Tenting Tonight, chapter 22
In 1991, at the end of the year, a week before its scheduled demise, the USSR abruptly lowered its flag and split into 15 independent nations. An abortive couple attempt by communist hardliners had failed in August of that year; the eastern bloc nations that the USSR had controlled since World War II had already broken away from Soviet control, and things looked up for gay life in Russia.
Boris Yeltsin, president of the Russian Federation, moved to liberalize politically and economically, but Russia was hit by the coldest winter in recent memory. The US under Poppy Bush stood by and did nothing as bread lines in the new Russia became longer and longer. People began to say that if democracy meant this kind of hunger, they preferred life under communism. Oligarchs like robber barons of old ruled private empires; the rule of law became a brief fantasy. Thank you, George H.W. Bush, for not gaining us an ally, for ignoring human suffering, for ignoring the possibilities of peacemaking.
On the home front, too, weather was tough. In mid-March of 1993, we had a storm known now as the Blizzard of ‘93, with highways all over the eastern US tied up, and an impossible street-cleaning situation, with snow piled up like barricades, lining many streets.
Paul L’s security cameras had continued for several years by now to pick up occasional glimpses of a slender figure that looked like Russlan, but there did not seem to be a pattern. Whoever he was, this fellow would stop along the street on the opposite side from Lindoro’s and observe comings and goings, deliveries, etc. Gradually, the photos revealed a face and posture that indicated illness. If it was Russlan, he had a lot of explaining to do, but we wanted him back. (Paul L said that he would be careful of investing too much emotionally in Russlan’s return, since we didn’t really know why he had left. He had clearly deceived us in some way before.)
The figure appeared in security tapes once again during the March blizzard, and then the camera became so encrusted with ice and snow that it produced little of value. When the snow melted, there was no trace. Paul L had Frank keep a log of sightings versus public events, various crimes, and other factors that might help to explain what brought this figure to our street. He was there once again about two weeks after the blizzard, and then there was no sighting for months.
In May of 1993, while we were still digging out, Russia began to repeal some of its anti-gay laws. This was not the first such zigzag in policy. A brief period of liberalized laws regarding homosexuality ended when Stalin imposed new laws that ignored the liberal constitution (also imposed). Stalin liked to call people cocksuckers and motherfuckers, but cocksuckers fared poorly under his reign of terror. The period of enforcement of anti-discrimination laws was brief but significant. Liberalization always seem to bring out a flowering of irrationality in Russia, and anti-gay sentiments, like anti-Semitism, could be used in demagoguery.
Over the next months, the camera picked up no more of our phantom, as we had begun to call him. That year, we had a white Christmas, with snow falling heavily. Paul L, as usual, had ordered up a sumptuous meal for our circle of friends, only for us: Liam10, my Paul and me, and Paul L himself. Ze’ev visited us that winter, so he joined us for the holiday, as did Frank. (We learned that Ze’ev and Frank had had their own fling together, and that their relationship was now one of old, dear friends with benefits.)
Christmas eve, the restaurant was open as usual. Though Boston restaurants usually close for major holidays that are family events, Paul L had always kept Lindoro’s open, on the grounds that the gay community included many lonely men for whom the holidays were an empty time. The restaurant was quite full, and we ate in our private alcove dining room, with the large fire-place. We were at the table there when a staff member came in with an urgent message for Paul.
We saw Paul L display a momentary lapse in his sang-froid. He thrust the message into his pocket, stood up, looked at us, and said, simply, “Russlan, maybe. Come with me.” Paul always had the restaurant kitchen prepare several hundred extra meals on holidays, for delivery to AIDS patients, to other poor people, and also for handing out to anyone who came to the service door of the kitchen. A security camera there had picked up our phantom figure among those who came for meals, several weeks back. Paul L mentioned a strange feeling that the frequency of sightings was increasing, and he asked Frank to keep an eye on the street from about Dec. 20 through New Years.
We all trooped down the stairs to the back entrance of the restaurant. Frank was there, blocking the doorway with his body, and two or three other young men, probably ex-marines or soldiers, by the look of them, were standing over a rumpled shape wearing a blanket pulled over its head. The blanket, or the person, gave off a terrible stench. The figure was lying on an old sofa that stood along the wall in the entry-way.
“Frank?” Paul L said. Frank said, “I think so. I approached him, and he passed out.”
“Let me,” Ze’ev said, coming forward. He asked Liam10 to run upstairs and get the black medical bag with his instruments. It was the first time we had seen him as a doctor rather than as a nurse, and he was strong (no surprise), with steady nerves and a calm bedside manner. He pulled back the blanket, and we saw a mass of matted hair, perhaps last washed a week or two ago. The hair had clearly been dyed, because the roots were a mixture of gray and ginger, under filthy strings of dark brown. He took vital signs and checked the hands and feet for signs of frostbite. As familiar as the face looked, we weren’t sure if it was Russlan or not. Ze’ev murmured a question to Paul L, who indicated immediately that the staff were to carry the unconscious figure into the small shower-room off the locker-room used by Lindoros’ staff.
Ze’ev made sure that the water was luke-warm, comfortable but not too hot. As Ze’ev removed or cut off clothing from the slumped figure, we saw he was a man, just about the right age. The figure stirred a bit when we seated him on a plastic chair in the shower-room. Paul had ordered that a hot air heater be turned on, and once the room was warm enough, Ze’ev stood over the slumped man and began to cut his clothing off of him. The man offered no resistance, and the filthy clothing went right into a trash bag and out into a dumpster. Only Ze’ev and I remained in the room with the now-naked figure. I tried to see past the filthy figure on the chair and recognize Russlan, but I saw little to make me certain. Ze’ev, who had acquired some conversational Russian in recent years, spoke reassuringly to the man in Russian, trying to get a response. Meanwhile, he turned on a hand-shower and checked the temperature again. The water under our feet became light brown as weeks, or months, or maybe years of filth washed off the body before us.
I noticed that the man was circumcised, and I commented on it to Ze’ev, who looked at the shrunken penis before us and then took gentle hold of it and sprayed it with water. The figure moved a bit more. Ze’ev pointed out that the scar was irregular and neither the work of a surgeon nor of a religious functionary who might circumcise a Jewish infant, or of one who might circumcise a Muslim boy. He soaped up the penis and after washing and examining it, gave his opinion: “The circumcision is crude and poorly done. It must have hurt.”
The man was thin, as if he had been starving. His hair was bedraggled, but we soon washed it, so that he was probably the cleanest he had been in months. Paul L had asked us to call him at this stage. He came in a few moments later with a photo of Russlan. The three of us looked at the exhausted figure before us and the photo, back and forth, but we did not recognize him for certain. The pattern of the ear was quite similar, though. On Paul L’s instruction, two security men carried the man to the elevator, and we went up to the residence, to a guest bedroom. My Paul and Liam10 had removed any valuables from the room, and we put the sleeping figure into the bed after getting him into a pair of Paul L’s pajamas. Paul instructed the security men to call in another detail to take turns with them, and he asked to be notified as soon as the man woke up. Ze’ev thought the man, whoever he was, showed signs of severe exposure, but preliminary, there were no signs of recent trauma.
By mute agreement, Paul and I slept in the large bedroom, with Paul L and Liam10 with us. We could not sleep. We talked most of the night, or rather, we speculated. Was this Russlan? Why did he leave? Did he leave on his own? Where had he been for so many years?
At about 3:45 AM, we were awakened by a loud howling noise, as if some great beast were screaming in pain. We ran down the hallway to the room where our phantom lay, to find the two security men holding him down as he lay screaming and crying. It was a cry of human misery such as I have never heard or hope to hear, a cry of bewilderment, a cry of hopelessness. The man was staring at the picture of Russlan that Paul L had brought downstairs earlier, that we had hung on the wall opposite his bed. He stared at it as if hypnotized and howled even louder. Ze’ev, who was also woken by the outcry, came in and spoke to the man in Russian, while he prepared a mild sedative with which to inject him. The man looked at each of us as if searching our eyes, only to be drawn back to the photo on the wall and to begin wailing again.
Gradually, the sedative took effect, and the man was calmer. Then he said the first word that we could discern in his outbursts: “Liomka.”
“Liomka” was Russlan’s name for our Lingam. Paul went and got the portrait of Liam from over our bed. He held it out to the cowering man as if it were a holy icon, and the man became silent at once, only murmuring, “Liomka. Moi Liomka.”
Ze’ev, now in the background, told us that “moi” means “my” in Russian, “moi” before a masculine, singular noun. Paul, in a daze himself, told Paul L that our Lingam was definitely masculine and definitely single. The strange man stared at Paul, now, as if trying to see through a haze. At some point, he shifted his gaze to me, then to Paul L. Finally, looking at me, he said, “Pitr.” Peter. He knew me.
And then, “Pavel,” looking at my Paul. Then moving his eyes between Paul L and my Paul,” “Pavel i Pavel.” Paul and Paul.
Liam10 watched from the doorway. The wild eyes reached out to him, but they seemed to be less certain, more confused. Then, “Tozhe Liomka,” as Ze’ev whispered to me, “He says, ‘Also Liomka.’”
The eyes appeared less focused when they lit on Ze’ev. “Sanitar?” the man said. “Ya buil,” Ze’ev answered. “Schas ya brach.” The man gazed into Ze’ev’a eyes as he appeared to doze off. I looked at Ze’ev, who whispered, “I said I was a nurse, now I am a doctor.”
“It’s got to be Russlan,” Liam10 said, back in our shared bedroom. “Who else would call us by the names that only he used?” We all wanted to believe it was Russian. My Paul said he wanted to go down the hallway right now and shake the truth out of the man. That was the last thing I remember hearing for many hours. Once we did fall asleep, we slept like the exhausted men we were.
“Dead.” I sat upright. What if this stranger, who was a stranger even if he was Russlan, took it into his head to attack us? I tiptoed down the hallway to where he was sleeping. There were two security men in the room with him, just watching him in the dim light, and another two outside the door. Trust Paul L to make sure.
All four of us sat down to breakfast late the next morning. The security men had already eaten, and they’d taken a tray up for Russlan, who wasn’t being allowed free reign in the house yet. He was still in his pajamas, and Paul L had left instructions to check his sizes and get him some clothes when stores opened the following day. “We cut his clothes off him, even if they were filthy, and whoever he is, we can’t just put him back out on the street in the dead of winter. And he needs proper winter clothing.”
“How could he know our names and nicknames if he’s not Russlan?” Liam10 asked.
“He can’t. It IS Russlan. But I want to know where he’s been and what happened to him,” my Paul added.
“We don’t know much yet,” Paul L observed. “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt until we find reason not to.”
“I have a question, though,” I interrupted Paul L. “How are we supposed to feel if it IS Russlan? Is he responsible? Was he a victim? Does he care that we were worried sick over him for years? Does he know...”
“He knows,” Paul L interrupted me in turn. “Look at this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a paper transcribing anything he said in his sleep last night.”
“So? What did he say?”
“Úmeer Liomka. Úmeer v’samalyod. Úmeer Bobby, úmeer yivó brat, i fsyó.”
“Somebody ask Ze’ev to translate.”
“Ze’ev is sleeping. He was up with our boy until late.”
“He’s not my boy.”
“He may be. This says ‘Perished, Liomka. Perished in airplane. Perished, Bobby, perished, his brother, and that’s all.”
“Can you say that in English?”
“’Liomka’s dead, dead in an airplane. Bobby’s dead, his brother’s dead, and nothing’s left.’ Something like that. Ze’ev wrote it on here before he went to sleep. He says our fella there wept and muttered this, over and over again, until he fell asleep of sheer exhaustion.”
“Well, let him sleep, then. But once he’s up, we need to confront him and demand some answers, “ Liam10 put in.
“Agreed,” everyone else said, more or less.
We decided to use a tactic of good cop - bad cop to get to the bottom of things. Paul L and Ze’ev were the good cops; Liam10 and I were the bad cops. Paul could be our flex man. After the stranger was up, washed, dressed, and had had breakfast, we asked the security detail to bring him in to see us. He offered no comment about being, in effect, under private arrest. It was almost as if he expected nothing else.
“Who are you?” I asked. “You know a great deal about us.”
“Please?”
“Ze’ev, translate, please: ‘Who are you?’”
“You do not know me?”
“You look like someone we knew, a long time ago.”
“Name was ‘Russlan,’ yes? From Novosibirsk? Was boyfriend of Bobby, brother to your friend Liam?”
“My god, it IS Russlan.”
“That’s not what he said. He said ‘name was Russlan.’ What is name now, please?”
“My name... Russlan. You know me, Pitr.”
“What color hair did Russlan have?”
“Was red, then dyed, long time brown now, some grows gray, underneath red.”
“When did you...” I asked, pointing to his penis, covered by clothing. “Cut... skin?”
“One day after night when you all fuck me.”
“If you are Russlan, explain where you have been. Why you disappeared. What you want, coming back like this, after so many years.”
“You are angry, this I afraid many times, but too dangerous stay, maybe for you too.”
“For us? Explain. Why dangerous?”
“You remember I tell Andropov was KGB leader?”
“So?”
“When died Brezhnev, I think cannot be worse. Then select Andropov, Yuri Vladimirovich, and I very afraid, very. This Andropov Yuri Vladimirovich have son, not even on Internet know much about him, he son Nina Ivanova Andropova, first wife. He ‘Vladislav,’ we call him in school ‘Slava.’”
“All right, what does this have to do with your espionage in the US?”
“You stop shout, I do you nothing.”
“Answer the question.”
“I not spy.”
“Then why are you...”
“I not spy. Son director KGB my friend in Novosibirsk, son first wife, not wife of later, he not know children second wife.”
“So what?”
“Slava use name of mother, not father. Very fear father, very. Father mother not talk many years. Slava know mother fear father. Mother not tell Slava father is KGB director but grandmother tell Slava.”
“Slow down. What does this have to do... and talk English. Your English used to be better.”
“You know me then?”
“Maybe,” Paul said, interrupting our conversation. He had been following closely, as had Liam10. Paul L was silent.
“You know me. I know you. I know you afraid tickle, very tickle-ish, no?”
“Stick to your story. What does this Slava have to do with us?”
“We school friends. Only Slava know I blue. Only I know Slava blue.”
“Blue? Slava was gay?”
"No one knew. Slava’s family have summer hut, small, no electricity. They sometimes sleep there. They keep garden near dacha.”
“Dacha?”
“In my country, summer house, summer cottage, country house, even small hut, all call ‘dacha.’ Summer garden important for Soviet life. My mother preserve... preserve, yes? salt water.?”
“Pickle?”
“Da, pickle, my mother pickle many vegetables, we eat in winter. We not have dacha, but Slava mama invite my mother plant summer garden in small field near dacha.”
“What does all this have to do...”
Paul L interrupted me. “Peter, let Russlan talk now, I think he has something to tell us.” I noticed with surprise that Paul L seemed now to accept Russlan’s identity and wanted Russlan to know this.
“Once, summer storm very bad, Red Pioneer camp must close, we in city many weeks, very hot. I ask my mother if I may visit Slava, I ask Slava mother if Slava and I may visit dacha, work garden, bring vegetables, maybe spend one night there. She say yes, Slava and I take train 17 kilometers into countryside then walk 11 kilometers in forest then find small road go to dacha Slava.
“We come to dacha late afternoon, tired, very, hot, very, we work 4 hours until dark, then we go to one stream to bathe, we carry lantern, but many mosquitos, we bathe and Slava dare me walk back to dacha no clothes, I say you too, we walk naked in forest. Very dark, cannot see far, I worried wolves, Slava say shortcut across one other stream, we climb small hill, then see dacha when moon rise, but must climb down. I fall. Slava also, and we fall together, I feel Slava against me, hard.”
Liam10 was listening intently, and I began to realize that he was turned on by this story of two young men naked in the forest. He moved his hand to his pocket. I looked away.
“In my country,” Russlan (I began to realize it really was he) continued, “many do not speak important except to dear friends, with strangers never, even friends rarely, no want want responsibility for arrest of other friend, agree not to speak certain things, but speak in strange words... only very dearest friends trust completely, they tell of all.
“Slava was such to me, I to Slava. We speak of blue feelings, of other boys, of bodies, of desire. Now we in forest, no one see, we naked. Slava put hand on my chest, I on his, feel his heart pounding. I feel his hand on my... what is word this one...” Russlan pointed to his nipple.”
“Nipple,” my Paul said, and I knew from his voice that he was excited and probably hard.
“Nibble, yes. I put also my fingers on nibble, and...”
“Russlan,” I said, “nipple. The word is nipple,” and I reached out and touched his nipple.
“Da, Pitr, ‘nipple.’ What is ‘nibble?’
“Eat with small mouth, not large.”
“Yes. I eat very small his nip-pel, yes?, nipple. He make noise like red haired boy Liomka when you fuck...”
“Don’t talk about Liam. Just tell your story,” my Paul said, and I knew he wanted to fuck this boy in front of us. He was not seeing the boy with the jagged circumcision scar, perhaps self-inflicted, and the odd-fitting clothes that he wore until Paul L could get him new clothing... he was seeing him as we first saw him, the red-haired boy who so resembled our Lingam.
“Da, da, Pavel, I tell. Slava make this noise, and I desire him. We play with penis, we kiss, I make him finish, he make me finish, we walk back to dacha, in dark, with hardon, yes? hardon pointing way in front. No one to see, no one to fear. We spend night in dacha, we also suck, we talk about fuck but not do, we are young, we are blue, we trust each other.”
“So what happened?” I asked, also strangely, nervously turned on.
“We arrive back to city, we walk to where we must separate, I will go my home, Slava will go his. Slava place hand on mine, move me. Someone sees and cries not beautiful name, it is one boy from our school, his father KGB. He not know Slava son Andropov, this only Slava, mother Slava, and I know, Slava mother know that I know. On street, one other woman, she hear schoolboy say not nice word, she tell, ‘You are not Ilyich, you must not...”
“Ilyich?”
Russlan now looked directly at Paul L. “Ilyich, Lenin. Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, Lenin. Ilyich mean son Ilya. Schoolchildren taught how behave by one storybook, tale of Ilyich and how he grew to love masses, to fight enemies of people.”
“OK. So what happened?”
“Now I must guess. We must attend one meeting two days after, meeting of clubs, yes? of students. I go. Slava not. I am very disappointing...”
“Disappointed.”
“Da, you always correct me this word, Pitr... disappointed. Slava I not see many days, I nervous, maybe this one boy see me, see Slava, make something bad. Then I hear.”
“You heard what?”
“Slava arrest KGB.”
“For what..?”
"No one ask my country. Same day I hear other boy also arrested, boy we meet. I remember his father KGB, then I hear father also arrested.
“Why were they all arrested?”
“I not know certain. But I afraid, I decide then must leave Soyuz, must...
“Soyuz?”
“This mean ‘union,’ first word in name my country then, ‘Union Soviet Socialist Republics.’”
“You left because your friend Slava was arrested?”
“I only decide in heart, not possible leave then. I work, I join Party discussion group for students, I dress very gray, I sleep women, I not look men, I ‘good boy.’ Then I win prize my university, and then receive stipend from electronics factory to attend conference in America, conference plus one, two year training course, but I must come back and work electronics factory.”
“That must have been exciting.”
“Excited, yes. I prepare, but in heart I know I must not return Rodina. But perhaps will change, because my granny very sick, my mother and father care for her at home. If I not return, what happen them?”
“Rodina?”
“Motherland. Then I finish study, another five month. I preparing depart, when I hear scandal, students rumor. Slava is blue, other boy was sweetheart, father other boy tell KGB office let boys go or they suffer.”
“Why would they suffer?”
“This I know, many persons not understand. Slava son Andropov, but use family name mother. If Slava blue, and other boy call him blue, other boy must be blue also boyfriend, father other boy say arrest no reason, must arrest father. Who threaten KGB officer? Only bigger officer. Father Slava, the biggest KGB, but first no one know.
‘Andropov must want Slava disappear, no connection his career. Such was in my country. This father must choose son first wife or career, he not know Slava, he choose career, send KGB arrest any concerned make problems mouth open.”
My Paul interrupted, “Slow down the bus, Russ,” an expression that made all of us laugh, even Russlan, who remembered Paul saying that to him before. The tension in the room was considerably less, now that we knew this stranger was Russlan, back from who knows where.
“So all these people around you were arrested because Andropov allowed corruption?”
“No, no, were arrested because Andropov want honesty his name. And blue son not good Soviet model. So Slava must die.”
“Die? Slava’s father killed him?”
“I not mean kill him with hands, but give order. Never see him. Slava arrested, taken away, no one ever see him alive, his mother receive letter that son died in such a place, such a prison, and buried there. Three months after arrest, Slava dead.
“Andropov very busy, must fight to gain position when Brezhnev die and period of stagnation end. You remember I very nervous when announce Andropov will be in Brezhnev place? You remember?”
“I remember.”
“I nervous because I think KGB try to kill me, kill Robert instead.”
“WHAT?” All of us were startled.
“Night before Robert and Liam attacked, Robert sleep with me. He tell me that he must speak his brother. I know brother Liam look like me, because Robert tell me. I think good if Robert honest with Liam. Better brothers if honest.
“But I always afraid that Andropov will remember Slava was friend one red-haired boy. KGB not forget such. And Andropov seek power for years, will not allow mention of blue son. Blue son must not exist, and then Slava not exist. But if someone discover I know, I must not exist. I think Slava must be beaten badly if say my name. Perhaps mother Slava say my name in fear. Perhaps classmate arrested give my name.
“I walk even in America fearing. Always look behind, in front. With Robert I like with Slava, I feel safe in arms, Robert know true Russlan.
“I see men rush in room where Robert meet Liam. I outside. Robert ask me wait, if Liam agree, we meet, first time. Robert will tell Liam all. Yes, all.
“Men surprise me. They look at me, sitting on chair, they pass me. I see American jackets, American shoes, American baseball hats, even wrong direction like American. Then I see hands on cigarettes, not like American, like Russian. I suspect. But they go by quickly. I panic. I hear yell, I hide. I see run out, I go, I find Liam. No Robert. I yell help. Where my Robert? Where? Must find him. Must get help Liam. Must find Robert. I crazy. I run and yell, one boy is lying in dining room, I run out. I think if Robert is there, they find him also. I watch, I see they not find Robert. Perhaps men take Robert.
“I think I have brought Soviet fear to America, everyone will hate me, blue and Soviet. I stay near hospital, ask questions. I very afraid for Liam, for Robert, for me.
“But why didn’t you tell us when you met us, when you got to know us?”
“You cannot imagine how I want tell. I crazy for you. Liam hate me first, but then like me. I love this Liam. I see why Robert love him. How I am telling Liam brother killed because he with me? Men think boy with Robert is Russlan. Liam hurt first, then Robert must fight with them, I think, and they must leave soon, they grab him, beat him, throw him under highway. Hope he freeze, like in Russia.
“I believe when you find me, meet me, men are already flying back to USSR. They disappear into Rodina, and no one find who attack Liam and Robert.”
Paul L went over to Russlan and gently rubbed his fingers against Russlan’s cheek. Russlan began to weep bitterly. Paul L left the room. We sat in stunned silence.
Ze’ev then quietly went over to Russlan, calmed him as best he could, and told us that Russlan needed to rest, that we would learn more later. He took Russlan to the room where he and our Lingam had often slept together, a room where Russlan’s old belongings were still hanging in the closet, everything as he left it. Ze’ev told us that Russlan was stunned to walk into a room from his past, and he began to weep even more bitterly.
We sat around in a circle, as in a nearby room, Russlan drifted off to sleep, under Ze’ev’s gentle care. We knew a bit more of the mystery of Bobby’s death, but only a bit. Who knew how much was still to be learned. Not everyone believed Russlan. But now everyone believed that this was Russlan.
Not everyone forgave Russlan. But we all knew that Russlan had lived a tough life, always in fear, and none of us wanted to cause him more fear or more pain.
Paul L came in to see us and told us that he had confirmed with contacts at Logan Airport that a chartered flight bound for Montreal, Helsinki, and Leningrad had left Logan shortly after Liam and Bobby were attacked. Liam10 went up to Paul L and told him that he looked tired. Paul L started to protest, but Liam10 stopped his mouth with a kiss, and the two of them retreated to Paul L’s private bedroom.
Paul and I sat, staring into the fireplace. Our Lingam was back at center stage, and yet we felt his absence more than his presence. My Paul snuggled against me, and I held him, tall as he was, in my arms. I knew his thoughts were in Lockerbie.
Paul slept in my arms that night, and I sat, staring into the fire, holding him safe. In the morning, I spoke with Paul L. I had an idea. When Paul and I could get time off, when Russlan was better, when Frank and Ze’ev were available, I wanted us to travel together to Scotland, to Lockerbie.
The story of our reconciliation with Russlan was not over yet. There was much more. Russlan had not yet told us where he had been, how he came to be in such a lamentable state, and why he had been lurking around on the street. More of what Russlan revealed to us, and the questions it raised, will come in the next chapter.
But Russlan was back with us, after years, and all of us hoped it would be permanent. Russlan slept in his old room, with Ze’ev watching over him, for months, until Ze’ev had to return to Israel. Ze’ev promised to come whenever Russlan needed him. I saw that they were developing a bond of affection, and it was good to see.
Frank, too, warmed up to Russlan again, though it took longer. Frank is, by his nature, a skeptic.
Russlan began to allow his natural red hair to grow back in. Within a month, although his hair had deepened in shade, and there were a few strands of gray, you could see his face topped by a shock of flaming red. As the red returned to his face, and as he put a little weight on, and some muscle, we began to see more and more of the young man we had desired, and less of the phantom.
There came an evening, shortly before Ze’ev’s departure, when we all had dinner in our large dining room, even Frank. Russlan must have been feeling frisky, though we knew that as his body had filled in from the skeletal form we picked up out of the cold, he and Ze’ev had begun sharing the bed in Russlan’s room. We were happy for them both.
This evening, we knew, would be special for Russlan and Ze’ev. We assumed they wanted to make love quietly in Russlan’s bed. I knew that as Russlan’s resemblance to Liam returned, Paul was feeling desire toward Russlan. I didn’t know what Paul L and Liam10 would think... but we soon found out.
At a signal between them, Russlan and Liam10 each stood up and began to take his clothes off. Russlan crawled between Paul L’s legs, as Liam10 opened Paul L’s pants and tugged them down. Liam10 stroked Paul L to full hardness, and then he fed the resulting hardon to Russlan, who had lost none of his technique, apparently, because Paul L began to coo with delight. Liam10, meanwhile, lubed Russlan’s rear, and my Paul settled against me, with my hand confirming what I always knew when it happened: he was hard.
Imagine my surprise, when Liam10, his hardon sticking out in front of him, reached out his hands and pulled my Paul up, then knelt to open Paul’s fly with his teeth. When Paul was nude from the waist down, Liam10 led him by the erection to Russlan, and the lube made his entry easy. I could see how turned on my Paul was, as his hands played with Russlan’s newly returned mop of red hair. I watched my Paul’s ass cheeks, with the dimples I love to cradle in my hands, pumping into Russlan, and I stood up. Now Ze’ev came up to me, and I gathered that Russlan must have given him his role to play, because he tugged my trousers down and went down on me in one swoop.
I was hard in seconds, and Ze’ev now tugged my hardon toward my Paul, whose ass Liam10 had lubed in the meantime. In I plunged, into my favorite secret place, and so we were a chain of four, me in my Paul, Paul in Russlan, Russlan’s mouth on Paul L. I felt a finger probing at my own ass, and who should it be but Liam10, eager to thrust into me, which he promptly did. Frank, by now, was lying on his belly alongside us. I was astonished to see Frank bottom, but Ze’ev and he had apparently had a bet as to whether the stranger would turn out to be Russlan. Frank told us he had won, but so did Ze’ev. I guess a fuck had been in the works between them for a while.
it was a bit strange for me to feel a cock other than my Paul’s, rooting inside me. But Liam10 had certainly fucked me before, and I him. It’s just that our must-fuck-now period had seemed to be ebbing away, replaced by mellow desire, fucking replaced by making love.
But this night was for fucking, old-fashioned sex for sex’s sake, for hard cocks plunging into eager holes, for mouths filled with cum passing cum with a kiss, for fingers pressing prostates into explosion, for more and more cock, in the mouth, in the ass. Not one o us passed the night without being fucked at least twice, without sucking at least one other guy off, without cumming in a friend, without a tongue in his mouth, in his ass, in his ear, in his navel.
That was the first hour. Orgasms ‘R’ Us.
The second hour, things took a familiar pattern that we had missed. Russlan wanted to be fucked by everyone in turn. He was his old, insatiable self. What psychological drama it played out in his head, I don’t know, but man, could that redhead’s ass show you a good time. His ass lips could kiss the base of your cock as you fucked him, without resting, and then clamp around your cock, tugging you back in as you slid out, welcoming you with embraces as you went in.
And when he had been fucked by everyone, Russlan winked at me, and I pulled my Paul to his feet, and I led him to the sofa that was ground zero of gay sex that night. I laid him down, I lubed his ass, he felt me tickle him open, he felt me do all the customary things that he and I do in the bedroom.
But at the last moment, Russlan hopped onto Paul’s back. The ultimate bottom boy now sank his cock into my Paul, leaving Paul moaning with pleasure and with wonder. Russlan whispered into Paul’s ear, and Paul began to hump, using Russlan’s trick of clamping his ass tight. I watched those ass-dimples I loved, and I vowed that if Paul was not too sore, I would insist on fucking him that evening and ask him to do for me what he had done to Russlan. Russlan nodded to me, and I lay against my Paul, gently tickling him. Gradually, all other noise in the room ceased; Russlan’s pistoning of Paul’s ass became the center of all nerves, all attention.
I tickled a bit harder, and I looked into my Paul’s eyes as he moved from crying to weeping from sheer pleasure. Russlan’s cock tickled Paul’s insides, and when I stretched my hands over his lower belly, I could feel that hard probe inside him, stretching his innards toward me.
Paul began not only to scream with pleasure, he began to move his ass in circles, clamping, thrusting, and I realized he was in the throes of an anal orgasm, a rare peak pleasure. Some men go a lifetime without ever experiencing an anal orgasm. Paul’s screams of pleasure were met with encouragement. Everyone moved around the fucking pair plus me, and hands and fingers touched every inch, every millimeter of skin. Mouths kissed everywhere on Paul. My Paul.
When the screams had died down, we held each other and listened to the crackling of the fire. After a few minutes, Frank, serious, dedicated Frank, began to weep. We had never seen him show so much emotion, and we were astonished. We held him, especially Paul, when Frank gulped out between sobs, “I loved that red-haired boy.”
The salt taste of tears and the salt taste of cum mixed on our lips and tongues, as we all held each other.
Suddenly, Liam10 piped up, imitating one of our Lingam’s old comic voices, and said, “Paul, dollink, I must get your recipe for artichokes preserved in semen.”
Paul L started to laugh, and then Frank, then my Paul, and soon we were all laughing. We laughed until our sides ached. And then we slept. For a while.
