Page 120 - Some Dance to Remember

90 Jack Fritscher

grinning, flipping the bird, showing their muscles, delighting in abusing
fags for money, flipping their dicks, bending over and spreading their
assholes, spouting clichés like “Eat it, queer,” finally lying back, pounding
their pud, jerking off watching straight porn on video, cuming for the
camera, inviting dirty fags, oh yeah, to lick up their big loads from their
tight bellies and big balls.
“Ah yes,” Solly Blue said. “I give them a chance to spill their guts.
How novel. They’ve always been told to shut up. Nobody ever asked them
what they think about anything. I do. I let them be. No censorship, no
direction, no nothing. It’s sex. It’s always sex. Does anyone realize I make
Andy Warhol movies? All I tell them is their performance is supposed
to be jack-off material. They don’t need a government grant for the arts.
They’ve hustled enough faggots. They know what faggots want. I know
what faggots buy. Faggots don’t buy love and kisses. Faggots buy verbal
abuse and physical domination. So that’s what I sell. Supply and demand.
They can never get enough. Thank God. I’m the only one selling rough
trade.”
Once plugged into the network of San Francisco hustlers, Solly never
had to leave his apartment. Word got around about his ten dollar finder’s
fee. Every model had a homeboy. “Hey, bro, it’s cool.” The buddy made a
videotape and introduced the next guy.
“My boys are not gay,” Solly said, “and they’re not straight. They
prefer easy women, but they love easier money. They don’t like to work,
so they hustle. As long as they’ve got the bodies for it.”
He poured himself another in his chain-glasses of real Coca-Cola.
With sugar. With caffeine.
“My boys may not know much, but they know sex and violence. My
only control over them in this penthouse is to get the violence out of them
on videotape, and the sex out of them in bed.”
Solly Blue’s position was no pose. “I’m an existentialist, minimalist
realist.” He was bottom-line honest. He hadn’t darkened the door of a
synagogue in years, but he was a major patron of the ACLU, which, he
said, was the same thing. He had taken his kinky personal obsessions and
ingeniously turned them into a commercially successful business. “Terror
is my only hard-on,” Solly said. “I’m only happy when a bully roughs me
up in the sack. I’ve never liked sex with gay men. I like the danger of these
street boys who strip and strut and show me their muscles and tattoos. I
like the way they sit on my chest, twist my tits, and spit in my face. I like
to see their hard dicks bobbing while they’ve got their hands around my
throat tight enough to convince me to cum.”

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