HOT BUTTERED RUM - A Memoir
copyright 2001 Michael Safdiah 
 - For Doug, who taught me to fly

"The rumor that I would sleep with someone just to get a recipe
is a total falsehood. Perhaps it might depend on which recipe it is."

I once threw caution to the winds to track down a recipe for the bestest mac cheese I ever tasted. Another quest was about to begin for a recipe for a drink. A chilly drab November rainy day in San Francisco brought me out of the rain in to one of the most elaborately decorated bars.  It was my birthday week, and I celebrate by heading somewhere nice as a present to myself.  Authentic Barbary Coast.San Francisco Gold Rush Baroque, but you could say masculine whore house The bar was wide and all carved Mahogany.  It had to have come around the Horn. There were columns all around the perimeter, and a few in the center of the large high-ceilinged room. The floors were highly polished wood, and there were comfortable oversized chairs sprinkled around that said, "relax be comfortable and stay awhile". Large potted Spathaphyllum, carved cornices, Gaudy red velvet flocked wallpaper, and lots of gilded mirrors all added to the High Fag Victorian elegance but in contrast, the room was filled with men and women in jeans and even more casual attire, saying that the surroundings need not intimidate its guests. There was a shadow looming over the gaiety I couldn't yet define, as though they were convincing themselves they were having a good time.  It was 1983, and free-loving innocent San Francisco was about to be hit with an awful unknown horror.

I was just about to order a cold one, but a beer on such a day, no.  Then I noticed the most adorable bartender, free for a moment and asking me,
"hey, welcome! What can I get ya"
He was definitely midwest n' corn fed by the way he spoke, and single by the way he looked at me.  He was around five foot ten, maybe eleven, who cares, and had short sandy hair, his suntanned face looked weathered around the eyes. faded just tight enough jeans and a red flannel checkered shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his sinewy forearms.  Pronounced hamstrings suported a perfect ass.  He was lean, and obviously made good use of his gym time.  His smile conveyed warmth and a trusting nature, so often found in midwest guys.  There was also a shadow of a some kind of sadness, which he was trying to cover up.  Lonely people who are lonely, or hurting, often are sweeter because of their vulnerability.  I was already impressed by him, and wanted to say so but still keep it on a business basis.
"I was gonna order a beer, but this weather chills me, what have you got that's good in this kind of weather?
He winks, smiles wide, turns away from me for a sec, and like a dancer, raises up, 'pops' his perfectly rounded butt, then slaps it. It makes a loud noise. It was a perfect Classic Gay bartender flirt. Should I have taken it personally? I wanted to. There was something forced in his brightness, perhaps he was hiding some pain.
"Ever tried Hot Buttered Rum?" says he.
"Nope, but I'd sure like to"
It wasn't the Rum I was talking about. He knew it. I knew it. He left me the opening. Also it was obvious, totally without style. I guess it doesn't matter how 'cool' you manage to appear if the pass is welcomed.
I found myself gently mimicking his drawl, being the Chameleon that I am, to get a bit closer to this man who probably had to field seventy forward passes across his bar with each shift. We were toying with each other.  Bogey and Bacall. I knew I would drink anything he'd have slid across that magnificent carved bar.

My Hot rum drink was served in an oversized glass mug. There was a float of cream on the top, One taste and I swooned. It grabbed me. It was delicious. 90 percent of me was loving the drink, the rest was plotting to get the recipe. A cinnamon stick served as stirrer, and there was an un-squeezed lemon slice. I was seduced by sweet flavors of dark Jamaican rum, butter, cinnamon, lemon and clove. It went down smooth and sweet, and yes, alcoholic. It went to every place in me that needed some feelin' good. It vanished way too quickly, so I ordered another. It was just as good as the first. We talked, and the second Rum went the way it was meant to: sipped and savored. There were spices, and sweet flavors, and of course the rum, and the butter which made the alcohol in the rum taste mild. The hot beverage allowed the scents of lemon rise up into my sinuses. Euphoria was settling in, I was feeling a little too comfortable.

His name was Joey Parks. He'd recently lost his lover to the plague. Originally from Iowa, grew up on a farm, not much education. They had both moved to San Fran from Chicago.  Now he was alone in the world, and still grieving.  New at tending bar, his friends made him take a job so he'd have a reason to not stay at home and mourn. He lacked the brass veneer that your usual bartending pro has. He was sincerely there to please his customers. There was some more conversation, and I'd learned that he was in charge of making the "batter" for my drink. (Batter?) By now I'd had two, and was feeling no inhibition.
"This is excellent! You have to tell me, how do you make this!"
"I'll tell you a lot of secrets, Mike, but not this one."
"Okay, it was wrong of me have asked, I'm sorry. The truth is I just wanted to get to know you. I know you're still mourning, and I'm only in town a week, and... " My words trailed off. I caught myself trying to move closer to him, and I stopped. He brightened, and said, "Sure - well it's not such a great big secret, but how about as a consolation prize we get to have dinner together, at my apartment. I used to do all the cooking at home for Scott and me. Cooking for one is a real drag. Since you're a chef, I'd love your opinion on my food. " "I almost never get invited out, even my friends are intimidated 'cause I'm a good cook, and they think they never know what to serve me. I wish they'd understand it's not the food, but the company that matters. Did you know that Gertrude Stein once said, "we're having sausages with beans this evening, I expect only our closest friends will be coming"" The rum had got to my head by then, and I was babbling. He got the idea, but had no idea who Gertrude Stein was.  He continued to smile.  My attempt to impress him was stupid, like the face on the bar room floor. His shift would be over soon, he said. I was starving and I asked him where I could find a snack. We settled on a late lunch at a local healthy foods hole-in-the-wall, which was surprisingly good. I ate my first tempe burger, it had the texture of a burger. It made feel healthy. We had a salad, filled with the freshest tasting ingredients, mineral water, and Carob-flavored Mississippi Mud cake. Remember this was San Francisco in the 'eighties.

He told me how he and Scott had met, and how his family had rejected him when they learned he was gay.   He knew they loved him but they couldn't deal with his sexuality.    There was one adversity after another and still he managed to hold onto his faith in God and life.   I never saw him get angry, and were times when he had a perfect right to do so.  Was he bitter about losing Scott?   He knew they would be together again one day... that was enough for him.  All I saw in his past was him having an upbeat cheerful attitude.   He thanked God for all his blessings.   Never cursed the hardships.

I didn't mention the recipe at all that day. It was never just having a recipe that mattered, it was the way it came to me, and the personal memories I have connected with them.  Food's just a way for us to communicate between ourselves.  I was also unaware that I was taken with Joey.  I didn't want to let him think that the lunch was a recipe quest, because it wasn't.  I'd have been more than happy to just have lunch with him.  There was something very familiar about him, I couldn't place what it was exactly.  We held hands at the table.  It felt great to be able to do that out in the open.  My loneliness, which I always was good at repressing, was once again knocking.

Dinner the next night was in his apartment. Everything was either chrome or black, and the walls were a faint shade of gray. The bathroom walls were covered with photos of Joey and Scott. Scott's wood framed photograph also graced the wire rack bookshelf. There appeared to be no books on the shelves, just mock props of books.   Decorative; my home is filled with things to read scattered everywhere.  There were a few large leafed plants which love to live in dim rooms.  He was wearing a tank top that showed his pronounced pecs, and black pants made of some silk-like material that draped, clinging loosely over him, showing every curve and bulge.  He'd obviously neglected to put on underwear, and kept brushing against himself, deliberately.  When he did, his cock seemed to jump out against the pants.

Joey had wisely selected a menu that was bullet proof.  Fresh Pasta, with cream and pesto sauce. The sauce, the salad, dressing, everything came from a local food shop. The pristine spotless kitchen remained so. He spooned the cream over the noodles in the pan and stirred in the Pesto sauce into the cream. The noodles glistened as the sauce settled over them. He tore fresh basil and mint leaves and lay them over the salad. He dressed the greens with olive oil, salt, pepper and a hefty squeeze of fresh lemon in his strong weathered hands. I made an involuntary groan of approval as his forearms bulged as he forced the last few drops of juice from the lemon.  Watching him move was like seeing a ballet.  There was a deep red wine, a Cabernet, from Sonoma, a personal favorite of mine. The folks from there are far more down-to-earth than Napa. There was the soul satisfying aroma of baking bread. He'd bought a you-bake loaf from the grocer. Mama Cass was playing on the Hi Fi. It was all so perfect, not because he bought it but because he'd opted to buy the right things, and of quality.

Dessert time and the beverage was Hot Buttered Rum. There were two Rhum Babas soaked and ready. Was he trying to get me drunk? I hoped so.  He didn't have to on my account, but perhaps he needed to loosen himself up.  He half giggles, "I guess you'll try to torture me to get that recipe? "
With an impish look, I say,
"I had thought a different kind of torture, but no, actually for once I was going to be noble.  I will not sleep with you and then ask for it"
"Good, because I want to sleep with you AFTER I give it to you. It's Trader Vic's whoever he was, and I add some cloves to the recipe to sharpen the flavors. My boss doesn't know about the cloves."  Wow. In one breath he gives me a coveted recipe and tells me I get him too!
"I collect rare cook books and have the Trader's book at home. He says nothing about lemon peel."
"Yeah, well there's this gay restaurant in New York, they spray burnt lemon oil on the espresso."
"Would that be The Black Sheep? You know that's my restaurant"
"Wow" Like as if he didn't know.
"Yeah, wow" Pre Pillow Talk.
"Really" It turned out he'd visited The Sheep, and had seen me when I visited his table. I never recall the important moments till someone reminds me of it later. "So in the bar when I met you, you had recognized me?" "Not right away, but after about a minute of conversation.  It was fun seeing if you would ever remember me.  Then it pissed me off that you hadn't." "I meet literally thousands of people in a year, and even a face like yours, which would be an event, falls away from a small brain like mine."

Joey had served a beautiful dinner, with some really great tapes he'd made blending moments of The Moody Blues' 'Nights in White Satin' with some Chopin Preludes, early country Elvis, and some Fauré.
"I love Fauré", I whispered. "His requiem always brings me to tears".
That night and that music had us both wet-eyed, tears flowing with no shame... Music that was loved by a lost lover or friend pushed some special buttons. An uneasy feeling came over me, one that I was to experience too many times. I was about to feel Rage. My friends, the people who make up the tapestry of my life are dying. And there's nothing I see that's being done about it.

After dinner and the rum of course, we settled down to watch some of Joey's home videos, which of course included Scott. Joey and Scott at Disney World, Joey 'n Scott in New York, again the two of them on Fire Island, Then there was the gay cruise to the Caribbean etc.
"Are you sure this won't bother you to see Scott?" I am thinking of the
film, 'Starman'.
"It's my way of keeping a part of him alive and with me."
I understood in a flash. Scott's immortality would be somehow linked with Joey's remembering him.  As long as he held on to the mementos, Scott would always be with him. I was certainly not going to be the guy who gave the lecture on not living in the past.  I do too much of it myself.  He was sitting very close to me on that sofa, leaning on me, yet I felt strange returning his caress in front of those videos of Scott and Joey.  Almost as though he was reading my mind, he gave my hand a squeeze to get my attention, saying, "It's okay."  I allowed myself to relax and let our bodies remain close.  His body heat was overwhelming.

On the bookshelf next to the table was one object that seemed out of character for his taste. An urn, looking as though it came from Wal-Mart, was sitting behind a small vase with a Symbidium Orchid in it. It was a pewter-copper hued thing, and might have been bought as an antique at a yard sale. It had been given deferential treatment on the shelf, and I wanted to ask about it, but feared the answer might be tough.
"Nice flowers, Symbidium orchids?"
"yes, Symbidium"
"I love them. I have a painting with a few of them, it pays homage to a woman who was a close friend of the artist. Her name was Jeanne and she died painfully of cancer. The story goes that one day he was visiting her, she was near the end, and he said, "Jeanne, I hate to see you this way.  I'm feeling so helpless. Please tell me what I can do"
And she looked at him, and fixed her glance at him and said evenly,
"Just be there".
Just be there. That was it. That was the lesson of the painting.  It's 6 feet square, and dominates the north east wall of the great room in my home.  Sometimes when I feel uncertain and need to meditate, I just stare at it, you can't tell if you're looking up or down, it's a play on perspective.  It answers me."
I said all of that only to try to shift the focus away from the urn, and then I stupidly blurt out:
"The urn, where'd you get it." There. I'd done it.  Big mouth.
A look.  One that needed no words.
"Scott?"
"Yes." He paused, looking at the candle flame for a long time.

The dishes were left on the table to encourage us to stay there and talk. Such a lovely time, up till then. I felt as though I'd torn some precious fabric.  I regretted it at once.  I wanted to disappear. Joey saved the moment,
"I can't decide where to place him.  He wanted me to decide"
Oh, man, that poor kid living with his unburied lover.  He was holding on to something he would never have again, yet unable to move on.

Trying to change the subject,
"Listen Joey, I have to drive up to Sonoma in a few days, I have some friends there. They're struggling winemakers trying to break into a market with wines that are organically grown.  Thing is they wont use sulfites, so the wine is sometimes great, and sometimes it's a miss. They don't use chemicals to control whatever Nature brings.  Do you want to come with me?  They're terrific people, and I'd definitely enjoy being with you.  I hated to put Joey on the spot, but 'telling it like it is' was becoming a very useful trait I'd just begun to develop.

"I'd love that, and thanks.  As long as it's not a pity kind of thing. Everyone seems to be doing things for me because of Scott."
"No way, man, you're the best part of a dozen trips I've made to San Fran, and being in Sonoma with you on my birthday would be perfect.  There's supposed to be a full moon this weekend.  Please come.  It would make my trip up there so much nicer".
I meant it, too.

It had gotten to be late, and I didn't know if I should expect to stay or to leave. But he had already anticipated that. "There are clean towels in the bathroom, in case you want to shower before bed."
Before bed, woo hoo there's my answer, or at least the invitation. I guess my mentioning the urn hadn't totally killed our evening.
"gee, sure, if you're okay with my staying. I don't want to impose"
Who was I kidding. You'd have to pry me out of there.
"It's been fun so far" he said. "It's too late to send you back home after the wine, and I need to get an early start, but it would be nice to have a pajama party."
"Thanks, as long as I get to have my back scrubbed by a taller guy"
I got a look that told me I'd have to wash my own back. Joey was good with looks. I resolved to not step over the line again.  Here was a man who could let me know where the boundaries are.

He had turned away from me while he undressed, revealing a round smooth butt, and a muscled back.  His shoulders were broad for a lean man.  While I was in the shower I felt him behind me, and he was soaping my back, massaging my shoulders with both his hands holding washcloths. When he got to my underarms, and he pressed his way under my pecs, I was done for.  Taking care to not miss a spot, I was scrubbed from my neck to my thighs.. When he got to my crotch, and began to gently soap me, my cock, already painfully arching out in front of me, began to jump when he soaped it.  He acted as though it was a professional job, no sexuality implied.  He disappeared before I was done, and went inside, kissing my neck as he left.  By then I was grinding my teeth.  Neither of us had said a word.

He had pulled back the sheets on my side and was already in bed before I got  out of the bathroom. The table had been cleared, and the candles were  out. A few dim lights were tucked into corners of the darkened room.  A  crescent of a growing moon was sending silver light in.  A light from a  house across the hill was sending some illumination into the room. The  sheets smelled of freshly laundered, and the soft comforter felt  luxurious. No detail was left ignored.  He slid over to me, placed his
arms around me, and laid his head on my shoulder, kissing it.
"Let's just sleep 'n cuddle tonight, okay?"
What a relief. How could he know that's my favorite.  It was Heaven.  I inhaled the air  around his head.  I knew from his scent I'd cherish being with him.  We slept like spoons.  I was afraid to move all night, it felt so good to be close to someone again.   We slept very close that night.  Several times I felt his erect cock gently pushing at my back, and I returned his very gentle nudge - only a millimeter.  After all, I told myself, he was only sleeping.

Joey was up early, all right, he was back from the gym having encouraged  me to sleep in. The San Francisco morning sun was pouring into the tidy room as I looked through the glass doors to Joey's plant-filled garden.  Across the fence was a valley and hills beyond. This city has so many  places from which to view itself. No music was playing yet, the kitchen counter radio was quietly offering traffic and weather, and he was  cheerfully squeezing OJ for us.  He looked radiant. I smelled oatmeal  cooking on the small stove, and coffee was brewing in a drip pot.  I wasn't used to being he one receiving all the attention, it was usually me on the giving side.
"Come on and let me help you. I feel funny with you in there and me here sitting like a Klump"
"Well, Mister Klump, you can come in here and visit me.  The kitchen has no door."  He wasn't allowing me to get away with a thing. I loved it. The tiny kitchen allowed me enough room to stand behind him and reach around him and hold him while he stirred the oats. A soft sigh told me he was pleased at me being there. He laid down the wooden spoon and reached back behind himself, pulling my waist against his back. I gave his head a gentle rub. I love rubbing heads.
"Have you ever had oatmeal with peanut butter?" (From Michael's bag of tricks.)
"No, sounds interesting, I have some, would you like me to put some in?"
"Let me help, please.   I feel so useless in a kitchen unless I get my hands into something"
"There's something you can get your hands in."  Another Joey hint, as subtle as that slap he gave his sweet round butt back in the bar. As subtle as The Spanish Armada.  A nice surprise. I melt easily.
In went some organic peanut butter, crunchy, some cinnamon, and some brown sugar.  I was pulling out all the stops. The cereal was going into the oversized, beautifully glazed copper green bowl.  He'd bought some fresh brioche from a local bakery, and the rich coffee was about to be creamed.
"I was going to use a pat of butter but who needs the fat."
"Oh, come on, let's! This is 'Special Occasion Oatmeal'."
I said a prayer of thanks for that rainy day and that bar.  I hadn't met a man in so long who seemed so easy to be with.  He was 'The Boy From Next Door', three thousand miles away.  Besides, I had another peanut butter idea for later.

After we ate he suggested we take a short nap, he was bushed from the gym (how strange, I thought, he's way too fit looking to be tired so early in the day)   The second we lay down he jumped on top of me, laughing, "what are we going to do with you!"   I figured he already knew the answer.  His knees were pinning me down and somehow my clothes began to get unbuttoned.  I was surprised, powerless, and delighted.  He managed to get me half undressed and never let his butt leave my now stiffening cock.  Houdini.  Months of stored-up need were unleashed that afternoon.  He opened up his dam gates and the flood that swept over us included a moment of his crying while he told me how much he needed this and how afraid he was to feel guilty for it.   Some magic thing happened, and the power of it frightened me.  He was so loving, clinging to me as though I was all he ever wanted.   I wasn't ready for a commitment or a responsibility, yet I was afraid if I didn't I'd perhaps lose and even hurt this amazing person.  I also felt I wasn't worthy of such affection so soon, and from a man as wonderful as Joey.

Hours later, I wrote a dumb and kind of funny note telling him what a great time he gave me, and inviting him to join me to visit Sonoma, and slid it across the counter to where he was working. He looked at it, smiled yet made no reply.

He drew a ripe banana over my lips, and a few other places.  We talked about the trip to Sonoma and about the family of my friends who lived there.  Wine makers are some of the most down-to-Earth people on the planet, because they are essentially agrarian.  Farmers, they grow grapes and are closer to nature and dependent upon God to provide the elements essential for their wines, and then they need to emerge into the cruel world of commerce to market them. The Castelli brothers were such a family. Anton grew the grapes and Frank made the wines. I had met Frank when he was traveling through New York with his samples to show them to restaurants such as myself when I owned The Black Sheep. We had a large wine list and I featured wines that were as then unknown. My list had over two hundred wines.
"You would love these people. They're homespun, once upon a time flower children grown up with homes, kids and a struggling business. They even have to grow pot to keep the farm going, and it's the best shit you ever tasted."
"I've been thinking of coming, it's just.." He became silent.
"You can tell me."

"It's been six months since Scott passed, and I promised myself I'd wait before I got involved with anybody, and besides I haven't even decided what to do about his ashes."
"I already know you'll do the right thing, Joey, Just relax and give yourself the time you need.  Scott's in no hurry.  As to you and me, I'm blown away by you, but lets take it one day at a time.  We live three thousand miles apart.  By the way, how did you ever avoid catching it?"
"Just Luck, I guess, we did everything, never used protection"
"You tested?  There's a test now they have, and they say they're working on finding whatever it is."
A long silence.
"No. Never tested"
"You don't want to know, do you." He shook his head.
"I'm scared, Mike. There's nothing they can do, and I want to live my life without dread.  Half this city's men are either sick or gone.  Just take a walk down Castro Street."  Our lovemaking that night had a different feeling to it: a dam had broken.  Now there was no hurry, no tension.

Driving north to the valley
We'd just come across the bridge and were in Sausaulito when Joey's arm affectionately landed on my shoulder.  I can never drive when someone's massaging me, but this one was going somewhere, and I knew from past experience with him I was going to have to muster all my concentration just to stay on the road.  We were headed to visit my friends in Sonoma.  I wasn't sure how I would explain my having picked up Joey and was bringing him, but the Catani's were cool, and Joey was perfect with any company.

As the road neared the approach to the valley, you could look down from the height onto a farm where cows were grazing.  White puffy clouds emphasized the deep blue of the early November sky.  There were horses too.  You could smell "farm".  A faint perfume of sweet manure and cut hay rose up to where we stopped for a moment to enjoy the moment.  Since I knew what it was, it surprised me that I found it intoxicatingly beautiful.  The distance and the fresh air had diffused the scent so that it was not only tolerable, but desirable. I reflected that I inhale a lot to experience things, and that many of my memories are smells.

On the drive we spoke more of AIDS tests, and how we each dreaded knowing.
"Have you been reading about it?" I asked.
He was silent.
"No, not really, what are they saying?"

The Catani home:
It sat atop a round level hill top, with a large lawn on either side.  Tall trees bordered the yards.  Grass covered the areas near the house, except for a large kitchen garden near the back door of the house.  Linda had proudly grown her own herbs and lettuces, peppers, okra, eggplants, tomatoes to name a few. Garlic stood guard at the ends of each row.  Inside the house was deceptively large. All the floors were wood planks, as were the walls, and windows were everywhere letting in a view to all directions from the house. Sections of the huge open room were set aside for cooking, and there was an enormous island in the center of the room, suitable for cooking for and serving large numbers of guests. There were areas for TV watching, living room, family dining, and the far end of the room opened into bedrooms.  An enormous fireplace showing signs of use was proudly set in the center of the long wall.  Th emantle, like everything else, was cluttered with stuff.

The room was anything but neat.  Cereal boxes, snack foods and condiments sat casually atop heavy oak tables.  The floors had rubber balls and kid's toys everywhere.  Clothing was left on pegs on the walls, and laid over the backs of chairs.  The walls had boards with notices and grocery store coupons.  A cat sidled against a wall as it went outside to play in the yard, or hunt mice or birds.  A small homemakers kitchen office was tucked into a corner of the room, and cookbooks were stacked on a shelf.  Laundry baskets had folding which needed to be done.  The aroma of bread baking filled the air. It was an unpretentious home where a working family lived.  It welcomed us. I felt comfortable.

Linda was young, but after three kids and an armload of work every day, her face showed wear and tear making her look way beyond her 28 years.  Her eyes shone past sun dried crows feet a bright gray blue.  She laughed easily, but a closer look told you it was out of habit, not joy.  I don't think this beautiful woman from a middle class New York family grew up expecting the life she was now leading. I thought of Jackie Onassis and her poignant statement that her life had its share of sadness and of joy, and she supposed that maybe it was the way it was supposed to be. She said it with no bitterness-- just acceptance. I thought of Joey.

"I've set some stew into the oven for dinner, It will be ready in half an hour, why don't the two of you get your bags settled in the far bedroom, and go out and see the moon.  It's just rising."
Indeed it was, and as we walked past the yard and around the shed, the better to see the hills beyond and the full moon, orange and rising, we sat down on the cool grass, and just gaped at how large it was.  We were behind the shed, out of sight from the house.  They must have done this so they'd have some privacy from the kids.  I have no idea who started it, but in no time we were kissing, and laying on the ground, our heads in one another's lap.  My hand slipped underneath his loose fatigues, and massaged his butt crack, teasing him with spit-wet fingers.  He began to moan.  His pants slipped down as his cock sprang up making it an irresistible target for my throat.  Each time I probed his ass with my finger, he squirmed and rammed my throat with his fireplug of a cock.  There was no escape, not for either of us.  I had him right where I wanted, or he had me.  We took our time, and got nervous by the way the moon had risen and had changed from orange to silver-white.  I'll never forget how great it felt to be caressing him from the inside.  His body was letting me know he wanted me there, and was caressing me back.   The flood came again.  I was realizing this was very special, and began to realize I was standing close to the fire, and didn't mind at all.

"You boys are just in time!  I don't blame you for lingering there, it was a great moon rise.  Come on in, you must be starving!"  Little did she know I'd already had my fill.  It was a vegetable stew with some chicken, mushrooms and tofu.  I wish I could duplicate it, but you'd need that night, that moon, that mountain and Joey.

The next few days were filled with tours of the vineyards, the winery, good dinners, hearty breakfasts, and listening to the woes of what it was like to compete with the big boys in the shark infested waters of the Napa-Sonoma wine business.  We also found as much time as we could to be alone to screw around and see how close we could drive one another to insanity with genital sensory overload.

We returned to the city and I checked out of my hotel and moved my bags into his apartment.  Three days later it was time for me to head back east.  I was dreading it, and neither of us spoke about a future.   Our last night was spent in a constant embrace.  I never stopped fucking him, and he never let me stop.   We may have slept for an hour overall, but every time one of us closed his eyes the other would get going again.   He drove me to the airport, telling me how much he wanted to see me again, and how grateful he was that I had come to rescue him from his depression.  It made me blush, all I had done was to give in to my own feelings.  It was like falling down.   A totally natural thing.

I called him almost daily after I got home, but I found I had nothing to say to him except how much I wanted to have and hold and embrace and fuck him deep.   The phone rang one afternoon the following May, and he was saying, "I have some money saved and want to come and see you.  Would you be able to take some time off to spend with me at Fire Island??"
"Is it Christmas already?"
"I want to, please stop teasing me.  I'm serious and I miss you.  Ever since you left it's been as though you're my future and all I need to do is reach out and take it.  Do you still want to see me?"
"Hell"
"Okay then there's a People Express flight tomorrow and I'll be arriving at Newark at 3PM your time.  Tell me where to go"
Oh my God, this was really happening!  There was no turning it back, it was the chance for a dream to come true.
"I'll come pick you up.  How will I recognize you, what will you be wearing?"
"Fuck you, I love you"
"I love you  too"

We spent a night in Manhattan and drove the next morning to the island.  The spring air was damp and chilly, the island had not yet warmed up.  We took Nihiz to the beach and walked along the waters edge westward to the Grove.  We stopped at the dunes where the meat rack was, and walked around in there for a while, and made a place for ourselves using out jackets and jeans as a mat, and made love warmed by the noon day sun.  The dog set herself in a spot where she could see us, and keep an eye out to protect us.  She was that kind of a dog.
"I bet you bring all your boyfriends here to fool around with"
"I've never been here before, and I haven't had lots of 'boyfriends'.  Besides, after you it won't really ever be the same"
"You're so full of it.  Thanks."  I got a tender kiss with tongue.   "See that you don't," He gave my nipple a serious tweak.

The next day he wanted to return to the dunes, and I noticed for the first time that he'd brought that ugly urn.   I guess this was it.   He had it in mind all that time and never said a word.
"This was Scotts' favorite place, and he always promised me he'd bring me back here one day.  I guess it's me who gets to bring him."
The walk that day seemed strange to me as though I was somewhere out of place.  This was to be his special moment with Scott.  I was an intruder.  I kept wanting to find something to say, but couldn't.  Chit chat was all wrong, and I knew he had his own thoughts.  I held his hand.  My arm went around his waist, but walking that way was awkward,   We arrived at the spot, and stood there, not quite knowing what to do.  I heard him saying, "This is not good bye, and life will go on and on no matter what our souls find to reside inside of, we will always be together.   I will always love you, Scott.  I'll never forget you. I hope this beautiful place pleases you. " His voice broke into tears and I walked to him, now feeling helpless, and held him very tightly.  He shuddered and then became very calm, opened the urn, and poured some of Scotts ashes into his hand, and scattered it into the opening in the trees where we had laid down the day before.  He was careful to spread them under trees where bushes would assure they wouldn't be disturbed by walkers.   Then handed the urn to me, saying,
"Now you -- please".  Now tears were flowing freely down my cheeks and I was silently saying a prayer to Scott that I would always cherish Joey and that he could rest happily knowing that I'd always as long as I live be sure he was okay.  I knew I would keep that promise.   I took a handful of his ashes, saying,
"Scott, I never knew you when you were alive, but through Joey I've come to love you.  There is a purpose to everything in this world, but for now, I'm damn sad that you're gone.   May you be finally with God our father, who loves us all."   I felt hopelessly inadequate.

We walked back mostly in silence, and made it home to lay down and let the stress and pain from the funeral dissipate.  We held one another tenderly for a long time, and finally got up, and decided to have an early dinner.  Barbecued chicken, and I opened up a big old good bottle of dark red wine.  We drank, and laughed, and Joey told me some funny stories of Scott.  More laughter. Scott was emerging as more human more real.   He was lovable, fragile, and downright clumsy.  He was also very self conscious.  He once sat down on poison ivy and got his ass totally fucked up.  It was their honeymoon!   Joey spent the entire two weeks smearing Scott with calamine lotion.   Scott was miserable since there was no way to fuck him till the inflammation went away.   Joey swore it was the greatest since he could enjoy being a hundred percent bottom and had Scott doing all the fucking.
Then there was the time they went to a Halloween party and Scott had worn a pair of undersized high heels and he'd never worn them before, and he had a few drinks, his make up began to run, he tripped and fell and sprained his ankle, and they had to take him to the emergency room, in full drag!  Frilly pink dress.  The male ER nurse called the next day to see how he was.   It seems Scott had an admirer.  It felt good to be able to laugh together on a subject I was afraid to bring up.

We were getting into bed later on, and I was feeling as though there was no way I could make love with Joey with Scott's shadow over us.
"I know this in not the day to focus on me, but I felt so awful today that I wasn't able to be more there for you."
"Michael, listen to me.  You made this all possible.  You let me come here, you brought Scott home to rest.  You and only you were there for me.   You helped me make the most important decision, and you showed me it was possible to make love with another man.   Just your being there was more than I dared to ask for."   There he was, again, saying the right thing, being the right person. "Now lay back, and just close your eyes.  And shut up"

I felt his mouth on my balls...he was letting plenty of saliva drip all over me, running down into my crack, and this time it was his finger that was doing the exploring.   My navel was being nibbled on, which distracted me from what he was up to to my hole.   There were two, then three and now alternating hands.  Somehow he had found the oil.   I was totally in his hands, and in bliss.   Each move he made was a wonderful surprise.   He continued with that for what seemed forever.  I kept wanting it to go somewhere, but he had other ideas.  He was stroking my cock, which by then was rock hard and hurt.  I was not meant to have my orgasm till he was ready for me to do so.    Each moment he found another spot on my body he hadn't dwelled on, and I was getting closer and closer, but the climb was a slow one.  Very slow.   I was chewing the edge of the sheet, and then he brushed his cock against my lips.  I opened my mouth to take him in, and he pulled back:  "no not yet"  I let my tongue lay out and he drew his cock slowly against me again, this time letting me taste the drop of salty precum he was dripping.  Wild, he was as excited as I was.   By this time my ass was so relaxed you could have fisted me, I wouldn't have minded.

His long slender fingers were slowly, methodically fucking me in and out with a regular steady rhythm and each stroke relaxed and opened me more.   About the time I couldn't stand it any longer he straddled me and let his ass slide over my lubed cock,  pressing his body down onto me.   I was shocked at his reverse fuck.  He had primed me for a fuck, and then he switched sides!  I was so pissed.   I decided to fuck him silly just to get even.  I grabbed his sweet torso, holding him down on me thrust myself upward and into him.  Now he was on his back, and I had my mouth over his ass, and was tongue fucking him, this time soaking him, and then I drove my cock home, deeply, feeling my hips pounding his ass.  It had to have hurt.
"you okay?"
"yeah, do it, please"  (surprise!  He didn't bat an eye)
"you're the best, you know that?"
"shut up.  just shut up and fuck me" Then he locked his mouth on mine.   The cock I wanted to suck on became his tongue, probing me deeply.  He had both hands on my nipples, pulling hard.  We were locked together the way I always wanted to be.   All I could do was fuck him --  hard.  It wasn't possible to hold back.   Sooner than I wanted, I exploded inside of him, collapsing on his sweaty smooth chest.

We stayed together for awhile, just breathing, and slowly french kissing, as though we had all the time in the world.  Thoughts of that afternoon, for the moment, were set aside.   After around fifteen minutes I began to get hard inside of him.  My cum was still slippery enough to let me start to move easily inside of him again.   He felt me growing and smiled, and breathed, "ready again?"
Another long kiss and we began again this time for the long and exhausting one.  Twenty minutes later we were still at it.  I was aware the Joey had tricked me into fucking him.   He wanted it more than I wanted him to fuck me, and I'd have done just about anything to please him.   Besides, I loved the way his ass caressed my cock.   It was him, but it was like another entity.   I couldn't do enough for it.

He stayed in New York a few more weeks, his job at the bar was covered.   Life began to settle into a happy idyll where he'd go out and explore the city in daytime, and we'd get together at night and stay up late.  There was so much to do in New York, he kept discovering new things to tell me about when he'd get home.  Lovemaking was getting better every time.  We were learning to talk to one another and be open with our needs.   One thing he did do was to take a reading course.   He'd never done much work at school.  Reading was one of the weak spots he was ashamed of.   That explained why he never reacted to any of my 'mash' notes!   One night he decided to go and take care of it, and he did.  That's the way he was.  He was meeting people, being so easy to meet, and so handsome people naturally gravitated to him.  I never asked.  There was never a question of fidelity.  As far as I was concerned he could fuck anyone he wanted to - I knew I wasn't going to lose him to some trick, so let him have all the fun he can.

One day I came home to find him despondent.  A friend who had been very near to him and Scott was now ill.   He'd gotten pneumonia, and Joey wanted to go back to SF to look after Billy.  I was proud that he was such a great friend, and urged him to go.
"I don't want to leave here.  This has been so great"
"Hey go and do what you need to. I'm not going anywhere" I laughed,  "The restaurant has its hooks in me.  Besides, your home and friends are out there, you need to see to your roots."
"I lost my roots when I left my family in DuBuque.  I only had Scott, and now..."
 He stopped speaking.
"Joey - you aren't alone!  You have me, you have your 'family' in San Fran, and you need to take a look that these are people who love you and care about you. I do.   Go west and TCB"
"I can come back?"
"More than anything.  I want you, don't you know that by now?"

So he left and went to stay with Billy.  Those were the days when there was so little they could do except watch men waste away and die.   Three months later Billy had gone and Joey was preparing to return.  He called to say that he'd gotten a bad fever and they tested him for HIV and he was positive.   It was like hearing the slamming of a dozen doors closing all at once.
"What did the doctor tell you?"
"He has nothing for me to take that he's sure will work.  I'm worried about you."
"Please don't worry, darling.  I'm sure that if you have it, and I was certain of it when I met you, that I also have it.   My sex habits haven't exactly been what you'd call un-risky, so I suspected it for a while now.   We're going to be okay.  Nothing can beat us.  Did he say how long you had it?"
"He said around a year or more."
"Then you will last a long time and I want us to have that time together, is that okay with you?"
"Oh yes, totally okay."
"When will you come home"
"Did you say 'home'?   That sounds so nice.  There's a memorial next week.  I want to be here for that. I'll fly east after that.  Michael - are you sure?"

So he was back soon after Billy's memorial.  We lived together for three more years and one day we see a few purple KS spots on his leg.   We're now living in terror, and afraid to even see the doctor for fear of what we might hear.  Of course we did.
"There's a dermatologist who can treat them and remove them, and there's some new stuff, called AL-721.  It's supposed to do the trick.  Every day they're finding new things, so don't worry."  But we did worry.
Our apartment began to look like a health food store.  Macrobiotics, meditations, vitamins, Chinese herbs, crystals and Louise Hay tapes were all over the place.  Her shitty book with the cover of that ugly rainbow heart was everywhere, and it didn't save a single life, even though it was implied.   There wasn't a hospital room where you didn't see that book, where somebody had brought it in the futile hope that it would do some good.  We attended Marianne Williamson's bullshit 'Course in Miracles' lectures.   Both those bitches were frauds who exploited the fears of our growing AIDS community.

We frantically ran from one 'drug du jour' to another.  Not a one was any good, but we continued to chase the holy grail as though the next one would be THE one.   In any plague there are always the so-called healers, the opportunistic 'cures' we want to believe in and are afraid, even though we know they're all shit, that the next one will be for real and we'll miss it.   That was our mind set after Joey began to get more progressively sick.   He began to see himself as undesirable, and withdrew from lovemaking.   Of course he was still the most beautiful man I had ever known, none of that virus which was ravaging his system could take away anything from his soul.   The sex we had became more powerful, as though it could somehow overcome the specter of Death, by doing something that said "We're alive. Fuck you." it worked, at least for another year.

I had one more job to do, and as it was winter, I put it off as long as I could.  Now it was me who was holding onto ashes in an urn.  His family was kind and supportive and was happy for all the love we shared.  They were glad that he had found me, a friend who loved him.  They gave me permission to leave his ashes with Scott.   I picked a warm June day, and walked along the beach carrying my load of an urn, a bottle of red wine and a back pack.   I knew this wasn't really goodbye, but it was letting go of something, I didn't know what.  I only knew that it was hurting real bad.   I knew that whatever was in the urn was not Joey, and that he was already where he wanted to be - with God, and with Scott.   When I arrived at our spot, the leaves hadn't fully grown in on the trees, but there was still that arch where we lay that afternoon.   The ocean was crashing on the beach just over the dune, and I sat there for hours, just listening, and remembering...
 

TO BE CONTINUED