This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.

Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 7

After lunch, I figured that I had to discuss what to do with someone outside my immediate family. I called Lonnie, my obvious choice, and asked him to meet me at Pam Pam's over on Sixth Avenue at Eighth in the Village.

Of course over lunch, my draft notice gave Bernice just something more to worry about. I also had to listen to the lecture about how dangerous Greenwich Village was getting, these days. I supposed if she, as did mainstream society, considered homosexuals and hippies to be threatening, then she would have to have considered it dangerous. Of course, she did not consider the Lower East Side at the corner of Canal and Allen, where we lived, to be dangerous, but Greenwich Village was.

Lonnie was already waiting on the corner as I came out of the West 4th Street - Washington Square subway station at the 6th Avenue exit. It was getting dark and the drizzle made the street gloomier than usual.

I'd just given him a perfunctory hug, when we quite literally ran up against two drunken, uniformed sailors from the Navy. Well, to be more precise, the more aggressive one ran into me and snarled: "Happy Pearl-Harbor Day, ya fuckin' Nip."

"Whoa, Daily," The less aggressive and probably less inebriated one warned. "they look pretty big to be Japs."

"That's because we're Americans," Lonnie grabbed the aggressive one and pulled him in close. "you fucking, red-neck wimp." Only now could you see that Lonnie was a head taller and had considerably more muscle bulk than the sailor, who was more my size. A gush of warm air, smelling of cupric sparks, engulfed us, as a train rattled into the station.

"But you do have to admit," The less drunken sailor was slowly backing away, beating retreat but looking to excuse his buddy's bad behavior. "all you gooks pretty much look the same." He turned to go just short of breaking out into a dead run. "C'mon, Daily, let's get outta here before some faggot gets us."

Lonnie still had Daily drawn in close. Lonnie affected a swish tone of voice. "Oh, Christ, Cutie, that would be the shits, wouldn't it?" Lonnie, keeping a firm grip, leaned his head in and pressed his full lips onto the sailor's mouth.

The once aggressive, little guy must have been in total shock. He didn't resist; he squeaked. But he didn't return the kiss, either. He just stood there, while his buddy had taken off at a trot down 6th Avenue, headed south, into the rain-wet dark.

When Lonnie pulled off, anyone could tell the kid was terrified, and I think the kiss was a first. I don't think he even heard Lonnie tell him that he'd better be gone before he got his tight little ass fucked. He just walked off into the night, vaguely following his buddy.

I looked at Lon. The drizzle had picked up, causing him to adjust the broad collar on his pea coat. "Wow, am I glad you let me watch." I chuckled, dripping with sarcasm. I locked arms with Lonnie, but curiosity got the better of me. "What was the kiss like?"

"He was shit scared." Lonnie's voice was gruff, sensually raw. I knew that he was aroused. "You know, I can't help it, Ben. Just the smell of fear in another man turns me on."

I gave it some thought. Since I'd known Lonnie all my life, I'd seen this before. His sexuality could be all consuming, if he'd let himself go. And with me, he generally did. But when he would smell fear in a guy in uniform, he had trouble keeping himself in check.

"Would you have fucked him?" I wondered if he'd only been playing with the kid's head, although I knew Lon loved being totally masculine dominant. And we both had advanced training in martial arts, since Lon's dad thought it to be absolutely required in growing up, which would have made convincing the sailor easy.

He took my arm, drew me in closer, tensed and growled into my ear: "Bet your sweet ass, Bitch." He nodded to our right as we walked up 6th Avenue. "Right over there, in the bushes behind that park bench."

"You want to, anyway, even if I don't have a uniform and am not afraid of you?" It only took my mischievous look for him to drag me off into the fog enshrouding the bushes of that small park.

Under a thick canopy of greenery, it was relatively dry. He drew my back toward his front and undid my jeans from behind. Lowering my jeans to just above my knees, he whipped out his pole.

I'd fished in my coat pocket for the small tube of lip balm, the stuff I'd never had on my lips other than the time I'd smeared it all over Lonnie's cock, and we'd changed our minds. Anyway, I grunted and he shoved gently. It was in. He paused.

When I rotated my ass from side to side to open me up further, he slowly started deep entry, until I shoved back onto his shaft. Then we were off. I wanted it hard and signaled this to him by grunting a couple more times. This was our secret signal for when we had sex in public. He deepened his thrusts, which deepened my pleasure. His midsection slapping against my ass cheeks would more than likely have been audible across 6th Avenue, had it not been for traffic and the incessant honking of New York cabbies.

Lonnie was the first to cum; I grunted, and he kept pumping. Finally, his dick went limp, and he replaced it with three fingers, which curled and immediately found my prostate and turned the trick. My cock spewed all over the park bench, which passers-by would take to be bird shit when out for their morning walks.

***

Pam Pam's was almost getting ready to close by the time we got there, so Lonnie and I ordered a coke. "You don't want to go home, do you?." My usual way of telling him that I wanted us to spend the night together met with a grin and a negating shake of his beautiful head.

His jet-black hair was starting to creep down his collar. This alone would have been enough to define him as a hippie in Chinatown. But he lived in a well-to-do and predominantly well-educated neighborhood in Brooklyn, and their definition of hippie was somewhat broader. "What do you have in mind?"

And since I still had twenty dollars in my pocket, I could even pay for the room. "How about if we stay at the President?"

"Up on 48th?" His expression told me that we were going to book in. I nodded. Then his stomach growled. "And it's across from Mamma Leone's." He finished his coke in one gulp. "You pay for the room, and I'll get dinner."

Since it had stopped raining, we strolled over to Sheridan Square, and I called my parents to tell them that I wouldn't be home. "Look Mom, I'm staying with Lonnie up in Midtown."

"Why can't you bring Lon here?" She shushed Dad. "Like you used to?"

"We have things to talk about?" The moment I said this, I knew that this conversation was about to become circular.

"What kind of things?" Again she shushed Dad. Then to him: "No, I'm going to handle this." Then to me: "So, what kind of things?"

This evening, December 7th, 1966, my mother's obedient son was actually going to commit social suicide. I gave Lonnie a demonically naughty grin, about to answer, when she sneered condescendingly: "I'm listening. What kind of things?" And that was it. Her obedient little boy was going to be put to rest. After all, I had an advanced University degree; I was about to be drafted and probably sent to Vietnam, so it was time to tell her the truth.

I made sure that Lonnie was listening. "You know what, Bernice?" I heard her slight gasp. "Actually, I lied to you." Another, more audible, gasp. "Lon and I are going to have a great meal at Mamma Leone's, then go back to the hotel and fuck ourselves blind." Another gasp, this time fully blown, and she hung up.

The expression on Lon's face was priceless. "You do know that you just told your mother that you're Queer, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess, I did." We took an uptown train to 50th Street and walked down Broadway to 48th in silence. "Lon, why don't you--" I looked at him, and his eyes were moist. I stopped, making passers-by push around us. "You okay?"

"You know that you implicated me, when you told her, don't you?" He didn't seem angry, just saddened. "My dad will have my ass."

"We'll just make a big joke of it." I was grasping at straws. "I'll tell everybody that I just wanted to get my mother off my ass--"

"--which isn't a joke my dad will find funny." He wiped his eyes and forced a chuckle when I gave him an incredulous glance. "Uh, what's my last name?"

"Khan." I became a little sheepish, since I sort of knew where this was going.

"And how many people have you ever heard of with that name, other than my parents, my two brothers, Herman and me?"

"One." I suppressed a snort.

"And that was?" Lon was slowly succumbing to the humorous side of the situation.

"Genghis." I snickered. "Point taken. Look, I'm sorry."

"Okay, you go get the room. And I'll make reservations for 8:15, so we'll miss the theater crowd. Meet you in the lobby across the street."