PART-2, PETER PARTY

In PART-1 of this story, homophobia and the general attitude towards gays in the late-1970's were addressed.   
     PART-2 will now discuss the tendency of the straight community to forget that gays aside from their sexuality, have the same wants, needs and aspirations as they have.
     Before the reader finishes this section, the inevitability of PART-3 will be obvious.



                               * 



Ciro drove us to the party at Stu Frobel's apartment. 

Along the way, I was thinking of the Spear’s when I commented, “You’ll know this place is a real shit-box if I don’t move in.”

The Flamingo Royale Apartments was a beautifully landscaped series of four, three-tiered units with their own grassy, chaise lounge-filled courtyard and pool. A fifth, premium-priced section that included the management office, clubhouse with a gym, lit tennis courts, an Olympic-sized pool, Jacuzzi, sauna and laundry room was in the center.

Stu Frobel's place was in an outer arm of the complex.  From the parking lot, Ciro and I were easily attracted to unit #65 by an invisible divining rod that used raucous music and the alluring aroma of barbecue.

     Stu, with an Italian sub in hand, saw me turn into his courtyard.  He waved us over and handed Ciro and me a Mason jar.    

     He pointed to a plastic tub filled with icy liquor and floating fruit chunks, “Try the bug-juice.”

Over thirty people were dancing, swimming and laughing. Tipsy Stu introduced us as we mingled through his neighbors.  

I nudged Ciro, “Just like the parties Hal Spear would throw.”

“C’mon,” Stu said as he handed us each a burger, “follow me.”

     Inside his apartment, we met his wife Toby.  I soon found out that she was friendly, quick-witted and intelligent...and another fellow New Yorker, (Flushing Queens). 

     Toby (27) was over-qualified at a furniture store where she put in beaucoup hours and netted a scant living as a commissioned salesperson.  At a hundred thirty-five pounds, Toby was a squat five-foot-two.  She had long stringy auburn hair, wild reddened eyes and a set of blackened teeth that caused her to avoid smiling.

     Before giving us the grand tour, Toby handed Stu a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres and said, “Bring these out.” 
I soon realized that the only thing better than her personality; was the spacious living quarters that she was offering me. 

                              *

Back at poolside, Toby called over a thin man in his late twenties.  This cheerful fellow was wearing a tawny, yellow polo shirt with a solid red bandana, tied like the letter “X” around his neck. A small dark pimple on his cheek distracted an otherwise immaculate, pale complexion. 

Toby teased, “Somebody has that freshly laid look about him.”  He blushed with a swishy head shake conveying that nothing could be further from the truth.

“This is Peter, from two doors down,” she said. “We call him Peter Party because this shindig isn’t shit compared to the bashes he throws.” 

     Dainty Peter dipped his jar into the punch for a taste and in an effeminate voice pouted, “Ugh, it’s so watery.”

Purposefully, he scooted off to his apartment and returned with partial bottles of grain alcohol and vodka. Peter victoriously emptied their contents into the mixture.

     He sampled the concoction and throatily uttered, “Much better.”

     “Peter I love your bandana,” Toby said as she sipped from her Grateful Dead coffee mug.  “Is it new?”

     “Yes I just got it,” he answered. “Actually, it’s a neckerchief.”

     Stu, between hiccups interrupted, “I thought it was a ribbon.” 
We all laughed.

     Peter huffed, “I’m exhausted. I must sit down.”  He was singing, “Tie a Red Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree,” as he pranced away like a woodland sprite. At an umbrella table, he hugged and politely kissed a bare-chested, muscular, dark complected man with long black hair and sat down.

     Toby took Ciro and me away from the mainstream.  She rehashed the perks of living there and described where the amenities were.

     Ciro chimed in, “Dimi (his nickname for me) if you don’t move in, I’m breaking my fuckin’ lease.”

Toby went into a comical repartee that cut-up her neighbors with catty remarks. 

     “Who are our hosts?” I asked.

     “They left fashionably early,” she began. “The boyfriend showed us the sex toys they bought from the jackpot he hit. They’re probably neck-deep in tapioca trying them out right now.”

     We were all laughing as she continued, “Now ‘Mr. Red Ribbon’ on the other hand, he's a real sweetheart.”

     I said, “Peter?”

     Toby said, “Yeah.  He’s really loaded.  A few years back he inherited a ton of money.”

“Wow, that’s so cool,” Ciro said.

“Not exactly,” she whispered. “His folks were killed in a car accident back in Minnesota; his younger brother was badly burned.  The kid survived a couple of surgeries but died too. Later, some uncle had the brass balls to contest the will.  The asshole had no case but Peter’s sexuality was dragged through the mud. In such a small town, Peter’s life was in shambles so he moved here.”

Dumbfounded, Ciro and I gaped at each. 

“Peter doesn't need to work," Toby said, "but he likes being a maitre'd in one of the gourmet rooms at the Sands.”  She then pointed out a gaunt man with beady eyes sitting alone. “That’s Gregory (40)...” In a vexed manner she sneered, “That prick is Peter’s anti-social, unemployed other half.  He’s out of his mind. Nobody likes him.” 

“Sounds real wholesome,” I mused, “Peter’s folks would have been so proud.”

“It gets worse,” Toby said. “In their other bedroom, they have Larry-Wayne, another leech. It’s annoying to Peter that Larry-Wayne's a whore and brings home 'flavor of the week,' strays.”

Ciro and I laughed. 

“It’s not funny,” she asserted.  “Peter is a doll and pays all the bills. Those freeloaders do nothing but sponge-off him.”

My eye caught a tall, skinny, formless blond in a bulky, blue gingham bikini crossing in front of us.  Her face was gloomy, bony and plain.  She stood alone at the pool's edge and slugged down a giant cup of bug juice.  Seconds later, we watched her pound a second helping down her throat before sipping on another refill.

     “That’s Lona Ekadamitzky (25),” Toby said, “she’s a change-person at Sam’s Town. The poor girl is insecure and doesn’t say much. Her husband is always loudly accusing her of cheating on him.  But she’s not the type. That douche-bag is so stuck on himself that he takes her devotion for granted. Some bastards just feel better when they knock their women around.” 

Ciro broke the tension with an unintentional belch and asked, “Which of these geniuses is her husband?”

     “We won’t see him tonight, he’s working.  Horst deals BJ on swing shift at the Maxim.”

     “Horst Ekadamitzky!  What’s he a foreigner?” wondered Ciro.

     “Nah,” Toby shrugged, “he’s from Ohio.”

     Beyond Lona, near the diving board, two women were having a private conversation.  Suddenly the brunette rose up, removed her bikini top and dove into the pool.  The other hesitated and soon followed by doing a cannonball.  They were giggling and splashing each other when Lona, going with the trend undid her top, (revealing practically nothing). Unsteadily, the inebriated Lona jumped in.  She swam to the others who were now tightly embraced and kissing.

     Upon arrival, the couple's passion stopped to give Lona a dirty stare down.  Rejected, she slithered away. Before Lona could get a foothold on the ladder, the black-haired man who Peter sat with intercepted her. Lona covered her chest with her arms and crouched rigidly below the waterline.  Her frowning, undignified face was all we could see as he engaged her in a strained conversation. Lona was made more uncomfortable as he shortened the distance between them and lowered his body to be face to face with her.  She looked panic-stricken as he tenderly stroked her cheek. 

     The tension in her face eased into a blossoming smile. He pecked her cheek, kissed her neck and then her mouth.  Lona resisted for a few seconds until kissing him back.  Their fervor escalated. The pool wall obscured our vision but underwater, they were obviously pleasuring each other.

     Unashamed, topless Mona came out of the pool. In front of all those witnesses, they groped one another and passionately kissed while toweling each other off.  He was sporting an enormous cylindrical bulge in his crimson Speedos as they passed us, arm-in-arm. Lona grinned as her free hand decadently dragged her bikini top along the ground. 

Ciro said, "Ain't that the guy Peter kissed?"
I said, "Maybe Casanova plays for both teams?"
Frampton’s, “Show Me the Way” was blaring as Toby sighed, “She looks pretty.  But if one of these yentas blabs to Horst tomorrow, she'll look pretty messed up.” 
Seconds later, between the Frobel’s and Peter’s apartment, they vanished into unit #67...curiously, the door was left ajar.

     Despite being wasted, Ciro staggered over to peek through the open door. From the corner of the threshold, he made-out their bonded silhouette in the darkened kitchen.  Dissatisfied by the indistinguishable show, Ciro was about to leave when the refrigerator door opened. The man bent down and reached in. Ciro could see Lona, massaging his groin from behind.  He took out a bottle of Beck’s and turned to face Lona.  She took down his trunks.  The man spotlighted by the little fridge bulb was gulping beer as Lona enthusiastically performed oral sex.

     Ciro dashed away as they turned towards him.  He hid under the exterior staircase on the opposite side of the courtyard and childishly laid in wait. But the door never closed.  Ciro sensed it was safe and returned for another look.  He saw Lona kick off her bikini bottom and get carried over this man’s shoulder.  They were entering the bedroom when she got a stinging slap on her butt...Lona didn’t protest.

     Inexplicably, Ciro entered the Ekadamitzky's apartment.  Clouded by the bug juice, he assumed it was a “gang-bang.”  Ciro patiently waited his turn on the love seat.  Soon, he overheard their small talk evolve into moaning and eventually to the rhythm of the headboard slamming against the wall.

     At the same time, Toby and I were getting along like old friends.  I told her my situation with the Spear’s and she offered me the room for $130.00/month.  Before I could accept, she mentioned her babies: Spode, Colette and Smokey.

     “Because the window is always open for the cats,” she started, “you won’t have to pay any utilities.”  To seal the deal, I offered her my hand. Instead, she hugged me.

     Suddenly she pulled away and muttered, “Oh shit!”  
Frantically, she looked for Stu but it was too late; Horst was marching up from the parking lot.  Of German and Russian ancestry, Horst had an Aryan look and an unapproachable demeanor.  He had taken an “early-out” and was about to walk-in on Lona.

     Ciro, to pass the time, was cleaning under his fingernails with a key when Horst entered the quiet apartment.  Without challenging the stranger’s presence, stoic Ekadamitzky greeted Ciro with a nod before advancing through the darkness. 

Ciro was irked that this man was rifling through the kitchen cabinets like he owned the joint.

He was about to defend his place in line when Horst picked the cold, half-finished beer bottle off the counter and asked, “This yours?”                                                              Ciro shook his head as Horst opened the fridge.

The refrigerator light illuminated the floor. Horst discovered the black-haired man’s discarded, little red swimsuit.  He turned on the lights and was about to pounce on Ciro when the sound of the headboard smashing the wall started again.  At the same time under the coffee table, Horst noticed his wife’s bikini bottom; he charged into the bedroom.  Amid screaming, Ciro ran out towards the parking lot.  Seconds later, the black-haired man streaked past Toby and me holding his Speedos.
She said, "How do you guys run with something that big between your legs?"
I said, "I can't relate."                                       We laughed.

                               *

In my new room, Ciro and I slept the party off.  We were about to leave the next morning when Peter clutching his pedigreed Himalayan cat “Precocious,” knocked on the door.  He was bleeding from the mouth, had a fresh scratch on his forehead and his pimple was now a glistening open sore.

     Toby cried, “Did Gregory do this to you again?”

     Peter nodded as Stu said, “Did he want money?”

     Toby's motherly instinct held Peter close as he whimpered, “H-he used up all his allowance and had the audacity to ask for fifty more.  We all know why he wants it.  And I’m not paying him to cheat on me.”

     “Get rid of him,” Stu said.

     Peter gnashed his teeth, “Please, don’t tell me there’s plenty of fish in the sea.”  Stu was speechless as Peter looked his fluffy white cat in the eye and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll always be together. I know Gregory doesn’t have the same enthusiasm for monogamy as we do...but I love him.”

Precocious mewed.

“Besides,” Peter added, “he'd never really hurt me."
Stu said, "But..."
Peter cut him off, "I changed my will again."
Toby said, "No..."
Peter said, "Yes.  And this time I made him sole beneficiary.” 

Stu recognized the contradiction and went on to remind Peter of Gregory's beatings, the times he's been robbed and death threats.  Peter started crying.

I said, “C’mon, we gotta go.” 

In the car Ciro asked, “You don’t think Gregory has the balls to kill Peter for the money?”

I didn’t answer.

Instead I reflected on meeting Stu at the Fremont and said, “Gays do lead difficult lives.”

                              *       

I was happy the Spear’s weren’t home. I got ready for work, gathered my things and without complications left their apartment for the last time.

     The Fremont was four blocks from the El Cortez. On my first break, I hustled over to tell Hal what’s what and get my twenty dollar deposit back.  
     Luckily when I arrived, his table was standing dead. Hal was slunk low on his boxman’s stool, staring off into space. His dealers were chatting among themselves.  From their body language, I guessed that they didn’t like Hal. This was a great opportunity for me to say my peace, recover my money and get back to work.  He was intensely sucking a cigarette when his face brightened at seeing me.

     “Why didn’t you call.  We were worried,” he whined as he squashed out the last nub of his Old Gold into the full ashtray atop the chip bank.

     I owed him no explanation and said, “Oops.”

     “Who’s the lucky girl?” he probed.

To avoid conversation I said, “Hal, I have some news...”

     He cut me short and grumbled, “Suzie loves me fifth best.” 

     I should have just interrupted him; instead I shrugged.

     “Number five," he bellowed, "can you believe it?” .

     A dealer snickered, "No. Not again..."
     Hal plowed on, “She loves her mother, father, brother and even Arbuckle their ratty chihuahua better than me.”

     Impatiently I looked at my watch. 

     His voice cracked, “She left me! After nine years of bliss, she flew back to New York this morning.”

I was thinking; maybe it's because you’re an asshole but said, “She’s probably homesick.”

     In a clear and upbeat tone Hal changed the subject, “I hate to do this but with her out of the picture, you DO understand that I’m forced to jack-up your rent to $135.00...plus half the power bill.”

     Had he not been at work, I would have told him where he could shove his apartment, the two real palm trees and the grill “they” use for parties. Hal took my hesitation as a bargaining ploy. 

     Poker-faced with a long meaningful drag on a fresh cigarette he reasoned, “I know you’re short on dough.  I’ll make it an even buck and a quarter...and I’ll throw in the first two months electricity, free!” 
In emphasizing his point, Hal’s hand upset the ashtray, spilling its filth onto the table’s chip bank.  With his head down struggling to clean the mess, I tossed his key across the craps table. I winked at one of the smirking dealers and without confrontation, left.

                             *

Besides furnishing me with a solid home, the Frobel’s became good friends. At first, they seemed equally co-dependant on having fun.  But soon it was apparent that Toby took on all their responsibility.  Although I liked Stu, I gravitated to Toby’s earthiness and she rapidly became a trusted confidant.


 

                         *



At my first dinner party at Peter’s, his lavishly decorated, rented apartment impressed me.  No one could ever guess that our units had identical floor plans. His looked like it belonged in a magazine.  He had a full chef’s kitchen featuring; expensive copper cookware hanging from the ceiling and walls, granite counter tops and a hand-carved wood block, containing twenty professional knives.

     I was glad that Ciro was invited because the gourmet fare that night included; king crab, broiled filet mignon wrapped in bacon, asparagus in cream sauce and twice-baked potatoes. 

These festivities also served as my formal introduction to Peter’s caustic life-mate Gregory. Luckily as Gregory got drunker, his “butch” mentality softened.  Soon, he captivated us with poignant combat experiences from Vietnam.  But when his mood shifted, he went on a distasteful rant, in explicit detail, how he was sexually “passed around” by bullies in his platoon.

I whispered to Ciro, “I hope that was just his fantasy.”  Gregory’s lurid depictions abruptly ended as Precocious jumped onto Peter’s lap.

     The cat arrogantly posed while pampering Peter stroked her nape and groaned, “Toby, I’m sorry I didn’t make those canapés you adore.”

     “Forget about me. You made all your favorites and hardly ate anything.”

     While reaching for a tissue with the air of a Victorian dowager Peter said, “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”  He dabbed his nose. “I’m spent.  I can’t explain it.”  Genteelly, he blew his nose and added, “All I want to do is sit.”

Toby said, “Trust me. Everything tonight was super.”     

Everyone was nodding in agreement when Gregory grabbed the bread knife and took a swipe at the cat. 

Precocious scampered to safety as Gregory growled, “One day that fuzzy piece of shit is going to get too close to the trash compactor.”

     Toby pulled me aside, “I told you he’s crazy.  Did I tell you, he’s trying to sue the Army, the Federal Government and the State Department?”

     “Why?”

     Tittering she said, “He’s claiming the whole military thing made him a fag.”

     I said, “Really?  Don’t seem possible.”

     “Get this,” she concluded, “Peter has footed all the legal fees.  We’re talkin’ ten thousand minimum and they have no shot.”

Larry-Wayne (30) stopped our conversation when he came out of his bedroom.  He grabbed two beers and disappeared back inside. 

A six-footer, with long, thick, sandy hair, Larry-Wayne was shirtless and wearing an unbuttoned, brown, hand-crocheted vest that displayed his well-developed hairy chest and arms. He had blue, denim cut-offs and his scruffy cowboy boots were pointy. 

Larry-Wayne’s handsome, rugged, western look was completed by a coarse five o’clock shadow and a bushy mustache.  Based solely on his looks, few people would guess he led an alternative lifestyle.

Throughout the early stages of the party, he remained on the sofa, in permanent lip-lock with a kid who looked sixteen. Before the Caesar salad had been served, the horny couple retired to Larry-Wayne’s room.

     Stu softly said, “Hortense is such a tramp.”

     Everyone laughed except me, so I asked, “Who’s Hortense?”

     Toby’s contorted lips hid her discolored teeth as she giggled, “Larry-Wayne is proud to be a whore and likes to be called Hortense.” 

I nodded but didn’t understand.

     Stu gestured with his thumb at the closed door and whispered, “Who’s this new one?  What happened to Apollo?”

     Toby chuckled, “Didn’t he call that one Lorelei?” 

Peter reached for another tissue, shook his head as he rolled his eyes, “Lorelei wasn’t named Apollo either; his name was Nunzio. That one was married with a kid.”

     Toby segued, “Peter, is this the same cold from weeks ago?”  Peter bobbed his head as he patted his nose dry in a refined manner.  While looking at him, I noticed that the pimple on his cheek had grown bigger and darker.

     Later, on our way out Peter announced, “In two weeks, the Flamingo-Hilton is hosting the annual, ‘Leather and Lace Ball.’  Before we go over there, I’m having a cocktail hour.  You’ll be the only ‘straights’ but I do hope you stop in for a drink.”

                              *

The week before the Ball, Peter was so tired that he took a few days off from work.  He took Gregory to visit his friends in Venice, California.  At the beach house, Gregory was his usual unsocial self. He was happy to drink alone as Peter and his friends shopped the arty community, ate in contemporary restaurants and went clubbing after dark. 

     Peter felt somewhat revitalized after three days.  But he resented his friends’ negative observations about Gregory.  This discomfort worsened when they suggested he seek medical care for his condition. They compared his “cold” to something being called “G.R.I.D.;” that was mysteriously killing homosexuals.  Peter was in denial over having possibly contracted “Gay Related Immuno Deficiency” and felt compelled to leave. Gregory was so delighted at this change of plans that he didn’t squawk at going to Disneyland for two days instead of one.

                              *



Yes, there are good and bad people in every walk of life.  You will find out in PART-3 that bad things happen to good people and good things happen to the bad.

While the early phases of "PETER PARTY," concentrate on one victim, the entirety of the piece is really about the late 1970's wild card that nobody imagined possible, the "G.R.I.D."  We all know now what the epidemic, "Gay Related Immuno Deficiency," soon became known as and how it impacted all sexuality, on a global scale.