Moving In

I’d just left South Florida where such signs were part of the real estate landscape, and thought, Oh no! Is this tacky or what?

Welcome to
P A R A D I S E
A Gated Community

Sure enough, the grinning agent opened the flashy gate. “Hi,” he said, overdoing the friendly bit. “You’re right on time. Pete’s the name. Step this way.”

I decided not to imitate his lope à la John Cleese in a ‘Monty Python’ skit, although tempted.

“We have fabulous, absolutely fabulous views as you see and the night skies are really starry.”

No over-sell there.

“You’ll be right at home here. Every facility is provided. Just ask.”

“Boys and beds?”

“And boysenberries, you cute fruit,” he cackled at his cleverness.

I wanted to hold my tongue, but couldn’t. “Any cherries?”

“Naughty you! You can pit as many as you want. Eat them, too. And pansies to sniff, to pluck, to fuck. We’ve hot and cold running tricks, every sort your heart desires. Any age, demeanor, size, proclivity – concave, convex, to fit either sex with attachments for those in between.”

That old limerick’s last part, how corny could he be?

“Take for instance,” he took up again, “that way. See the sign for Daigon Alley? You fancy types such as Harry, Ron, Draco, and Cedric? Ah, Cedric – yum! They’re there. Andy takes care of them. Most accommodating. Over yonder’s Weismuller Way, Tarzan and Boy types, overseen by Jimmy. With his help, you can even make up your own of either one or both and do just anything with him or them. Now, further on – walk a little faster, please –Peds’ Path takes you to tykes. Phil’s domain. Has a cotton-candy spinner, a chocolate fountain, all-day suckers, jelly beans, ice cream, and diapers if you’re that kinky.”

He loped. I caught up. “Never was into tykes,” I wanted Pete to know.

“Well, I knew that. It’s written down someplace. Now, over there,” he pointed a long finger, “is our cucumber patch – fresh-fresh-fresh and always at hand. Matt’s in charge. Armenian, English hothouse (those are good – narrow diameter, really long), and Gherkins (for fun with the tykes) – those are popular varieties. Just beyond – see those red things like dicks? Trinidadian ginger plants. Bart tends them. They’ll spice up a boy’s butt, let me tell you. Next to them, ginger from St. Lucia – goes all the way in. The buds do. Wow! And for a real kick in the butt, we have ginger torches, they’re called. One of their buds on a long stem reams like nothing else.”

“Any regular ginger root, like for gingerbread?”

“Huge. Only you have to carve them into the dildo shapes you want for yourself or another. Our varieties guarantee a hot time in the old town tonight.”

“Who’s that coming toward us? He sure is handsome. Mmm! – those light-brown tresses flowing to his shoulders.”

“Why that’s Tom. When you get to know him, you can call him Tommy. Beloved here. Loves to put his head on your shoulder or chest, or in your neck. “Yoo-hoo, Tommy! Come greet our new arrival.”

The radiant young man made a beeline for me. The closer he came, the more I could feel my honey ready to be de-combed. Without so much as a word, he walked up, put out his arms, gathered me in, nestled his nose in my nape – and kissed it flutteringly as a butterfly. I came.

He knew it. Pete knew it.

“No embarrassment here, my dear. It’s perfectly natural – at any time. It’s how we praise.”

With the voice of an angel, Tom said as he smiled like a Leonardo, “Catch you later. I’ve some calls to make. Nice neck.”

Swoony, I watched him stroll away. “Does he say that to every man?”

“He doesn’t want to disappoint. C’mon, I want to show you our Boy Scout Jamboree site (the most vaporous thighs spread there) and rehearsal space for choir boys (divine surplices with lace collars – reach-throughable in several spots), and to introduce you to some YMCA and NAMBLA members. We have representatives of the Eros Union and the Hyacinthus Union – very la-ti-dah those are. Ooh, particular, too.”

While he flounced in another direction about to spout, it dawned on me that I was hungry. I had to ask.

“Mais oui, mon cher,” he showed off his French. “Our cuisine consists mainly of any-flavor manna and your choice of Chris-Blood red wine or ichor of the Old Gods. Mead’s around – ask for it. Want to clean up before a meal? Our baths – basically Roman-style (attended by every sort of nubile lads – who’re really hot in the Calidarium) or Everhard-style.”

“Did you mean like in New York, way back – Eberard?” I was trying to be specific.

“Up here, darling, it’s Everhard. Gives me the shivers when Demetrius the gladiator comes in there, he’s so insatiable! He and Spartacus, who made the cut, tag-team the bath attendants. Keeps..’em..in..shape. Those boys love being bitches for the butches.”

“Thank you. Do you have something for me, a place I can call my own?”

“You bet, baby. All fixed just the way you like it. Past that pale lavender cloud. I’ll show you.”

We made our way.

“There’s your bed – it’s billowy.”

Incredulously, I gawped at the sight of a golden harp. “What’s that thing doing here?”

“Huh? You play the harp don’t you? It’s certainly the ‘in’ thing around here.”

“I play the harpsichord,” I emphasized the way Pete did, hard.

“OK, we’ll haul off the harp. John Challis is up here. He’ll make you a harpychord, never you mind. And if you want a clavichord, he’ll knock up – I mean knock off – one for you, too. Doesn’t get many requests.”

“Any musicians, say, composers?”

“Handel. Called Georgie-Porgie, or GP. Plump as can be. Hangs out with Tchaikowsky, whose nom-de-ciel is Illy. You know, from his middle name Ilyitch. Can’t have two Peters, can we?

“You mean, anatomically?”

He chucked my chin, “Silly boy. Don’t distract me. I was telling you about composers. Franzie’s here – Schubert, our song man. Want a song? Ask him. If he’s not chasing one of his ‘peacocks,’ he’ll dash out a lewd lied for you.”

I’d been thinking. “Mind if I ask – that wine you mentioned and the name Chris – is he…?”

“…around? Sure. He’s like a caterer, part of our food service. Doles out bread and fishes. Climbs Mount Cloudy to give speeches and toss out blessings. Popular, even when he flips a wrist the wrong way and the crowd gets plastered in the face with breadcrumbs and guppies. Has a dozen guys that follow him around – you met one, Tom, he’s the beloved. They all like to eat suppers together. You-know-who sits in the middle.”

I wanted him to wind down so I could get on with my new life. I asked, “How about the fine arts?”

“The best, the best, the absolute best – Leo and Mike. How they kid each other! Mike’s been painting dinky portraits with that goofy smirk of Leo’s on guys’ faces and Leo’s sculpting something gigantic he’ll never finish, a forty-cubit high statue of Jeff Stryker. What a camp!”

Well did I remember the electrifying effect on me of seeing Stryker’s porn films, especially my first – in which he bends a lovely young fellow over a pool table, widens him considerably then plows that ass with magnum force. It was tempting to venture Leo’s way for a glimpse but it seemed “the better part of wisdom” (as Mom used to say) to lie down for a while and think.

Pete let me go to my billows, where I settled to repose, eyes closed. Not long had passed when I sensed a presence. Near. What? I opened my better eye. A slender young man – my type – looked down to ask softly, “Remember me – Victor?”

“Victor! How is it that you haven’t changed since you were nineteen? That’s when you gave yourself to me for two weekends.”

His affectionate smile inspired a state of glowing, growing ardor in my manly part.

“There was an automobile accident shortly after that. I’ve been here since. Pete sent me to be your welcome mat. If you let me lie down, I will bottom for you as you want.”

“For what time period?”

“We don’t reckon time here.”

My sigh of yearning sounded musical, “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“You have.”

In case this offends anyone, I'll not name the confidants who advised me keenly when this was a draft. Wouldn't want them to be blamed. Gosh, for me it was an amusing "take" on an old tale.