Afternoon Sage-Craft

Dedicated to the gaydemon author JAMES ROZO, whose compliments inspired it.

Caspar, plump as ever, sashayed toward his friends’ table singing “We Three Queens of Orient Are.”

“Oh good heavens, listen to her.”

“Easy, Balthasar,” Melchoir counseled while hiding his belch behind a carefully manicured hand. “It’s either early-onset senility or too many Pink Ladies already.”

Bitchiness tempered by genuine affection. Old friends, you see.

He fed himself another handful of free salted peanuts.

“I know you can’t wait to hear my observations.”

“You’ll share them anyway.”

Struggling to pull a white wicker chair from one side, Caspar settled, wheezed relief, and said, “Move your fat feet. They’re in my way.”

With a grunt of discomfort, Melchior made the desired effort. Shifted his John Lobs.

“There. Now what?”

“May I take your order, gentlemen? What would you like?” Drop-dead-handsome Gilberto, the waiter, realized his mistake. Too late.

“Oh honey, just pull it out… and let me see your menu.”

“Yes. Anything special on offer?” Balthasar pointed to the waiter’s crotch. Melchior raised a plucked eyebrow.

“Something we don’t know about? Something l-o-n-g to sip from on a day like this?

Gilberto sighed inwardly but remained composed. They always made him antsy. Although when he flirted, they tipped better.

Melchior’s manicure showed its gloss as he held it between pursed lips and Caspar’s ear. The stage whisper carried to other patrons seated nearby, “Look how he fills his uniform in the front and in the back, darling boy.”

Caspar tittered; Gilberto blushed.

“What about a Singapore Sling?”

Gilberto scribbled while Balthasar made a statement that ended as a question, “You were in one back in ’59 – remember, on our cruise?”

“Tom Collins for me,” Melchior broke in.

Perfect opportunity for Gilberto to step in with, “Mr. Collins checked out earlier this morning.”

“Phfffft!” was Melchior’s rude response. More like checked you out.

“I’ll have a plain Peach Schnapps…with maybe a dash of Triple Sec and a mint leaf garnish,” Balthasar ordered. Toward the tattooed bartender, Traitor Joe, he twisted his head and broadcast, “That all right with you, big boy?”

Gilberto turned to check approval – alas, positioning his derriere within Melchior’s reach.

Pencil and pad flew.

Joe boomed in his butch bass voice, “Quit pestering our guests and get back here before I git my bamboo switch and warm yo’ butt.”

Orders placed, the trio got down to serious talk, as usual.

“So, what are your observations about that guy’s “Tanet” story on gaydemon, Caspar?”

“And yes, we’ve read it, too.”

“All right, dears. First of all, where does the guy fuck the boy? I mean, who can tell?”

Melchior pursed his lips to level, “Under a pavilion with a dome on top, you ninny.”

“I mean, is it in Egypt, or…or Persia, or India?

Balthasar tutted, “Now I get why you were singing about the Orient when you splashed in on us. Never mind. It was a lush, moist spot, so maybe France or England, but no particular place – a comfortable, magic location.”

Undeterred, Caspar complained, “I, for one, can’t stand poetic nonsense when I can’t detect justification for words of three or four syllables that aren’t in common usage.”

“Does he know any?” Melchior queried Balthasar.

“Any what?”

“Polysyllabic words in common usage.”

“Did you like all that folderol?”

Balthasar felt superior, “If you refer to Cooper’s exceptional prose painting of ecstasy with ethereal strokes, then yes, I did.”

Caspar fidgeted, “Well, I suppose some of the language does evoke a certain misty green feeling.”

“Call it quits for a moment you dueling divas,” Melchior said. “Look who’s coming.”

Their waiter, Gilberto, wended their way, holding high a tray with three drinks in appropriate glasses. His wiles about him, he stood between Caspar and Balthasar, and lowered the tray to serve.

“Steady, sweet thing. Don’t spill a drop,” Caspar cautioned as he ran a hand along Gilberto’s inseam.

Tray and hand trying to place the Peach Schnapps cocktail trembled. Casualty: one mint garnish, which toppled. Gilberto turned red.

“Sir! Please!”

To the plaintive plea, Caspar said, “Don’t mind if I do.” Plying the stoic young man’s bulge, he cooed, “Ooh, there’s so much here that an investigation might bare.”

Traitor Joe approached, bowl in hand. “You guys need some more peanuts?” He eyed the goings-on and bared yellowish teeth.

Balthasar smacked Caspar’s hand. “My friend’s had more nuts than he should.”

Deposited safely, the drinks awaited. Gilberto backed off, grateful for his rescue.

“He’s a little shaky,” Melchior told Traitor Joe. “You might want to look into that. Good for business, you know.” His remarks over, Melchior generously produced a hundred-dollar bill and handed it ceremoniously to the bartender – keeping a steady eye on nervous Gilberto as he did.

Sips and slurps returned the trio to their literary topic, Cooper’s “Tanet.”

“As I was trying to say before I was so rudely interrupted,” Caspar picked two peanuts from his Jhane Barnes shirt, “when I read ‘Tanet’ I couldn’t tell much about the moment of ejaculation and how it was for Tanet and Pemberton.”

“My dear,” Balthasar was arch, “I have the text right here on my ’phone. Pay attention.” He read, “The rider and the ridden, in full pursuit not of what they desired but of what they yearned to be, fused in molten surrender to forces greater than they.” He looked to Melchior for corroboration.

“Good Gawd, that’s as hot as anything could be!” exclaimed Melchior. Keen to seem intelligent, he returned the look.

“Clear as anything, it’s a dream of physical and spiritual love in a sacred garden.”

Caspar struggled to come up with something they all could agree on. He hemmed and hawed. Bravely, he ventured, “The framing device – reality at the beginning and the end – surely that’s a failure. Especially the lame kicker at the end, Pemberton’s in a hospital of some sort. Tacky is as tacky does!”

“And you’re as smug as a bug in a rug,” Balthasar huffed. “It’s brilliant, especially the strip of linen on the floor. Don’t you see that Cooper’s suggesting (between his verse-like lines) that the path to enlightenment is through the love of a beautiful boy?”

He paused for effect. Lost on Caspar.

“The young Buddha.”

“Huh? It doesn’t say that.”

“It shouldn’t have to.”

They downed the remainder of their drinks. Caspar said he’d like to sit there for a while and “take it all in.”

Balthasar and Melchior meandered off, Balthasar to his knitting, Melchior to a new porn video.

Caspar took out his cell phone. Looked up the story on gaydemon.com. Read it again, this time with care. Thought. Swished his eyes from side to side like Inspector Clouseau. Thought some more. Snapped his fingers at Gilberto.

The waiter bounded to the table in the now-emptied barroom, where not even Traitor Joe was to be seen. “Sir?”

There’s a comment here,” he pointed to his screen, “about a nice little story I was reading. Do you know what the seven factors of awakening are?”

“No sir,” Gilberto replied.

“They are mindfulness, investigation of reality, energy, rapture, tranquility, concentration, and equanimity.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does an intelligent young man such as yourself want to know?”

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“You have the key to close up this place?”

”Yes, sir. Traitor Joe trusted me with it.”

“Good. Lock the door and turn off the lights. We’ll read this special story together and you will know them all.”

“Yes, sir.”

My original story, on the experience of which this new story is based, may be read here.