Faggots Read Online Free PDF Page A

year’s Seven Star Mini Diary, and this had revealed:
    Dates leading to orgasm: 87 (not counting street tricks, the tubs, or Fire Island; definitely not counting The Meat Rack).
    Dates interesting enough to want to see again: 2.
    Dates seen again: 23.
    Refusals: 23.
    Tubs attended how many times: 34.
    Discos danced at how many nights: 47 (not counting Fire Island).
    He had been dismayed at how many of the names he no longer remembered. Who were Bat, Ivan, Tommy, Sam Jellu, Beautiful Henry, Kelly Hurt (or Kelly hurt?), Joe Johns, François, Watson Datson, too many of the 23, not to mention the 87, were now unrecognizable and obviously equally as unmemorable as the how many—? 100? 200? 50? 23? orgasms he had probably forgotten to tally. He had had sex, with somebody or other, one or two, maybe three times a week for an entire year, including religious holidays, but not counting, hopefully, illnesses. He had spent a whole year (not to mention all the preceding ones!) with a faceless group of sex objects. Talk about sexist! Talk about using the body as a thing! And who the hell was Tiddy Squire? Or was it Ditty Squirt? Even his handwriting was not helpful. He recalled no Tiddy Ditty, nor what they did, nor how it felt, nor where they did it, though his notation exclaimed: “really Hot, must do it again!” Checking his address book, on those rear pages reserved for faggots, because he was certain never to recognize their names if filed alphabetically, there it was: Derry Spire, March 14th—only several months ago. How could he not remember? How could he have made love with another human being and not remember? The face? The body? Something? Anything? A wart? A smell? B.O.?
    Fred then thought of the long line of architects, gardeners, art directors, copywriters, dilettantes, drop-outs, unemployeds, unemployables, would-be’s, waiters, actors, students, dancers, which had graced his life, wondering why he fell for some of the Great Non-Givers of the World, the Invulnerables, the Defensives, the Ones in Need of Help, whom he, great Red Crosser, was there to ferry through sleet and shit like the schleppy Saint Bernard. And did. He had carted the body-builder/sociologist to Paris to seduce him, only to discover he was a lousy lay. (Anthony had to summon him home with an urgent telegram signed “Barbra Streisand” to get him out of that one.) He had ported the weaver/macraméist to Marrakech to hear his vow of love, only to have anxiety attacks in the Casbah. (Said attacks obviously necessitating an urgent recall to then Dr. Cult.) They had both been called Mikie. Mikies I and II were both, somewhere, wearing Rolex Submariners, which Fred had bought them at the ending. Mikie III, the thirty-four-year-old flower child, half-architect, now truck driver, still good friend, also wore his Rolex, after their affair-let on a Caribbean Firefly Cruise.
    There had also been Feffer. Great Love Number One.
    And now there was Dinky Adams. Great Love Number Two.
    Fred had been amazed as well to discover in his address book’s rear that he and Dinky had met and tricked seven years ago, a one-nighter; Fred vaguely remembered fucking him, when Fred was visiting from London and they’d cruised each other in front of a Goya Duchess on loan to the Metropolitan Museum. Dinky was then in architecture school, too, and was filled with plans for building a more beautiful world. He’d only finished a year and a half. He’d never made it. Ah, the potential! Is this what made him so very dear?
    Feffer had been tall, blond, incredibly bright, gorgeous, his own age, a Wisconsin Phi Bete, who’d been wonderful until Fred unfortunately discovered he wanted to tie Fred up and beat him.
    Dinky was tall, dark, bright, gorgeous, with honors from Georgetown, and Fred could hardly wait for his return. He was wonderful. Again and at last.
    Fred had, at thirty-nine, hoped love would come by forty.
    He had only four days to go.
    Forty years old!
    And beloved Dinky