Mousquetaire

The Three Musketeers is now available in a comic book series from Marvel! For some reason, this thrills me. I mentioned this to a friend last night, and her immediate response was to ask if it was a smuty version. Um, no.

The idea tossed and turned all night and all day, so that now my imagination is in full gear. I think that an erotic of Mousquetaires de la Garde adventure would be fun — provided they are gay musketeers. So, I’m off to research the real monde du mousquetaire. We’ll see what turns up. Off the top of my head I can assume there will be a Gothic cathedral and a fleur de lys or three — on a prostituée française perhaps.

Got Pride?

While Kentuckiana PrideFest still has a few hours before it’s over for another year, Jack’s time at Pride is done. I was totally surprised by the Gospel-esque music that was going on for a good while when I came in. The guy at the Free Thinkers booth hoped (as did I) that they were going to move to something secular — soon.

Where else but a gay pride event would the music turn from religious to the Scissor Sisters — yes with segue. And Babycakes, the over twenty-one winner of the limbo contest was quite hot (maybe it was from all the binding over backwards he did). The barmasters in brightly coloured, plastic mini-grass skirts were totally worth standing in line for. So, Jack has a thing for barkeeps. Did we not already know this? The custom fleur de lys t-shirt from Dirty Teaseis a grand addition to my wardrobe. It’s a bleu fleur on a black shirt. I also kidded with one of their peeps that his “I Suck” t-shirt needed to say “I Swallow.” Or to go with the one that had a rooster and a lollipop (that the lesbians had trouble with) it could have an eye with the bird on it.

I sported an Obama sticker, picked up assorted pens, another shirt that says Fuh Q, and assorted papers, pamphlets, and fliers. And signed up to win all matter of goodies — hear comes the SPAM.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After much searching, I found the booth for the Louisville Trailblazers, met a woman whose owner had wandered off as well as a guy whom she described as a “sick fuck.” Yep, Jack’s quite at home here. I did manage to  get their meeting times and place. Let’s say there’s a barstool awaiting my imprint. In the process, I played their duck game and won a rubber Leather Pride wrist band. 

 

Fare Box

Geof walked along the quiet street in the bleak hours before the lamp of heaven shown his light upon the urban landscape. He loved this time of the morning when he was all but alone in the city. His shiny, black wing tips beat a staccato on the grey concrete and caught the light from the amber lams lining the street. Putting a doe-skin gloved hand into the pocket of his black leather trench coat he pulled out his cell phone to check the time and fantasized that his return trek would leave foot prints in newly fallen, lake effect snow. Peace and tranquility enveloped him. At this moment, he knew that the gods were in their heaven and all was right with the world.

He turned the corner from his upscale neighborhood and headed toward the less sterile streets to catch his bus. Spoon fed the Napoleon Code, his parents had expected him to become an attorney, but he’d taken a different route. In his less agreeable times, he blatantly plagiarized Frost. Today he was in a good mood and would say that he loved fiction and poetry as much as a judge reveled in a well written brief. Forgoing the tedium of torts, he’d taken up the esteemed profession of editor of a small publishing house. It didn’t offer a six figure salary, but it was enough to live a decent existence that when augmented by a well endowed trust fund and combined with a lifepartner of six years who’d had sense to pass the bar, his was a life style to which most people could become accustomed.

His thoughts were broken by the sound of steps coming toward him. “Amigo,” a voice called to him with no trace of Latino heritage. “Can you spare some change to help me get a cup of coffee?”

Geof recoiled and muttered something about being out of change. Before there was time for further encounter, his bus rounded the corner, his transit pass hastily shown, and he was whisked off into the pre-dawn Downtown of glass and steel and sanitized dirt. Sinking into the seat, he ran a hand through his blond hair and closed his cobalt eyes to block out the world. It wasn’t fear of attack that struck him. He stood just under six feet and was muscled from his hours at the gym and cocktails of creatine and whey protein. White liberal guilt enveloped him. He couldn’t place what he felt. Then his epiphany struck him. He realized how close he was to being that man. A wrong choice anywhere in his own life and he could be asking for quarters on the street.

The bus came to his stop, and he alighted. The indie coffee shop shown like a beacon. He walked in as he did every morning. As the barista mixed his red eye, another layer of stone encased his heart.

Love’s Labor

This is a little embarrassing to admit to. I have a hang-up about thespians. It’s not that I don’t like them as people. I am both prejudiced and not. The one’s I’ve known have generally be really great people – I think. There’s the rub, as Shakespeare might say, I always wonder if they’re being genuine or acting. An actor friend I work with responded to my query on the topic one day by looking me straight in the eye and asking “Have you ever been confused about where I stand?” Well, no. But on the other hand I’ve wondered on a few occasions if she is as hyped, depressed, angry, etc. as she appears. Fortunately the situation has not come up – yet, but it’s worth thinking about. Would I date an actor? Honestly, I’m frightened of the prospect. Mind you, I’ve said neither yes nor no.

In one of our philosophical conversations a friend blithely pointed out that a stockbroker can be a good actor but not in it as a profession or advocation, and I’d not have a clue. At least with a practicing actor, I surmised, I’d know up front. It’s something we could talk through. Then my friend mentioned that my preferred method of communicating is the written word – implying, I suppose, that like Hesiod’s Muses, I know how to tell beautiful lies that seem true. Hmm, it was a punch but above the belt.

And what if the Lily Prince just happens to be an actor? I need to find resolution and exorcize the demon before I make a grand mistake.

Lys Vert

 

It’s been told that when Oscar Wilde spoke at the Masonic Temple in Louisville in 1882 several single men, presumably frères du coeur, wore green carnations (Wilde’s favorite flower at the time) to show their fraternity. Essentially, it must have been the Rainbow Pride insignia of its day. I can’t help but wonder how many of those boutonnieres met up someplace later that evening.

Some 126 years later, I was searching on line for fleur de lys images and came across the chartreuse graphic. For some reason I was wildly ecstatic, but I’m not quite sure why. Yes, I love fleurs de lys –evidenced by the multitude of stuff I own with the symbol, and I’ve even have a blue one inked into my left bicep. The color of the tattoo is significant because blue irises are my favorite flower.

Like one of the lost boys, I cut a whistle out of a tree limb and dance to my own music. I much prefer heather to forsythia, devil’s trumpets to morning glories, rubies to diamonds, and silver to yellow gold. I’m most at home in the night and can live either in the complete concrete jungle of the city or the remote isolation of the wilderness. The suburbs, however, all but give me the hives, and I grew up in them. Come to think of it, maybe growing up in the suburbs is the reason they all but give me the hives.

While I’m quite anxious to see what 2008 brings, I’m hoping that it will, like the Chalice in the Rings, be a little off center.

Places Found

The newly reopened, remodeled or whatever they call it, Henry Clay Hotel is full of surprises. I was introduced to the place last weekend when I went to see the latest play staged by Pandora Productions (http://www.pandoraprods.org/). There are some really great shops on the street level. Kentucky Backroads Gifts and Gallery is wonderful — and sells a line of fleur de lys wares that’s awesome. I’m also enamored with the current show — painting of ballet dancers. I also discovered that Wildflowers has opened in the old Kentucky Theatre. It’s my favorite florist in all the Land. I really do mean that.

And as I walked down Fourth Street, I thought that though early by my standards, I wouldn’t mind a beer. There’s a micro-brewery in town called Bluegrass Brewing Company (http://www.bbcbrew.com/index.php), and the one on Theatre Square (a part of Fourth Street) has a window (like a garage door) that opens onto the Square. While I’ve eaten at there a few times, I’ve never done a curb-side order. With the really nice temperatures the window and open, and I walked up for a Dark Star — my favorite of their line. There were some decent football games on, so I stood there with my foot on the rail watching a game and being both part of the crowd in the bar but completely separate. After a little casual and harmless flirting with the barkeep, I was on my way. Not bad for a fiver. And I’ll be going back — soon.

Art Fair & UnFair

St. James is always the signal to me that Fall has come – except today when it was at least 90 degrees. I was glad I’d chosen a pair of thin shorts and had foresight enough to wear an a-shirt under my t-shirt, so I didn’t have a huge sweat patch on my chest or back. But it checks those years when it’s damp and barely above freezing, and the Sun is a great counter balance to those years it rains torrents. To put it succinctly, I saw, was seen, spent far more money than I’d intended, and throughly enjoyed myself.

I’m always astounded by how good beer from a truck at a festival tastes. There’s no reason that it should taste any better (or worse for that matter) than any other time. Maybe it’s because the open container laws are ignored. Perhaps, like the bar liquor, there’s something magical about drinking it someplace besides home. I guess there is a possibility that there is something that really does make it taste better.

Sicut lilium inter spinas, sic amica mea inter lilias.

While researching for a story last night, I found two must have shirts – both with a fleur de lys motif. One is a polo that I can wear to work. The graphic is done with Mardi Gras beads. The second is a t-shirt with a flaming fleur de lys on it. I’m not sure what began this fixation with the design. It’s one of those things that is. I didn’t find any boxers with a fleur on them, that’s okay. I also found that flower-de-luce is another term. I might have to use the symbol in the story – possibly on the shield of Basileus. The tale was inspired by a scene in The Merchant of Venice. Roughly Basaileus travels to Basporus to win the hand of young Byzas. Yes, they are both men, and Basileus means king. Well, I said I was a classicist running head strong into post modernity didn’t I? However, my research isn’t done, so I’m not going to say more. Oh, and the friends I was out with last week totally approved of my moniker Silver Star Sodimite. Too bad we didn’t think to ask Kippie what she thought. Damn!

La Petite Morte

Yes, I died the Little Death
I hope you died one too
You took all that I had
And gave me all of you

Apollo & Hyakinthus

The bright orange ball sank slowly in the West. Earlier, He had beaten down on the sidewalks of the old warehouse district and made it a virtual steam bath. Even now the deserted concrete and asphalt held the heat he’d generated. The rainbow flags over the flamingo pink, stuccoed bar hung limp in the July twilight. When Night finally arrived and relative cool came to the streets, the crowds would come, the artificial lights would blaze, and the flags might even flutter in the breeze generated more by the cars cruising the streets than an actual wind.

Hyakinthus pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot. His white t-shirt had become see-through, and his blue jeans shown with dark water spots. His every move demonstrated a practiced sublimity–with his coronation walk to the entrance a finale for anyone who might be watching. He shuddered and his nipples tightened and hardened as the cool air from inside reached out and pulled him in. He pulled his soaked shirt over his head as he walked down the deep blue carpet to his dressing room. Every entertainer, bar tender, and waiter had a private room here. For the most part, they were little more than small walk in closets with hand sinks and a chair, but they afforded the privacy many of the employees needed as a refuge from the fevered exhibition. Some of the more enterprising staff used them for paid assignations–or so the (more-or-less unfounded) rumor went. He reached into his jeans and wrapped his hand around the target. Slowly, almost too patiently and deliberately, he pulled teasingly, and tossed the key into the air catching it in the other hand. He put the key into the lock, and entered his private domain.

Hyakinthus was, simply stated, the most popular waiter at the Alexandrite. He didn’t discriminate among the patrons. He loved them–gave him everything he had, and they loved him back. Twinks, bears, wolves, otters, daddies, size queens, drama whores, and even a couple of fag stags were caught in his charms. All races and ethnicities (and combinations thereof) were in his following. Yet every morning he went home on his motorcycle alone–with his pockets full of tips. Physically, he was pretty to look at, but his didn’t possess the drop dead body that made so many men salivate in the queer community . He kept his naturally blond hair cut short and his body permanently tanned. His pierced nipples were large strawberries. He was slightly muscled–enough to think he worked out regularly–a little more than a swimmer’s build but not quite a gym rat’s. When people looked into his lapis blue eyes, they saw into a crystal clear murky eternity. A smile often broke the perfect symmetry of his square set jaw to reveal his Zen flaw–a slight gap between his front teeth. One would have sworn the red of his lips was found only next to the Ganges and more than one man had sat waiting for them to cry “Cherry Ripe.” While I could give an age, at least, to every part, it’s best to move on with the story and let Hyakinthus change into his attire for the evening–too tight leather pants, jack boots, and matching studded cuffs and collar; all in all it goes well enough with his leather pride dog tags. As they say Mon Chere, we all tumesce when he approaches. But before we leave the dressing room completely, let’s look beyond the physical to his intellect, after all, he is working on his master’s in chemical engineering.

II

Lykegenes went through the preliminary sound check with more methodically than usual. As a rule he hated playing the bar scene, but this gig payed very well, and until their first CD came out next month, the band needed the money. Besides, the people who saw them play tonight were likely buyers once the CD hit the shelves. And gay men are, if nothing else, the most devoted fans on the planet. Done with the sound check, Lykegenes sent the rest of the band on break; he sat down on the stage and began playing with his guitar–composing a tune he would never again play. When he was in the zone, he could go on for hours. For him, playing was better than sleep, sex, and a dirty martini. It renewed his soul and refreshed his body and rejuvenated his mind. Playing the guitar did for him what drugs did for other people. In fact, this drug was more powerful than cocaine or a SoBe cocktail. It had the power to reach beyond the user and intoxicate others, draw them under his spell and his power–an aural roofie if you will. He became the music, and the music became him. They were the Persian mystic, the Buddhist sage, and the Hindu holy man intertwined.

Hyakinthus walked into the bar for his ritualistic, pre-opening lime juice and tonic water. He never drank alcohol at the club and rarely imbibed off the clock. He was his best clean and sober. This night something strange happened, for he found an intoxication from a liquor never brewed. Hearing the music from Lykegenes’ guitar he stood transfixed in the doorway. He was under Their spell and Lykegenes’ to command. Unfortunately, Lykegenes took no notice. He was lost in the chords that tripped from the Strat. How long Hyakinthus stood there is hard to say. The Sun halts his course when Lykegenes commands it.

Breaking the trance of both our musician and His audience, Cupido came through the door. Lykegenes looked for the first time as the man standing before him. It was as if an arrow had pierced him. Before a performance, his music meant all to him. But an alarming mixture of Love and Lust came over him now, and he wasn’t sure what he should do about it. He left the dias and walked over to Hyakinthus and embraced him–not in a sexual way. It was the hug of friendship – compassion. For he felt they were meeting again after a long absence. Hyakinthus returned the eagerly returned the embrace. This was greater than the Heaven of Lykegenes’ music. He wondered how the two might fit together.

III

Somehow the concert happened and Hyakinthus made it through his night’s work. The men gyrated to the music. Hyakinthus had his riches increase more than usual, and the rainbow flags on the roof actually did flutter in the night’s breeze. The next morning Lykegenes awoke with the Sun streaming in the windows of a strange bedroom. He sat up trying to remember the events of the night before, but he could only remember the scent, the taste, and the touch of the boi he’d dubbed the Lily Prince. As if summoned, he came through the door carrying a tray that held a French press and a platter. “I wasn’t sure how you like it,” he said shyly.

“As long as it’s from your hand I don’t care,” Lykegenes responded. He’d had his share of lovers–men and women, but this time was different than the rest. This time he wanted it to last beyond the expanse of time itself. This might be the person to take home to meet his family. But for now, the coffee brought a warmth that was welcome even in the heat. “Are those biscuits?”

“Yes, I made them this morning. Of course, I bought the sausage at the store,” Hyakinthus chuckled as he sat the tray on the bed. Lykegenes poured himself a mug of black ambrosia and took a long drink. Almost before he knew it, Hyakinthus was in his arms and their mouths were locked in an embrace that threatened to shake the foundations of Western civilization.

IV

Over the next couple of months, they were inseparable. The heat and humidity gave way to the first signs that Fall would come. “I’m going to have to leave for a little while,” Lykegenes said one Sunday morning as he lay on the couch watching Hyakinthus work out a formula.

“Can I come with you?”

“It’s for a few months. Wouldn’t that interrupt your education?”

“Not any more than pining for the love of my life who’s gone away from me. I can actually put this on hold believe it or not.”

“Then pack your bags my boi-muse. We’re off on a little tour next weekend.”

It was a typical pre-fame music scene–a bunch of guys and equipment packed into two vans that were held together more with promises and prayers than anything physical. Some days tensions were high and other days their spirits were in some dark nether world. Then there were the concert days when it all came together. They performed with one body. Hyakinthus was always there in the back ground watching his Lord and Master.

It was on one of those tense days that things fell apart.

“Why is he with us? He’s not even a good roadie,” Zephrys.

“He’s not a roadie,” Lykegenes snarled.

“He’s your boyfriend.”

“Who’s put more than his fair share of money into this tour. Think of him as a stock holder if it helps.”

Zephrys knew better than to antagonize the Lykegenes. As the keyboard player, he was expendable from the band’s perspective. But he had a plan.

V

One night after the show, Zephrys made sure he packed the van that Lykegenes and Hyakinthus would be riding in. Having laid his plans Zephrys climbed behind the wheel of the other van and led the two vehicle caravan onto the interstate and into the dark, Kentucky night. Somewhere between Tennessee and Mississippi, Zephrys made his move. He hit the brakes suddenly and without warning. Following behind and driving in a near trance, Lykegenes slammed on his brakes as well.

While the act was a little startling but mostly benign in Zephryus’ van, things were far different in the one carrying out two lovers. One of the large speakers hadn’t been well battened. It flew forward and hit a startled Hyakinthus in the back of the head. Not just damagin his head, the force pushed him against the seat belt to give him fractured ribs to go with his subdural haematoma. Lykegenes rushed to pull his lover from the seat and tend him while the others called for an ambulance.

VI

Lykegenes sat in the hard plastic chair waiting for the doctor to come and tell him he could visit Hyakinthus. His jeans were soaked with drying blood. He rolled a cup of badly made and cold coffee in his hands. Hearing the doors in front of him open, he looked up. The doctor came out looking grave, but didn’t all surgeons look grave? He wondered if somehow it was a permanent mask put on them in medical school. “Sir,” the woman said sounding tired. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but there’s no way he’ll make it. He has another hour or two at most. If you’d like to see him…”

Whatever else she said, Lykegenes didn’t hear, for he ran past her into the room. His lover lay before him with his head wrapped in white gauze. Lykegenes took his hand and held it. He whispered inaudibly to Hyakinthus. “I know you understand that,” was all any but the beloved could have understood. tears welled up in Lykegenes’ eyes and streamed down to fall in puddles on the sterile floor. He did the only thing he could do.

“Sir, I’m sorry,” the nurse said apologetically. “We really do need to move him. I know your pain. Honestly.”

Lykegenes stopped playing and lay the Stratocaster across his lap. “It’s okay. He’s not there. He hasn’t been there for an hour,” Lykegenes said as the tears began again.

“No, he’s not there, and I don’t know where he is.”

“Or if he is.”

VII

In the parking lot the others were devistated for they loved Hyakinthus as one of their own. One however cried tangent tears not for the loss but of regret. “I didn’t mean for him to die,” Zephrys thought. “I only wanted to hurt him and make him go home.” Though scarred for eternity, Lykegenes would mend from his grief. The band took the fleur de lys as it’s symbol in honour of the Lily Prince. Not the waters of Neptune’s oceans nor the sacred strands from the Stratocaster could wash the stains from Zephrys’ hands.