This Is Your Strife

Chapter Twenty-One

A subway ride later, they walked a few blocks north up the Avenue of the Americas then west on Waverly Place. As they passed the sign for Gay Street, Waylon visibly tensed up and increased the distance between Morris and himself. "Relax, we're almost there." They turned onto Christopher Street.

"Is it much further?"

"No, not much at all."

They walked inside Bagel Place, and Morris spotted Mr. Stafford, who took notice of them and waved. He was a short, thin man in his early forties wearing an elegant black Italian suit and sporting a graying black pompadour and a horseshoe mustache, sitting at a small round table. He waved and smiled back, and Waylon tentatively waved back. Mr. Stafford stood and said in an English accent, "Hello, Morris, how is my favorite new artist?" and shook his hand. "And Waylon, it's a pleasure to meet you." He extended his hand to Waylon, who was caught off guard and limply shook.

"You'll have to excuse him; he's a bit nervous."

"Oh? Why is that? Am I really that intimidating?"

"No, no. It's just, he doesn't get yet that he's not in Kansas anymore."

"Ah, I see." He looked down at the menu the waitress handed him. "I'll have the pastrami on an onion bagel with the chives cream cheese."

"And you, sir?" said the waitress to Morris.

"I'd like a bagel with lox and cream cheese."

"And you, sir?" she said to Waylon.

"Um... I'd like pastrami on rye with garlic and herb cream cheese."

"We'll have that right up in a jiffy," she said, gathering the menus and walking back to the counter.

Mr. Stafford leaned back in his chair and said, "You know, this used to be a gay bar called the Stonewall Inn. You may have heard of it."

"Mister, I don't know what Morris told you, but we're just friends!"

"Right, right. And I get Playboy for the articles." He took a swig of his water. "Son, you don't have to get so wound up. You're among friends."

"You mean, you..."

"No, I'm happily married. But many of my best friends are gay. A lot of people around here are. And there are straight people who think it's a damn shame the way society treats you, and there are more of us every day."

"I'd really rather not discuss this."

"That's understandable," he said, sipping his water.

Morris' lips brimmed with anticipation as he finally spoke, "Waylon and I are moving to New York!"

"Wonderful! You'll find many opportunities as an artist here. There's truly no place better for an artist to be, except for Paris." The waitress brought out their bagels. "Thank you, dear," he said, then after taking a bite, said, "So, Morris tells me you want to be a businessman."

"That's right, sir."

"You know, managing an art gallery is a fine business to get into. Artists need businesspeople to manage that end of things so they can concentrate on creating. Have you thought about going into the art business?"

"I have now."

"Because I'm looking for someone to learn the ropes and eventually take over the gallery when I can't run it anymore, and Morris was raving about your intelligence and work ethic."

"He's right, but how do you know he isn't lying?"

"I gave Mr. Burns a ring. His report, if anything, was more glowing."

"Really? What did he say about me?"

"He said he's never been so impressed by a young man, that you have a great future ahead of you. He called you the second cleverest man he's had in his employ."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. He said you were special to him."

"He said that? To another person?"

"I think he said it to himself. I just happened to hear him."

"You didn't tell him anything, did you? About me and Morris? How we... are?"

He shook his head, chuckling. "What do you take me for, a gossipy flibbertigibbet?" Before he could respond, he said, "I am more sensitive to your plight than that."

"My plight?"

"You know..."

"Oh, yeah, yeah. I just don't think of my, uh, situation like that. It's hard to feel oppressed when I'm so happy."

"As well you should be. I don't think I have to tell you this is an opportunity few men as young as yourself are ever offered."

"Thank you, sir. I'll definitely consider it."

"I hope you do."

"Morris thinks I have a shot at transferring to NYU."

"A shot? Between Mr. Burns' recommendation and, from what I hear, your impeccable grades, your acceptance is assured. I'll show you to the campus later. They relocated to the Village last year or so."

After lunch, they walked through Greenwich Village, Mr. Stafford pointing out various locales – places he recommended to get food, to get coffee, to get furniture, to get records, to get clothes, to get books, to get a beer, to get a haircut. He would tell them about the proprietors of various shops and the salient facts about them. It stunned both Waylon and Morris to hear this straight man so casually mention that Victor was the boyfriend of Randy and speak of them as any other couple, a couple he'd invited home to dinner with him and his wife.

"And this is the flower shop I go to," he said, pointing to a green sign with gold lettering reading "Miguel's Flowers" that hung from an awning of the same colors. "I always buy my chrysanthemums here. I get one each week and dip it in blue ink to put in the gallery window." He opened the door, ringing a little silver bell hanging overhead. "Hello, Miguel," he said, approaching the counter and shaking his hand.

Miguel, a man in his thirties with shaggy black hair, retrieved a box and handed it to Mr. Stafford. "Here to pick up this week's chrysanthemum?" he said, speaking with a Mexican accent.

"Yes, thank you. Miguel, I want you to meet my new friends, Morris Yackey and Waylon Smithers. Morris, Waylon, this is Miguel Orosco." They shook hands and greeted each other. "Morris is the newest artist to join the Blue Chrysanthemum family."

"Oh..." he said, intrigued. "What kind of art is it you do?"

"Mostly neo-expressionist painting."

"I'd like to see it sometime."

"Then stop by the gallery. His work is going on exhibition starting in August."

"I'll have to stop by, then."

Mr. Stafford said, "Morris and Waylon are moving here shortly. Do you have any recommendations about rooms for rent?"

"I have a room above my shop for rent. But it's only one bedroom."

Morris smiled and said, "One bed is all we'll need."

Miguel's eyes brightened a bit. "You two are together?"

Waylon stammered a bit, but Morris quickly and confidently said, "Yes. Waylon is my life partner."

"Relax, Waylon," he said, noting his trembling hand and twitching lip and playfully bumping his fist against his bicep. "I'm gay, too."

"People have been telling me to relax all day, but I just keep getting more nervous."

"Have you been to Stewart's Cafeteria?" They shook their heads. "It's at Sheridan Square. Downstairs, you can eat and watch the men walk by, but upstairs is The Village Gym." He let out a low, long whistle. "If you like watching sweaty, muscular men work out – and I have a feeling you do – it's the place to be." Waylon's face turned bright red. "And if you like leather and a wild time, the Anvil is the place for you."

Morris said, "I don't think Waylon is up for a wild time tonight."

"No." Waylon's lips trembled a bit, then he blinked and tightened them steadfastly. "No, I am. I mean, I want to – to have a wild time."

"Are you sure?" said Miguel. "You seem shy, and I'm telling you, it's really wild."

"Yes. I'm completely sure."

"I mean, really wild." Waylon nodded. "It's on West Fourteenth Street, by the Hudson." Turning to Mr. Stafford, he said, "Well, I've got to cut these flowers."

"Yes, it was nice seeing you," said Mr. Stafford.

"You're wearing that?" Morris looked in dismay as Waylon pulled out a dress shirt and pants from his suitcase.

"I didn't pack anything but business clothes. I wasn't planning to do any partying on this trip."

"You can't wear that. Here," he said, lifting a bag from the ground and pulling out a leather ensemble. "I got it for you today."

Waylon smiled and put it on, then looked himself over in the mirror by the window. "I... wow, I look good. Gives me kind of a James Dean vibe."

"So, you like it?"

"Like it? I love it."

Morris put on his own clothes, a leather jacket over a white shirt open halfway down his chest, revealing a tuft of chest hair. "Are you ready?"

"Yes. Let's go." As Morris left and Waylon was about to shut the door, the phone rang. "Just a second," he said, going to the phone.

Morris ran after him and grabbed his wrist before he could pick up the phone. "Whatever it is, it can wait. We haven't had a night out in ages, and this is going to be the time of our life."

"But what if Mr. Burns needs something?" He immediately regretted letting that name slip.

"Is Mr. Burns your life partner, or me? Will Mr. Burns hug you, make you feel wanted, spend the rest of his life with you?"

"It's my job."

"You're quitting him, anyway, so what difference does it make?"

"But I can't walk away until I do quit."

"You walked away from the museum to be with him."

"Only because he insisted."

"Well, I insist."

"You're right; I'm being ridiculous. Mr. Burns can handle himself, and we're gonna have the time of our lives. Let's go." He withdrew his hand from the phone receiver and placed it on Morris' shoulder blade, guiding him out and shutting the door, the phone still ringing.

They arrived at the Anvil, looking on in desirous shock as men stripped, danced, and twirled on ropes suspended from the ceiling, another man danced in front of a fan, and some men danced naked on the bar. Waylon blushed and broke into a subdued, giddy laughter, his senses overwhelmed, then clutched Morris' hand more tightly. Morris said simply, "Wow."

"'Wow' is right." A drag queen was performing, and they went to the bar and got some beers and talked for a bit as they watched the entertainment, then got to dancing. They danced for hours, then leaned against a wall and watched the naked go-go dancers. Waylon rubbed his hand over Morris' thigh, then moved it over his crotch. When he slipped his hand inside, Morris' breath hitched, and he said, "Not in front of everyone."

"Come on, plenty of guys are doing even more. I like the idea of everyone seeing us."

"Really? Cause you sure didn't like it earlier today."

"After so long not being able to hold your hand in public, being able to hold your cock in public is the greatest thrill of my life." He slipped his hand out of Morris' pants. "Now, tell me you don't want me to keep going."

"Keep going," he said, unzipping his pants, then stopping midway. "No. I just can't, not out here."

He tilted his head slightly to one side. "It's darker in that room. Come on, let's have a wild time." Morris could only nod and trail along as Waylon took him by the hand, leading him to a darker room where other men were having sex. He went down on him for just long enough to tantalize him, then stood and unzipped his own pants. "Get ready for the ride of your life," he said, then fucked him against the wall. As he ascended to the heights of ecstasy, images of Mr. Burns flooded his mind, and he realized he had been fantasizing that it was Mr. Burns he was fucking in front of all those men.

"Oh, God! Waylon..."

"Mm... Morris." He squeezed him close and kissed him behind his ear before disengaging. While they pulled their pants back up, he said, "Were you thinking about me?"

"Of course I was thinking about you, baby. How could I not be when you're thrusting inside me?" He sighed, awash in mellow euphoria. "You were thinking about me, right?"

"Who else would I have been thinking about? Cher?" He reached his hands around his waist, underneath the leather jacket, and kissed him as intensely as he knew how. "Aren't you glad now I instigated this?"

"I admit, it was kind of thrilling. But I don't want to do it again. Not like this. I want you to myself, Waylon."

"Okay, dear. We won't do this again." He ran his hands up and down Morris' back. "I'm all yours."