Some Men Are Lookers: A Continuation of the "Buddies" Cycle by Ethan Mordden Page A

“They’re not like, you know, the guys you meet in bars, guys you could have gone to high school with. They’re . . . sex people. There’s something inside them, like a motor. I see it now—these dancers and porn stars and so on, they’re not doing it because you and I aren’t available. It’s because they’re so hot that fucking is their vocation.Of course, I made sure we took the precautions. But can you imagine telling this . . .
monolithic
guy that you want to get pleasure-fucked, and he doesn’t say, But do I like you?, or, Is it Thursday? No, he just sets you right up on the bed and proceeds to slide his big, fat, cream-filled joint right up your—”
    Virgil, Cosgrove, Nicky, and Bauhaus dashed into the bathroom; the sound of the running shower directly followed.
    “I blew it again,” said Roy. “Speech is not free here.”
    I said, “The problem is that, in actuating a fantasy, you’re threatening everybody’s sense of stability. We all dream of encounters with the holy Lucifers of the sensual world, okay. But that’s all they are. Dreams. Didn’t you notice that all the men in the audience tonight were dreary old losers?”
    “We
aren’t, are we? I’m not even thirty yet.”
    “But where were our coevals? I’ll tell you. They’re out seeking some more earthly version of the dream in socially reputable places. Because the only fit partner for Lucifer is another Lucifer. Anyone less total must feel inadequate. Threatened. Humiliated. Tell your friends where you went tonight and what you got. Tell them about Theobald. You think they’ll be glad and plan their own trip to Folly City? On the contrary, they’ll—”
    “Good Lord!” cried Roy at something behind me; Dennis Savage and I turned to look. It was Nicky, nude and erect, walking in like a strip dancer launching his second number. And—I swear to God and all Her angels—he had a raging bazooka. Maybe even a bazooka plus.
    “What’s . . . what’s going on?” asked Roy, as Nicky planted himself before his friend.
    “Here’s what you like, right?” said Nicky. “This gadget? You don’t care about people, you just want a thing! Fine, now somebody put on Frankie Goes to Hollywood and I’ll prance for you!”
    “Has he been drinking?” Roy asked.
    “He was swigging the V-8 like a man possessed,” I said.
    “Nicky,” said Roy, as Dennis Savage went into the bedroomfor something, “our friends will become alienated if you carry on like this.”
    “You don’t like my boner?” replied Nicky, falsely coy.
    “You’re offending our hosts,” Roy insisted, though I noticed that he couldn’t take his eyes off Nicky’s erection. “You’ve virtually cleared the room with this . . . this outrageous stunt.”
    “No, I approve of this,” I said. “It’s mildly eerie yet presented in a farcical naturalism that gives the whole thing a deceptively quotidian feel. A
Symphonic Fantastique
or so.”
    Dennis Savage came back with a bathrobe, which he tossed to Nicky.
    “No,” Nicky said, shaking his head slowly. “No, because if I don’t show a big dick, Roy won’t like me.”
    “He
must
be drunk,” said Roy. “He’s never like this.”
    “You don’t
know
what I’m like! You never listen to me, or ask me how I feel, or do anything except take me for granted!”
    “Come on,” said Roy, helping Nicky into the bathrobe. “I do, too, listen to you.” He patted Nicky’s shoulder. “Boy, and I thought you were this quiet type.”
    From the bathroom, Cosgrove shouted, “We’re not coming out till everybody’s dressed!”
    “All clear,” I announced; and even Bauhaus joined us.
    “In all the fuss,” said Virgil, “I never got to make my surprise revelation, which is, Guess who won the Dream Man contest?”
    “Virgil, we’re rich!” Cosgrove exulted.
    “Actually, I only got third prize. Fifteen dollars.”
    “That’s still enough for one brand-new CD.”
    “So let’s hear the award-winning piece,” said