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 8

When I woke up, the sun was out, although not shining directly into our window. Lon was still sleeping, and my bowels were so full of his cum that I didn't know if I would make it to the crapper, or not.

After having made it, just barely, I let out a huge sloppy fart. And before I could pull toilet tissue off the roll, Lon blared: "Don't wipe."

He was here in a flash, literally lifting me off the pot, and he propped my right foot onto the edge of the 1930s bathtub. His morning wood was rock hard, and he used the dregs of his old cum as lube. His pumping was more frantic than usual, and he didn't want to cum. "I'm going to piss in your ass, that okay?"

I nodded, muttered: "Uh huh." and he let loose. I felt his warm stream climb up my intestines. And then I felt that I couldn't hold it, anymore. "Gotta go."

"Clench it tight!" He pulled out in a hurry and set me back onto the old, dull-black, Bakelite seat. "Now, piss!"

At the mental image and the sound of pissing out of my ass, I felt that I was going to cum. My intestines tingled from inside, like they do shortly before an orgasm. My hard, super-charged cock, jutting out of my lower belly and up through the open-front toilet seat, jerked fitfully and spurted onto the black-and-white, small-hexagon-tile floor, onto the side of the column supporting the washbasin. One volley even made it as far as the bathtub. As the last squirts of Lon's piss left my hole, I shuddered violently. That was when I felt his warm cum on my neck, under my right ear, as he shot beside me. I was just able to turn my head enough to suck him dry.

We had to wait for some time to pass, in order to regain our sanity. It had been an unimaginably wild rush. Just as good as an episode in Paris with my two Moroccans, whom I didn't let myself think about all too often. Lon's voice from my right startled me. "Holy Fuck!" Then his whisper was barely audible. "I don't believe that we just did that."

"Sort of rules out ever really being straight, doesn't it." My inflection didn't pose a question. It stated a fact, a fundamental realization of what I was.

Up until now, we'd both thought that we were straight, but couldn't find girls who would put out. But last night and this morning had sealed, at least my own fate. Lon, as far as I could tell, was still holding onto the hetero fantasy. I had given up. My parents now knew, and I really couldn't have cared less who else became informed.

"Come on," He reached out a hand. "let's get this place cleaned up and take a shower."

"Don't think I can stand up." My legs really were too weak, and I was too drained.

"Okay." He said and straddled my legs on the toilet seat. We stayed like this for maybe ten minutes, cuddling, licking, and only after getting a cramp in my leg, did we get up, shower and check out of the hotel.

The day was cold, but it was bearable in the sun. It was already mid-morning and I was in no rush to get home. As a matter of fact, I was looking for a hideaway to put off the inevitable confrontation with my parents.

Hunger and a firm need for normalcy in the form of the naïve, Simple-Simon atmosphere was what drove us into Howard Johnson's at 46th and Broadway. That was the one in the three-storey building on the corner, beneath several weather-worn signs, taking up the two top floors on two sides and advertising the Follies Burlesk with 'the most beautiful showgirls in the world'. For Bernice, this was the decadence that was now Times Square.

Five or six years ago, this had been a squat, three-storey, whitewashed. brick building with no further agenda, other than housing the Orpheum Dance Palace, one of the most notorious dime-a-dance establishments, anywhere. Of course, Bernice just knew that it was respectable, after all, it was where Henry Miller met June Mansfield. Of course, she’d always thought it was Jayne Mansfield. But it had become more openly decadent; now, all you had were naked girls strutting their stuff directly above Howard Johnson's.

This place was like everything else, which was evolving. Only a few years ago, you didn't admit to yourself what was behind the dime-a-dance hookup, just like nobody asked themselves what it meant for two guys to be 'best buddies', who would frequently have their pictures taken with their arms, slung over one another's shoulders.

But nowadays it was no longer a secret. Follies Burlesk on Times Square was where people fucked on stage, and two guys were no longer 'best buddies' but lovers who fucked each other. And, sadly, they no longer let themselves be photographed standing too close, as not to have uncomfortable questions asked. The era of Howard Johnson's, Dairy Queens, and A&W Root Beer was coming to an end, being replaced by the age of sex on stage, drag queens, and the Black Russian.

When I was in here for the first time, this Howard Johnson's had just opened the previous year. Mom and Dad had taken me to the Thom McAn shoe store, which was next door, to buy me some 'sensible footwear' as they put it. It had been during my growing spurt when I was 12, and Bernice was afraid that my feet would be crippled by my favorite high tops. But just right now, this restaurant, in particular, reminded me of happier times with my family, and that was something I really needed this morning.

We got a booth for two up front, so we could watch the goings-on outside on the liter-strewn street and could feel snug inside on a padded orange bench in an atmosphere of what Times Square used to be: Thom McAn's, the Automat, the Salvation Army peddling whatever it was that they sold, and scalpers selling twofers to tourists, as opposed to what it now was: tits with or without pasties, stained mattresses center stage and all the dirty books you could possibly read.

And, sure enough, not to be disappointed, for a buck twenty five each, we got a decent bacon-egg-hash-brown and toast breakfast with endless cups of coffee and the life story of a waitress named Maxine. This was probably the moment, at which I decided to become a writer.

Lon and I discussed in depth the possibility of getting some exercise, other than sexual calisthenics, and the long walk to Canal Street seemed sensible. The sun was warming us enough, as long as we stayed on Broadway. But then again, when we got to the narrower streets of Chinatown, it definitely got chillier.

My folks weren't at the apartment, when we arrived, which wasn't unusual. But there was a note from my mother telling me that I was no longer welcome, 不再受到欢迎, were her exact words. And she'd written the note in Mandarin, which meant business. Next to the door were my suitcases, packed with my clothes and important documents, even my membership card in the French Communist Party. Attached to the note were fifty dollars, severance pay, I assumed.

Most everything else I'd ever used in my life belonged to them. So, it was get my clothes and get out. No note from Dad, which was disappointing. But it was no more disappointing than all the other contacts I'd had with white people over the years.

"What are you gonna do?" Lon had his arm thrown over my shoulder.

As I put the cash in my wallet and took the keys out of my front jeans pocket and put them on top of her note, I refused to let my emotions take over. "I have no idea." That my voice was so calm, surprised even me. "Let's go over to your place and see if she's caused any damage there."

The distance between Canal Street and King's Highway station was not very far in miles, but light-years in class. The Khan residence was in a very nice, brick and stucco, twelve-room mansion on Avenue T, just a couple of blocks to the west of Ocean Parkway.

Since Lon's dad grew up here and inherited the house and real estate business, when his father died and his mother moved to Florida two decades ago, he was probably the only man of Mongolian heritage in the Gravesend neighborhood of Brooklyn, who spoke Yiddish. As a matter of fact, at one point there was a fuss in Lon's mother's family because Lon's dad maintained that Khan was the Mongolian spelling for Kohn.

This, of course, scandalized our mothers, who were the ones who'd brought us together, since Lon's mom insisted he have a good deal of exposure to Cantonese culture. And, at the end of the day, that exposure was me. But I was sure that she hadn't meant this kind.

As we hesitantly walked up the drive toward the back door, our usual entrance since the front door was reserved for guests and salesmen, Lon pointed at his dad's car and slowed down. His mom's car wasn't in the drive, so apparently she wasn't home. When Lon put his key into the back door, it flew open and his dad dragged him into the house.

To be honest, I thought about ditching my bags and making a run for it. That is, until I noticed that his dad was laughing and patting Lon on the back. He stopped and looked puzzled at me. "You wanna go around the front and ring the bell? For Christ's sake, Ben get in here. And close the door; it's cold out there."

"Have you heard from my mom?" I thought that I'd test the waters before taking off my coat.

"Yeah, and I learned what 'Lǎng ní luàn gǎo wǒ de érzi.' means." His accent was far too harsh to be mistaken for a native speaker, but I got it. Motioning for us to sit at the breakfast bar, he laughed and got three beers out of the icebox.

I went red when Lon asked me in a whisper what it meant, and I had to respond with even less of a whisper: "Lonnie's fucking my son."

"You know…?" Lon's dad thought for a second about how to phrase this; his face expressed genuine concern. "I was afraid that you guys might hurt yourselves, last night, before I could have a word with you." Mr. Khan raised his can at us and drank. "After all, the Brooklyn Bridge is between there and here, and people do jump off."

After I set my can on the bar, I glanced at Lon who looked horribly confused, sort of trapped. I decided that it was up to me to get things cleared up. "We took the subway, Mr. Khan--"

"--considering all the shit you've been up to, you might as well go ahead and call me Bat." Then, he added, "please." to make it sound less harsh.

Nonetheless, I had to take a deep breath. "Bat, last night, I told my mother that Lon and I were staying over in midtown--"

"--'so you could fuck until you went blind' was the wording if I understood my wife's Chinese-English ranting correctly." He took another drink of Rheingold and looked seriously at Lon and me. "Just to put you guys at ease, I don't have a problem with it."

You could have pushed both his son and me over with a feather. I must have looked like a rabbit in the headlights. Then he said something that I really took to heart. "You know the old saying that there are no atheists in foxholes?"

Lon and I nodded our heads, acknowledging that we'd heard that turn of phrase, while glancing at one another. Bat continued: "I don't know about that, but what landing on the beach in Normandy taught me was: there are certainly no straight guys in foxholes."

That got my attention. I wanted to ask him, but I didn't dare. And then again, I didn't have to.

Looking directly at me, he chuckled. "You know my army buddy, Shai?" I nodded, knowing full well whom he meant. On more than one occasion, I'd jerked off thinking about Lon's Uncle Shai. "Well, to come right out and say it, we've been more than just buddies since our Army days."

After that bombshell, he got off his stool and retrieved a bottle of vodka from the fridge along with three more beers.

"Can I ask you a question, Bat?" I wasn't really sure that I wanted an answer, but felt compelled to ask.

"Shoot." He poured three shot glasses full of vodka.

"Do you think that my dad, could be, you know…"

He laughed from his gut. "Not a chance. He's too much of a pussy." He laughed again.

His laughter became contagious. And I damned nearly pissed myself. But he was right. William was an academic, and had probably never given his sexuality one single thought. Ever. Most nominally straight guys hadn't, nor did they have to.

Whereas, Bat, on the other hand, oozed sex. And he'd given it a lot of thought, like probably every ten seconds, and has made some serious decisions. That's why, I imagined, he had always seemed so sound, and William so wishy-washy. Bat was well built, solid muscle, and so virile that you could literally smell it. In the summer, his fresh sweat made me want to lick his pits and his groin. As opposed to my own dad, who, in the summer, only just stank of failed deodorant under his perma-press shirts and made me want to barf.

"Nostrovia!" Bat held up his vodka glass and we clicked ours against his. The icy-cold, clear liquid burned its way down my gullet, making my stomach feel good. I was growing a boner and looking out the window to avoid his piercing eyes. "Hey, a penny for your thoughts, Benton."

I was about to ask why he's always been so forceful, never showing a softer side of himself, when Brian, the older of Lon's two younger brothers barged into the kitchen from the dining room. "Hey, guys." He waved at us. "Uh, Dad, where's Mom?"

"She's gone to her sister's in Flushing." Bat leaned his right arm onto the bar to give his other son his full attention.

"When'll she be back?" Brian seemed impatient.

"She probably won't be, Son." Bat's voice was steady, stating a mere matter of fact. But it did manage to stop the conversation.

After a small pause, Bat asked Brian if he could help him. "Naw, I just wanted to use her car tomorrow afternoon. But Barbara can drive." He started to leave the kitchen, but turned back to his dad. "Why did she leave, this time?"

Again, Bat only stated a matter of fact. "Because I refused to kick Lon out of the house."

"Why would she want you to do that?" Brian glanced between his dad and his older brother, who was openly embarrassed.

This time, I thought I heard a hitch in Bat's voice. "Because Lon and Ben are more than just friends."

Brian blurted out laughing. "So, what else is new?" He shook his head in bewilderment. "When did she finally figure that out?"

"Hold on," Lon tried to keep his voice from cracking. "when did you figure it out?"

"Oh, Jesus, Lonnie, give me a break." Brian took a sip out of Lon's beer can. "You don't have a girlfriend, and you never have. You don't have any dirty magazines stashed away in your room. You don't keep rubbers around, just in case you get lucky." Laughing, Brian got into his face. "And you were going to take Ben to your senior prom, until Mom put a stop to it." He laughed again. "The question isn't when did I figure it out. The question is, Big Brother, when did YOU figure it out." Brian gave his stunned brother a kiss on the forehead and left.