thought he must surely be lost for ever he felt it begin to fade again, and he was lying on the bed, the sheets torn where he had clutched and pulled at them, his whole body drenched with sweat, his breathing ragged.
-----
I'm more than happy to admit it; that took me by surprise. Who knew that someone so basically uninterested in men would know how to please me so thoroughly? But that's him all over, of course, the sweet-natured, good-hearted fool that he is. He felt guilty; he thought he'd done something terrible, and he wanted to make it up to me.
Well, it probably won't astound you to know that I've never actually had the experience of making up with a lover suffering from self-inflicted amnesia as a result of an unusual reaction to alcohol. But if I ever do, and if it turns out to be half as good as that was…let's just say that I imagine I'd find it in my heart to forgive him.
Of course, as that most famous of selfless, self-sacrificing Heroes once said - it is better to give than to receive…
-----
"Well," said Robbie, finally getting his breath back, "I think it's time we evened the score. Don't you?"
Sportacus smiled.
"There's absolutely no rush."
"Actually, I think there is."
"Why? What do you have to apologise for?"
Robbie looked at him with something like remorse in his eyes.
"If you knew," he said, smiling crookedly. "Oh, my dear, if you only knew…"
"What's the matter? Would it help to talk about it? Is there anything I can do?"
"Oh, do stop it. You need to learn to switch off occasionally, do you know that? Come here and lie down and shut up and let me - " Robbie began to nibble gently at the other man's earlobe, and ran his fingers gently over his chest. "Good God, all these muscles…you're even more maddeningly perfect with your clothes off than with them on, do you know that? How on earth I've managed to resist all this time…"
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, nothing," said Robbie hastily, and wriggled down the bed.
"Does this still feel unfamiliar?" he murmured, licking and nuzzling.
"Yes…"
"But not unpleasant?"
"I think we can both see that it's a very long way from unpleasant."
"Indeed…oh, yes, above average in every way, as they say…oh, what? You don't like that after all?"
"It just doesn't feel right to just lie there and let you…please me. I'm sorry, but I think I would prefer it to be more - reciprocal."
Robbie raised an eyebrow.
"I see. I hope you're not disappointed that I just lay there."
"Disappointed?" he laughed. "No, of course not."
"No, you wouldn't be, would you? Delicious, selfless and dedicated…my God, and to think this is all most likely going to go to waste on a silly teenage virgin who'll never know how lucky she is…well, of course, if you absolutely insist, then I suppose I could see my way clear to…"
They lay side by side on the bed, chest to chest and thigh to thigh, breathing hard. They kissed, softly at first and then more deeply and urgently, and pressed themselves close against each other, Robbie eager and longing and trying to play it cool, Sportacus more gentle, more thoughtful, more tentative.
"Better?" asked Robbie softly.
"Yes…much better…"
"I have to agree. Much less - "
"Lonely?"
They looked at each other in surprise.
"Actually, yes."
They began kissing again, their hands on each other's bodies, stroking and squeezing. After a while they found a gentle, dreamy rhythm of caressing movements that led them both slowly, slowly towards a sweet and sudden suffusion of pleasure, that took them both by surprise with its unexpected tenderness.
Afterwards, they lay astonished and silent in the near-darkness, their arms and legs entwined, staring straight into each other's eyes.
-----
Ask most people what they think gay men do together, and you'll get the same dull, predictable answer every time. I'm sure that's what was on your mind the moment you sat down here with me to listen to this little Yuletide fable, wasn't it? Is he going to Do the Wicked Deed? Will he commit the act - still technically illegal for over half the world's population, by the way - for which Oscar Wilde was sent to Reading Gaol (even though the man who accused him couldn't even spell it right)? Will he, in short, enter the portal that dare not speak its name?
If it wasn't so funny it would almost be insulting. The lack of imagination implied by this endless, tiresome assumption simply staggers me. Is there, then, no tenderness between men and women? No kisses or caresses, no stroking, no loving mutual exploration? Is straight sex nothing more than the simple and mechanical act of penetration? I thought not. So why, I have to ask you, do you imagine that it is any other way with two men?
While we're on the subject, incidentally, it may interest you to know that at least fifty per cent of gay men claim that they rarely or never undertake that particular sexual practice that you find so squirmingly emblematic of all that I stand for. Some decline to do so for health reasons. Apart from the obvious risk (and we all know that even a specially designed condom isn't one hundred per cent protective against that little time-bomb) - get it wrong, be too rough or simply too eager, and you can do some rather serious damage to your partner. Some, ironically enough, consider the act, and its implied obsession with penetration as the sine qua non of the sexual spectrum, to be hetero-normative. Some simply don't feel the need for it. A man's body is as sensitive as a woman's, after all; we're made differently, but our bodies seek pleasure just the same. We have hands, mouths, tongues, fingers and toes, earlobes and nipples and…oh, I'm sorry. Does this make you uncomfortable? Well, as you wish; I think my point is made.
Nevertheless. With enough lubricant and a willing, gentle, accommodating partner…
…well, in those circumstances - buggery really is the most exquisite pleasure imaginable.
-----
"Is that all right?"
"Yes, oh, yes, that's beautiful."
"Not too rough? Or too hard?"
"No, that's not too hard, it's perfect…oh…"
"That's the right spot? Just there?"
"Yes, just there…"
A long, breathless silence.
"You're so good at this."
"Am I ?"
"Unbelievable."
"Tell me why. Please, tell me why…"
"This is the closest - ohh - the closest I've felt to anyone for - I can't remember when I last - "
"Yes, oh yes, me too…no, wait, slow down - "
"Too rough after all? I'm sorry, I'll try to - I just can't help it - you just feel so - "
"No, it's amazing…that's the problem, if you don't stop for a minute I'm going to - I can't wait much longer, it's - oh - please, I don't want this to be over too soon - "
"Shhh. Lie still, we'll wait, just a minute and…no, I won't move, I won't - it's hard not to, though - feels so good - "
"Please, I mean it, I just need a minute - no, slowly, don't rush it - it's too good to rush - "
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for?"
"For everything…for how it's been…for - ohh - for not being able to stop - I'm sorry, I have to move, I can't wait, I can't - "
They came together, both of them screaming in ecstasy, their bodies wrapped around each other, their fingers tightly entwined.
-----
I know. You wanted the details, didn't you? You wanted to know who was on top and who was underneath; who was the uke and who was the seme; whose rock-hard erection slid into whose body, whose hand scrabbled frantically in the night-stand for the Vaseline. You want to know what position we were in. How long it took. Whether one of us brought the other one off with his hand or whether the relentless, tender pressure on that spot, that hidden, secret spot deep inside, was enough.
Not a chance. Some things are private.
But I'll tell you a far deeper and more important truth than the mechanical facts you were hoping for; for those few minutes, or hours, or seconds, or whatever it was, it didn't matter. For a short, wild time that Christmas Eve, we were two halves of one single being.
-----
"That was…extraordinary," said Sportacus at last, as they lay peacefully in each other's arms.
Robbie chuckled.
"You're telling me." He hesitated. "You know…it really was…I didn't expect it to be - oh, what am I saying, it doesn't change anything - but - for a minute there I wondered if - did you feel it too? That we were..."
Sportacus wasn't listening.
"Did you say it was Christmas Eve?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes. Why?"
"I - I have this vague memory of…a train station…saying goodbye to someone. It seemed to be important."
Robbie stroked his back.
"Don't worry about it. It'll come back to you in time. Where are you going?"
"I need to take a shower."
"Oh you would, wouldn't you. You're the cleanest man I've ever met. You even smell like clean washing, do you know that? Can't you just - wallow a little?"
"I'd really feel better for a shower."
"Fine. Bathroom's just down the hall, if you can't remember. I'll see you in a few minutes."
Alone in the bed, Robbie lay on his back and stared steadily at the ceiling, remembering, processing, trying to rationalise, and failing.
"So," he asked the darkness that surrounded him. "Where the bloody hell did that come from?"
-----
The Villain with carnal designs on the Hero. It's one of the great undercurrents of the Superhero genre, isn't it? Frank Miller was the first to bring it into the mainstream, of course, with the Joker's unrequited passion for Gotham's Dark Knight in his Kevlar armour. But the fans had seen it for decades and decades before that, and have been busily penning their own deeper, darker versions of what goes on in the spaces outside the panels for as long as heroes and villains have existed. Superman and Lex Luthor. Spiderman and the Green Goblin. And now, by hook and by crook, my own good self and the Above Average Hero…
At first sight, of course, this theme of Heroes and Villains just looks like a straight adaptation of that old, tired story; the gay man as other, alien, corrupting, dangerous, deviant. But remember what I told you earlier; we are drawn to what we despise. In Batman's frenzied hatred of the Joker's spiteful comedies, in Superman's consuming need to rehabilitate Lex, is there not more than a hint of the desperation of unfulfilled and unacknowledged passion?
Frank Miller, dear, earnest, heartfelt Miller; he was the first to make explicit the Joker's desire for Batman. It has taken rather longer for anyone to acknowledge the other side of the coin: Batman's desire for the Joker.
In the final analysis, is it really such an insult that the villains are so often portrayed as the overt homosexuals in that strange relationship that binds them to their Hero? Is it an insult to show us as the seducers, the corruptors, the leaders-astray? Is there not, instead, a dark and terrible compliment in the assumption that what we have to offer is so compelling, so delicious, so utterly seductive that even the Hero who despises us is helpless to resist?
-----
Alone and sated, Robbie drifted contentedly between waking and sleeping. He could hear the shower running, the door opening and closing, the pad of feet in the corridor. He had lived for so long in the eerie silence of his self-imposed solitude that he had forgotten the comfort of companionship. Nothing moved unless he moved it. No lights were left on unless he forgot to flick the switch. Now, unexpectedly, there was someone else here too…
Finally, he became aware that time was passing and he was still alone in the bed, the torn silk sheets delicious and irritating to his naked skin. He stood up and padded into the living-room, and found Sportacus standing in the middle of the floor, a towel around his waist, a small white box in his hand.
"Everything all right?" asked Robbie casually.
"I remember this," said Sportacus. "A girl gave it to me. I can't remember her name…she told me not to open it until tomorrow. She - can I be remembering this right? - she had pink hair. Is that even possible? Robbie, what's happened to me? Why can't I remember who I am? Why can't I remember us?"
Robbie looked at him for a long time.
"Please tell me," said Sportacus desperately. "This can't just be the whiskey."
"You remember the whiskey?"
"Yes, I think that was it…Jack Daniels, is that right?"
"That's right."
"There has to be a reason why I can remember her but not - not us. Did we have a fight or something? Please…"
Robbie turned away for a minute so that Sportacus wouldn't see his expression. Then he turned back again, smiled and took him gently by the hand.
"Come with me. It's all right, my love. I can make it all right."
----
That's the thing about the Memory Zapper, you see. It can bury their memories for a while, but it can't change their fundamental nature. And sooner or later, something will remind them of who they really are, and it will all come back to them…
-----
"Get dressed first."
"Why? Where are we going?"
Robbie raised an eyebrow.
"Don't you trust me?"
"Of course I do."
"Then get dressed…okay, now that was fast. Damn it, I really thought I'd have the drop on you for that one at least. Clearly just one more thing you're better at than me…now. Drink this." He held up the whiskey bottle.
"What? I thought this was what caused this problem in the first place, how can more make it better?"
"Do as you're told…no, a proper mouthful…it's all right, my boy. I've got you." Robbie put an arm out to steady him. "Now, come this way and walk through here…"
"Through this big metal frame? I don't understand."
"You will do soon enough."
There was a flash of blue light and everything seemed frozen for a moment…
-----
And again, the God from the Machine asserts itself. Well, it wouldn't be a story about me without one of my brilliant inventions, now would it?
And if this all seems a little too convenient - that I happened to have a machine that allowed me to wipe his memory and adjust his thinking in my favour at the flick of a switch - why, my dear, you're absolutely right! It is, indeed, a completely outrageous plot device, and if I was making this up then there's no way I'd have the cheek to try and snow you with it.
Unless, of course, that was an ingenious double bluff.
Maybe I made the whole thing up just to mess with your head a little.
-----
"What am I doing here?" Sportacus swayed a little as he stood in the bunker. Damn it, man, you even do drunk with grace, thought Robbie longingly. Good thing I'm too tired to do anything else to you tonight…
"Taking up useful space," he said out loud. "My God, you people…even for an Elf you're a god-damn lightweight when it comes to alcohol, do you know that?"
"I've told you, Robbie, I'm not human but I'm not an Elf, I'm…" he yawned.
"Of course you're not. Well, you're a bloody nuisance, I know that much. All right, since there's clearly no chance of me getting you back up that rope-ladder tonight I guess you're sleeping here…bedroom's down there."
"Robbie, that's not fair on you. I'll sleep in the chair."
"No, you most certainly will not. Only I sit in the chair. Ever. Come on." He took Sportacus by the elbow and propelled him down the corridor. "That's the last time I'm drinking with you."
-----
"That's the last time I'm drinking with you." As it turned out, they were the last words I spoke to him that Christmas. He was tired and dizzy and compliant, and he was asleep on the bed within about thirty seconds. Incidentally, his last words to me that night before he fell asleep were, "I'm sorry."
How like him to apologise for something I'd done to him.
I watched him sleeping for a while, then I took a blanket and settled down in my favourite spot. When I woke up, at the crack of noon on Christmas Day, he was gone. He'd done the washing-up, tidied around and left a fruit salad in the refrigerator. I left it in there until it was covered with blue mould, then parcelled it up and sent it to him in the mail, just so he didn't imagine I'd eaten it.
I suppose it's time I answered the question that was in your mind earlier, isn't it? Before I distracted you with that eloquent description of how he got me off, for the first of many times that night. Why did I want to be with him at all?
Well, the first answer should be obvious. You've seen him, after all. But of course you're right; mere physical beauty isn't enough of a reason. It's a commodity like any other, and I've bought plenty of it in my time.
Maybe I did it because I wanted to force him to see me, really see me, for the first time. Maybe I was tired of his endless tolerance of me and my oh-so-amusing little schemes. Maybe I wanted to get to him at last.
I can see you're all agog to see if I'm going to say the "L" word, but no; I can assure you that love had nothing to do with it. However beautiful he is - and I'll freely admit he's beautiful - however fuckable he is - and trust me, he's certainly that - there's no way I could live with all that healthy, freshly laundered, apple-pie niceness.
Maybe it was because of what we represent to each other; the irritating itch we can never quite scratch. I'll never corrupt him, and he'll never reform me. Nonetheless, we're drawn to each other. Maybe I just wanted to see if, in the throes of oblivious ecstasy, we could find a way to share something other than that endless, tireless conflict…and do you know, for a few moments…
But of course, he was only ever on loan. His true nature and mine were bound to reassert themselves eventually.
Or maybe I made the whole thing up just to see if you'd fall for it.
Believe what you want to believe. You've had my version of events, and what with one thing and another, I'm damn sure you'll never have his. Believe I did it for love, or lust, or spite, or curiosity, for the love of a challenge or the thrill of the chase. Or, if you prefer, believe I've just been spinning you a yarn. It's entirely up to you.
Oh, and one more thing -
Merry Christmas.